Chapter III: Dad Anderson Chuckles

So far as appearance was concerned, Big Bill Poindexter lived up to his reputation. He came sliding into town that afternoon in a long gray touring car and slipped up to the curb in front of the post office, where a crowd had gathered, discussing the crime and making various conjectures as to the probable capture of the criminals.

“Where can I find S. K. Mears?” he asked and instantly became the focal point of every pair of eyes within earshot.

Big Bill Poindexter was a huge figure of a man, big of frame, rather stout, heavily jowled, keen of eye, and determined of jaw. He emphasized his size and general belligerency by holding a thick cigar thrust upward at an aggressive angle.

A dozen eager tongues answered the question. Fully half of the number gave direction by pointing their index fingers, and the other half started for the running board of the big car, offering to point the way.

Big Bill Poindexter, skillful advertiser that he was, basked in the limelight, rolled the cigar in his massive jaw, and started for the scene of the crime, followed by a large crowd, made up, for the most part, of the men of Mesa Flat.

Silas Mears was overjoyed to see the big detective. “I’m mighty glad to meetcha, Poindexter. This here is Sam Anderson, the constable; Harry Dunton, the sheriff; and Don Finch, the district attorney. The boys from the county seat just got here a bit ago, an’ they been mighty nice about waitin’ for you. Ole Dad Anderson’s been messing around considerable since mornin’, and I couldn’t get him to lay off.” Mears stroked his whiskers and glared truculently at Dad Anderson.

Bill Poindexter removed his cigar, bit off a portion of the moist butt, stuck the weed back in a corner of his mouth, and surveyed the officials.

“How do, boys,” he said at length. “Glad t’meetcha. Now let’s get down to business. Offhand, this looks like the work of the Pemberton gang, papers all scattered around and the place wrecked that way; but the first thing to do is to look for finger prints; that’s where the country constables fall down nine times outa nine.”

With these words Big Bill extracted a leather case from the wide pocket of his overcoat, took up a camel’s-hair brush, and began to dust over the surface of the safe door with a white powder. The citizens of the country town gathered around in breathless wonder, watching, wide-eyed and silent. Even Don Finch leaned forward to get a close view of the mysterious process.

Under the magic touch of the brush white blotches began to appear upon the face of the door. Big Bill took a magnifying glass from his pocket and examined these prints, then grunted, took an ink roller from the leather case, and held out his hand toward Silas Mears.

“Better lemme see your finger prints, an’ then I’ll take those of the bird that got croaked. Those prints’ll be on the safe in the ordinary course o’ business, an’ there’s no need o’ me wastin’ my time on them. It’s the strange finger prints that we want to watch.”

Within half an hour Big Bill had completed his investigations. He pointed to a row of white blotches along the upper end of the door and to another series some inches lower down on the door.

“There we are, boys. Them’s the finger prints that can’t be accounted for. They’re prints that don’t belong to anybody that had any business in the store or with that safe. Offhand, they don’t look so much like the Pemberton gang, but maybe the boys have got a new box man since the last run-in I had with ’em. I’ll just make a photo of them prints, and then we’ll have the door put away where it’ll be safe. We’ll want to use it at the trial.”

“What trial?” asked Dad Anderson innocently.

Big Bill Poindexter straightened and shifted his cigar a couple of notches upward. “The trial of the men that did the job,” he declared. “When I get after ’em I never give up. I’ll get ’em, an’ when I get ’em they have to have a trial. See?”

Dad Anderson nodded almost apologetically. “I see,” he said, his kindly gray eyes appraising the stern ones which beat down from beneath the shaggy brows of the big detective.

Presently Big Bill brought in a box equipped with tripod, electric batteries, and lights. Carefully he placed the box against the door of the safe and turned on a switch, while he stood by, watch in hand. At length he turned off the switch, shifted the plates, and changed the location of the camera. One by one he covered the finger prints which he had pointed out upon the door of the safe.

Having secured his plates, Bill went into the dark room of the local photographer and emerged after a while, looking very mysterious.

“Those ain’t the prints of any of the Pemberton gang. I’m beginning to think that it was a local job. Mears, was the money in the safe in big bills or small?”

Mears hung his head. “It was in gold. Somehow or other, I been savin’ every bit o’ gold I could lay my hands on. I really didn’t need that much cash in the store, and I should have sent it down to the city bank, but the vault in the bank here ain’t no better than my own safe, and it was dangerous sendin’ it down to the county seat to be deposited in the bank there, an’--well, I guess I’m a bit of a miser. I had money comin’ over a period of years, and every time I could get a bill changed I’d send over to the bank and make ’em give me gold. The sack’s been there for a long time, and it’s grown up into a big wad o’ money.”

“So that’s where all that gold was going,” exclaimed one of the spectators, Dick Lamb, cashier of the local bank. “I know that what he says is the truth, sir. He has come in every once in a while for quite a spell and had bills changed into gold, or had checks cashed and demanded gold. We don’t get very much of a supply of gold up here, so we’ve drawn the line at giving out too much, but we’ve always passed out small amounts to Mears, from time to time, and never thought much about it.”

“He never deposited any gold?” asked the big man suddenly.

Lamb shook his head. “No, sir.”

“And you mean to stand there and tell me that you fellows in the bank didn’t suspect what was going on--didn’t know that Mears had a little hoard of money stuck away here in his safe?” The detective’s voice was suddenly as thunderingly accusing as a trumpet of Fate.

Dick Lamb flushed at the tone, but stood his ground. “I don’t know as I ever speculated very much about it, one way or the other,” he replied. “The amounts were small, although there’s been a whole lot more taken out recently than there was before. And you must have had some large bills there in the safe, too, Mears. You’ve had a few hundred-dollar bills that we’ve given you on cashed checks as well as gold.”

Mears nodded. “Maybe a thousand or so in bills,” he admitted. “The bulk of what I had was in that stack of gold.” Poindexter stood with his square-toed feet planted heavily on the floor, his eyes squinted, and his cigar traveled from one side of his heavy mouth to the other. “I guess I’d better run down this here bank end of things,” he said at length. “It don’t just sorta look right to me.”

Dad Anderson snorted and walked out of the store at this last remark. He picked up the bridle reins and swung into the saddle of his mount. “Prince,” he remarked, as he gave a gentle pressure to the reins about the horse’s neck, “let’s you and me get out of this before one of us loses his temper.”

At the dry humor of his own remark Dad Anderson chuckled slightly, and he rode down the street absorbed in his own thoughts.