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Average Jones

S >> Samuel Hopkins Adams >> Average Jones




"There!" he said, after five minutes' work. "That'll do for a
starter. You see," he added, handing the product of his toil to
Mrs. Hale, "this street happens to be the regular cross-town route
for the milk that comes over by one of the minor ferries. If you
heard a number of wagons passing in the early morning they were the
milk-vans. Hence this."

Mrs. Hale read:

"MILK-DRIVERS, ATTENTION--Delaware Central
mid-town route. Who talked to man outside
hotel early morning of August 7? Twenty
dollars to right man. Apply personally to
Jones, Ad-Visor, Astor Court Temple, New York."

"For the coming issue of the Milk-Dealers' Journal," explained its
author. "Now, Mr. Kirby, I want you to find out for me--Mrs. Hale
can help you, since she has known the hotel people for years--the
names of all those who gave up rooms on this floor, or the floors
above or below, yesterday morning, and ask whether they are known to
the hotel people."

"You think the thief is still in the hotel?" cried Mrs. Hale.

"Hardly. But I think I see smoke from your blue fires. To make out
the figure through the smoke is not--" Average Jones broke off,
shaking his head. He was still shaking his head when he left the
hotel.

It took three days for the milk-journal advertisement to work. On
the afternoon of August tenth, a lank, husky-voiced teamster called
at the office of the Ad-Visor and was passed in ahead of the waiting
line.

"I'm after that twenty," he declared.

"Earn it," said Average Jones with equal brevity.

"Hotel Denton. Guy on the third floor balcony--"

"Right so far."

"Leanin' on the rail as if he was sick. I give him a hello.
'Takin' a nip of night air, Bill?' I says. He didn't say nothin'."

"Did he do anything?"

"Kinder fanned himself an' jerked his head back over his shoulder.
Meanin' it was too hot to sleep inside, I reckon. It sure was hot!"

"Fanned himself? How?"

"Like this." The visitor raised his hands awkwardly, cupped them,
and drew them toward his face.

"Er--with both hands?"

"Did you see him go in?"

"Nope."

"Here's your twenty," said Average Jones. "You're long on sense and
short on words. I wish there were more like you."

"Thanks. Thanks again," said the teamster, and went out.

Meantime Kirby had sent his list of the guests who had given up
their rooms on August seventh:

George M. Weaver, Jr., Utica, N. Y., well known to hotel people and
vouched for by them.

Walker Parker, New Orleans, ditto.

Mr. and Mrs. Charles Hull; quiet elderly people; first visit to
hotel.

Henry M. Gillespie, Locke, N. Y. Middle-aged man; new guest.

C. F. Willard, Chicago; been going to hotel for ten years; vouched
for by hotel people.

Armed with the list, Average Jones went to the Hotel Denton and
spent a busy morning.

"I've had a little talk with the hotel servants," said he to Kirby,
when the latter called to make inquiries. "Mr. Henry M. Gillespie,
of Locke, New York, had room 168. It's on the same floor with Mrs.
Hale's suite, at the farther end of the hall. He had only one piece
of luggage, a suitcase marked H. M. G. That information I got from
the porter. He left his room in perfect order except for one thing:
one of the knobs on the headboard of the old fashioned bed was
broken off short. He didn't mention the matter to the hotel
people."

"What do you make of that?"

"It was a stout knob. Only a considerable effort of strength
exerted in a peculiar way would have broken it as it was broken.
There was something unusual going on in room 168, all right."

"Then you think Henry M. Gillespie, of Locke, New York, is our man."

"No," said Average Jones.

The Westerner's square jaw fell. "Why not?"

"Because there's no such person as Henry M. Gillespie, of Locke, New
York. I've just sent there and found out."

Three stones of the fire-blue necklace returned on the current of
advertised appeal. One was brought in by the night bartender of a
"sporting" club. He had bought it from a man who had picked it up
in a gutter; just where, the finder couldn't remember. For the
second a South Brooklyn pawnbroker demanded (and received) an
exorbitant reward. A florist in Greenwich, Connecticut, contributed
the last. With that patient attention to detail which is the A. B.
C. of detective work, Average Jones traced down these apparently
incongruous wanderings of the stones and then followed them all,
back to Mrs. Hale's fire-escape.

The bartender's stone offered no difficulties. The setting which
the pawnbroker brought in had been found on the city refuse heap by
a scavenger. It had fallen through a grating into the hotel cellar,
and had been swept out with the rubbish to go to the municipal
"dump." The apparent mystery of the florist was lucid when Jones
found that the hotel exchanged its shop-worn plants with the
Greenwich Floral Company. His roaming eye, keen for every detail,
had noticed a row of tubbed azaleas within the ground enclosure of
the Denton. Recalling this to mind, it was easy for the Ad-Visor to
surmise that the gem had dropped from the fire-escape into a tub,
which was, shortly after, shipped to the florist. Thus it was
apparent that the three jewels had been stripped from the necklace
by forcible contact with the iron rail of the fire-escape at the
point where Average Jones had found the "color" of precious metal.
The stones were identified by Kirby, from a peculiarity in the
setting, as the end three, nearest the clasp at the back; a point
which Jones carefully noted. But there the trail ended. No more
fire-blue stones came in.

For three weeks Average Jones issued advertisements like commands.
The advertisements would, perhaps, have struck the formal-minded
Kirby as evidences of a wavering intellect. Indeed, they present a
curious and incongruous appearance upon the page of Average Jones'
scrapbook, where they now mark a successful conclusion. The first
reads as follows:

OH, YOU HOTEL MEN! Come through with the
dope on H. M. G. What's he done to your place?
Put a stamp on it and we'll swap dates on his past
performances.
A. Jones, Astor Court Temple, New York City.

This was spread abroad through the medium of Mine Host's Weekly and
other organs of the hotel trade.

It was followed by this, of a somewhat later date:

WANTED-Slippery Sams, Human Eels, Fetter
Kings etc Liberal reward to artist who sold
Second-hand amateur, with instructions for
use. Send full details, time and place to
A. Jones, Court Temple, New York City.

Variety, the Clipper and the Billboard scattered the appeal
broadcast throughout "the profession." Thousands read it, and one
answered it. And within a few days after receiving that answer
Jones wired to Kirby:

"Probably found. Bring Mrs. Hale to-morrow at 11.
Answer. A. JONES."

Kirby answered. He also telegraphed voluminously to his ex-fiancee,
who had returned to her home, and who replied that she would leave
by the night train. Some minutes before the hour the pair were at
Average Jones' office. Kirby fairly pranced with impatience while
they were kept waiting in a side room. The only other occupant was
a man with a large black dress-suit case, who sat at the window in a
slump of dejection. He raised his head for a moment when they were
summoned and let it sag down again as they left.

Average Jones greeted his guests cordially. Their first questions
to him were significant of the masculine and feminine differences in
point of view.

"Have you got the necklace?" cried Mrs. Hale.

"Have you got the thief?" queried Kirby.

"I haven't got the necklace and I haven't got the thief," announced
Average Jones; "but I think I've got the man who's got the
necklace."

"Did the thief hand it over to him?" demanded Kirby.

"Are you conversant with the Baconian system of thought, which Old
Chips used to preach to us at Hamilton?" countered Average Jones.

"Forgotten it if I ever knew it," returned Kirby.

"So I infer from your repeated use of the word 'thief.' Bacon's
principle--an admirable principle in detective work--is that we
should learn from things and not from the names of things. You are
deluding yourself with a name. Because the law, which is always
rigid and sometimes stupid, says that a man who takes that which
does not belong to him is a thief, you've got your mind fixed on the
name 'thief,' and the idea of theft. If I had gone off on that tack
I shouldn't have the interesting privilege of introducing to you Mr.
Harvey M. Greene, who now sits in the outer room."

"H. M. G.," said Kirby quickly. "Is it possible that that
decent-looking old boy out there is the man who stole--"

"It is not," interrupted Average Jones with emphasis, "and I shall
ask you, whatever may occur, to guard your speech from offensive
expressions of that sort while he is here."

"All right, if you say so," acquiesced the other. "But do you mind
telling me how you figure out a man traveling under an alias and
helping himself to other people's property on any other basis than
that he's a thief?"

"A, B, C," replied Average Jones; "as thus: A--Thieves don't wander
about in dressing-gowns. B--Nor take necklaces and leave purses.
C--Nor strip gems violently apart and scatter them like largess from
fire-escapes. The rest of the alphabet I postpone. Now for Mr.
Greene."

The man from the outer room entered and nervously acknowledged his
introduction to the others.

"Mr. Greene," explained Jones, "has kindly consented to help clear
up the events of the night of August sixth at the Hotel Denton and"
--he paused for a moment and shifted his gaze to the newcomer's
narrow shoes--"and--er--the loss of--er--Mrs. Hale's jeweled
necklace."

The boots retracted sharply, as under the impulse of some sudden
emotion; startled surprise, for example. "What?" cried Greene, in
obvious amazement. "I don't know anything about a necklace."

A twinkle of satisfaction appeared at the corners of Average Jones'
eyes.

"That also is possible," he admitted. "If you'll permit the form of
an examination; when you came to the Hotel Denton on August sixth,
did you carry the same suitcase you now have with you, and similarly
packed?"

"Ye-es. As nearly as possible."

"Thank you. You were registered under the name of Henry M.
Gillespie?"

The other's voice was low and strained as he replied in the
affirmative.

"For good reasons of your own?"

"Yes."

"For which same reasons you left the hotel quite early on the
following morning?"

"Yes."

"Your business compels you to travel a great deal?"

"Yes."

"Do you often register under an alias?"

"Yes," returned the other, his face twitching.

"But not always?"

"No."

"In a large city and a strange hotel, for example, you'd take any
name which would correspond to the initials, H. M. G., on your
dress-suit case. But in a small town where you were known, you'd be
obliged to register under your real name of Harvey M. Greene. It
was that necessity which enabled me to find you."

"I'd like to know how you did it," said the other gloomily.

From the left-hand drawer of his desk Jones produced a piece of
netting, with hooks along one end.

"Do you recognize the material, Mrs. Hale," he asked.

"Why, it's the same stuff as the Hotel Denton curtains, isn't it?"
she asked.

"Yes," said Average Jones, attaching it to the curtain rod at the
side door. "Now, will you jerk that violently with one hand?"

"It will tear loose, won't it?" she asked.

"That's just what it will do. Try it."

The fabric ripped from the hooks as she jerked.

"You remember," said Jones, "that your curtain was torn partly
across, and not ripped from the hook at all. Now see."

He caught the netting in both hands and tautened it sharply. It
began to part.

"Awkward," he said, "yet it's the only way it could have been done.
Now, here's a bedpost, exactly like the one in room 168, occupied by
Mr. Greene at the Denton. Kirby, you're a powerful man. Can you
break that knob off with one hand?"

He wedged the post firmly in a chair for the trial. The bedpost
resisted.

"Could you do it with both hands?" he asked.

"Probably, if I could get a hold. But there isn't surface enough
for a good hold."

"No, there isn't. But now." Jones coiled a rope around the post and
handed the end to Kirby. He pulled sharply. The knob snapped and
rolled on the floor.

"Q. E. D.," said Kirby. "But it doesn't mean anything to me."

"Doesn't it? Let me recall some other evidence. The guest who saw
Mr. Greene in the hallway thought he was carrying something in both
hands. The milk driver who hailed him on the balcony noticed that
he gestured awkwardly with both hands. In what circumstances would
a man use both hands for action normally performed with one?"

"Too much drink," hazarded Kirby, looking dubiously at Greene, who
had been following Jones' discourse with absorbed attention.

"Possibly. But it wouldn't fit this case."

"Physical weakness," suggested Mrs. Hale.

"Rather a shrewd suggestion. But no weakling broke off that bedpost
in Henry M. Gillespie's room. I assumed the theory that the
phenomena of that night were symptomatic rather than accidental.
Therefore, I set out to find in what other places the mysterious H.
M. G. had performed."

"How did you know my initials really were H. M. G.?" asked Mr.
Greene.

"The porter at the Denton had seen them 'Henry M. Gillespie's'
suitcase. So I sent out loudly printed call to all hotel clerks for
information about a troublesome H. M. G."

He handed the "OH, YOU HOTEL MEN" advertisement to the little group.

"Plenty of replies came. You have, if I may say it without offense,
Mr. Greene, an unfortunate reputation among hotel proprietors.
Small wonder that you use an alias. From the Hotel Carpathia in
Boston I got a response more valuable than I had dared to hope. An
H. M. G. guest--H. Morton Garson, of Pillston, Pennsylvania (Mr.
Greene nodded)--had wrecked his room and left behind him this
souvenir."

Leaning over, Jones pulled, clinking from the scrap-basket, a fine
steel chain. It was endless and some twelve feet in total length,
and had two small loops, about a foot apart. Mrs. Hale and Kirby
stared at it in speechless surprise.

"Yes, that is mine," said Mr. Greene with composure. "I left it
because it had ceased to be serviceable to me."

"Ah! That's very interesting," said Average Jones with a keen
glance. "Of course when I examined it and found no locks, I guessed
that it was a trick chain, and that there were invisible springs in
the wrist loops."

"But why should any one chain Mr. Greene to his bed with a trick
chain?" questioned Mrs. Hale, whose mind had been working swiftly.

"He chained himself," explained Jones, "for excellent reasons. As
there is no regular trade in these things, I figured that he
probably bought it from some juggler whose performance had given him
the idea. So," continued Jones, producing a specimen of his
advertisements in the theatrical publications, "I set out to find
what professional had sold a 'prop', to an amateur. I found the
sale had been made at Marsfield, Ohio, late in November of last
year, by a 'Slippery Sam,' termed 'The Elusive Edwardes.' On
November twenty-eighth of last year Mr. Harvey M. Greene, of
Richmond, Virginia, was registered at the principal, in fact the
only decent hotel, at Barsfield. I wrote to him and here he is."

"Yes; but where is my necklace?" cried Mrs. Hale.

"On my word of honor, madam, I know nothing of your necklace,"
asserted Greene, with a painful contraction of his features. "If
this gentleman can throw any more light--"

"I think I can," said Average Jones. "Do you remember anything of
that night's events after you broke off the bedpost and left your
room--the meeting with a guest who questioned you in the hall, for
example?"

"Nothing. Not a thing until I awoke and found myself on the
fire-escape."

"Awoke?" cried Kirby. "Were you asleep all the time?"

"Certainly. I'm a confirmed sleep-walker worst type. That's why I
go under an alias. That's why I got the trick handcuff chain and
chained myself up with it, until I found it drove me fighting',
crazy in my sleep when I couldn't break away. That's why I slept in
my dressing-gown that night at the Denton. There was a red light in
the hall outside and any light, particularly a colored one, is
likely to set me going. I probably dreamed I was escaping from a
locomotive--that's a common delusion of mine--and sought refuge in
the first door that was open."

"Wait a minute," said Average Jones. "You--er--say that you
are--er--peculiarly susceptible to--er--colored light."

"Yes."

"Mrs. Hale, was the table on which the necklace lay in line with any
light outside?"

"I think probably with the direct ray of an electric globe shining
through the farther window."

"Then, Mr. Greene," said, Average Jones, "the glint of the fire-blue
stones undoubtedly caught your eye. You seized on the necklace and
carried it out on the fire-escape balcony, where the cool air or the
milk-driver's hail awakened you. Have you no recollection of seeing
such a thing?"

"Not the faintest, unhappily."

"Then he must have dropped it to the ground below," said Kirby.

"I don't think so," controverted Jones slowly. "Mr. Greene must
have been clinging to it tenaciously when it swung and caught
against the railing, stripping off the three end stones. If the
whole necklace had dropped it would have broken up fine, and more
than three stones would have returned to us in reply to the
advertisements. And in that case, too, the chances against the end
stones alone returning, out of all the thirty-six, are too unlikely
to be considered. No, the fire-blue necklace never fell to the
ground."

"It certainly didn't remain on the balcony," said Kirby. "It would
have been discovered there."

"Quite so," assented Average Jones. "We're getting at it by the
process of exclusion. The necklace didn't fall. It didn't stay.
Therefore?"--he looked inquiringly at Mrs. Hale.

"It returned," she said quickly.

"With Mr. Greene," added Average Jones.

"I tell you," cried that gentleman vehemently, "I haven't set eyes
on the wretched thing."

"Agreed," returned Average Jones; "which doesn't at all affect the
point I wish to make. You may recall, Mr. Greene, that in my
message I asked you to pack your suitcase exactly as it was when you
left the hotel with it on the morning of August seventh."

"I've done so with the exception of the conjurer's chain, of
course."

"Including the dressing-gown you had on, that night, I assume. Have
you worn it since?"

"No. It hung in my closet until yesterday, when I folded it to
pack. You see, I--I've had to give up the road on account of my
unhappy failing."

"Then permit me." Average Jones stooped to, the dress-suit case,
drew out the garment and thrust his hand into its one pocket. He
turned to Mrs. Hale.

"Would you--er--mind--er--leaning over a bit?" he said.

She bent her dainty head, then gave a startled cry of delight as the
young man, with a swift motion, looped over her shoulders a chain of
living blue fires which gleamed and glinted in the sunlight.

"They were there all the time," she exclaimed; "and you knew it."

"Guessed it," he corrected, "by figuring out that they couldn't well
be elsewhere--unless on the untenable hypothesis that our friend,
Mr. Greene here, was a thief."

"Which only goes to prove," said Kirby soberly, "that evidence may
be a mighty deceptive accuser."

"Which only goes to prove," amended Average Jones, "that there's no
fire, even the bluest, without traceable smoke."'





CHAPTER VII

PIN-PRICKS


"The thing is a fake," declared Bertram. He slumped heavily into a
chair, and scowled at Average Jones' well-littered desk, whereon he
had just tossed a sheet of paper. His usually impeccable hair was
tousled. His trousers evinced a distinct tendency to bag at the
knees, and his coat was undeniably wrinkled. That the elegant and
flawless dilettante of the Cosmic Club should have come forth, at
eleven o'clock of a morning, in such a state of comparative
disreputability, argued an upheaval of mind little short of
phenomenal.

"A fake," he reiterated. "I've spent a night of
pseudo-intellectual riot and ruin over it. You've almost destroyed
a young and innocent mind with your infernal palimpsest, Average."

"You would have it," returned Average Jones with a smile. "And I
seem to recall a lofty intimation on your part that there never was
a cipher so tough but what you could rope, throw, bind, and tie a
pink ribbon on its tail in record time."

"Cipher, yes," returned the other bitterly. "That thing isn't a
cipher. It's an alphabetical riot. Maybe," he added hopefully,
"there was some mistake in my copy?"

"Look for yourself," said Average Jones, handing him the original.

It was a singular document, this problem in letters which had come
to light up the gloom of a November day for Average Jones; a
stiffish sheet of paper, ornamented on one side with color prints
of alluring "spinners," and on the other inscribed with an appeal,
in print. Its original vehicle was an envelope, bearing a one-cent
stamp, and addressed in typewriting:

Mr. William H. Robinson,
The Caronia,
Broadway and Evenside Ave.,
New York City.

The advertisement on the reverse of the sheet ran as follows:

ANGLERS--When you are looking for
"Baits That Catch Fish," do you see
these spinners in the store where you
buy tackle? You will find here twelve
baits, every one of which has a record
and has literally caught tons of fish.
We call them "The 12 Surety Baits."
We want you to try them for casting and
trolling these next two months, because
all varieties of bass are particularly
savage in striking these baits late in
the season.

DEALERS--You want your customers to have
these 12 Shoemaker "Surety Baits" that
catch fish. This case will sell itself
empty over and over again, for every bait
is a record-breaker and they catch fish.
We want you to put in one of these cases so
that the anglers will not be disappointed and
have to wait for baits to be ordered. It
will be furnished FREE, charges prepaid, with
your order for the dozen bait it contains.

The peculiar feature of the communication was that it was profusely
be-pimpled with tiny projections, evidently made by thrusting a pin
in from the side which bore the illustrations. The perforations
were liberally scattered. Most, though not all of them, transfixed
certain letters. Accepting this as indicative, Bertram had copied
out all the letters thus distinguished, with the following cryptic
result:

b-n-o-k-n-o-a-h-i (doubtful) i (doubtful) d-o-o-u-t-s-e-h-w
h-e-w-a-l-e-w-f-i-h-i-e-l-y-a-n-u-t-t-m-a-m (doubtful) g-e-x-c-s
(doubtful) s-e M-e-p-c (two punctures) t-y-w-u-s-o-m-e-r-s
h-a-s 1 S-k-t-s-a-s-e-l-e-v-a-h (twice) W-y-o-u (doubtful)
h-c-s-e-v-t-l-t-f-r (perforated twice) c-a-o-u-c-e-o-c (doubtful)
m-t (perforated twice) n-o-h-a-e-f-o-u-w-o-r-i-t-h-i-r-e-d-
w-l-l-b (Perforated three times) f-u-h-g-e-p-d-h-o-d- (doubtful)
e-f-h-g-b-t-n-t.

"Yes, the copy's all right," growled Bertram. "Tell me again how
you came by it."

"Robinson came here twice and missed me. Yesterday I got the note
from him which you've seen, with the enclosure which has so
threatened your reason. You know the rest. Perhaps you'd have done
well to study the note for clues to the other document."

Something in his friend's tone made Bertram glance up suspiciously.
"Let me see the note," he demanded.

Average Jones handed it to him. There was no stamp on it; it had
been left by the writer. It was addressed, in rather scrawly
chirography, to "A. Jones, Ad-Visor," and read:

THE CARONIA, Nov. 18.
MR. A. JONES, Astor Court Temple:
I have tried unsuccessfully to see you twice. Enclosed
you will find the reason. Please read through it carefully.
Then I am sure you will see and help me. Money is no
object. I will call to-morrow at noon.

Respectfully,

WILLIAM H. ROBINSON.

"Well, I see nothing out of the ordinary in that," observed Bertram.

"Nothing?" inquired Average Jones.

Bertram read the message again. "Of course the man is rattled.
That's obvious in his handwriting. Also, he has inverted one
sentence in his haste and said 'read through it,' instead, of 'read
it through.' Otherwise, it's ordinary enough."

"It must be vanity that keeps you from eyeglasses, Bert," Average
Jones observed with a sigh. "Well, I'm afraid I set you on the
wrong track, myself!"

Bertram lifted an eyebrow with an effort. "Meaning, I suppose, that
you're on the tight and have solved the cipher."

"Cipher be jiggered. You were right in your opening remark. There isn't
any cipher. If you read Mr. Robinson's note correctly, and if you'd
had the advantage of working on the original of the advertisement as
I have, you'd undoubtedly have noticed at once--"

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