NICK HOGABOOM'S SCOOP.
IT
was the neatest piece of business
chronicled in the police annals of
Tolchester. The detective
department said so, and it ought to
know; the police reporters
enlarged on the deftness of the thief, and
in criminal circles the "job" was
referred to with bated breath, and with
the same degree of admiration as
provincial artists accord to the work of
some master whose skill has raised
him above tho jealousy of mediocrity.
The social importance of the wedding
— "Millionaires in Hymen's Bonds,"
was the heading in one paper — was
completely overshadowed in public
interest, and in the estimation of city
editors, by the daring robbery which
marred the reception and sent the
bride away in a state of semi-hysterics.
The presents had been jealously
guarded by two private detectives, with
silk hats, and frock coats badly fitting
and hired for the occasion, while a
third, garbed as a footman, had
officiated at the front door, to keep a sharp
eye on the stream of guests lest any
evil-disposed person should obtain an
entrance. And yet, in spite of all
precautions, four valuable pieces of
jewelry had mysteriously disappeared
under the very noses of the custodians.
The list, as supplied to the city force,
was itemized as follows:
1 Diamond pin, valued at |
|
$ |
350 |
1 Diamond sunburst |
|
|
1,000 |
1 Emerald hoop ring |
|
|
250 |
1 Rope of pearls |
|
|
2,500 |
It was a long time since Tolchester
had enjoyed such a sensation. The
social prominence of the parties lent
additional piquancy to the occurrence,
and people who, as a rule, never looked
at the society columns, eagerly scanned
the list of wedding guests, and
wondered who, in that provincially august
catalogue, could have been-the author
of one of the neatest "touches" on
record.
Nick Hogaboom, police, reporter of
the "Courier," felt a double interest in
the affair, both from a personal and
professional point of view. Much to
his disgust, he had been assigned to
write up the ceremony, the reportorial
staff being below its normal strength,
and had with his own hand catalogued
for his paper the large array of
wedding gifts. He had been greatly taken
with the beauty of the diamond pin,
jocularly remarking to the society
editress of the "Weekly Hearth and Home"
that he "had a good mind to pinch it
for his Sunday tie," and had wished,
with a sigh, that he could afford to
hand such a string of pearls on a
certain white neck.
As police reporter of the "Courier,"
with a reputation for "scoops," for so
exclusive news stories are, called in the
jargon of the press, it behooved him to
get the earliest information on the
subject of the robbery, and so he strolled
into the office of the chief of the city
detective staff, to pick up any crumbs
which that august official might vouchsafe
to let fall. The chief liked Nick
Hogaboom as well as he permitted
himself to like any of the reporters,
whose premature disclosures sometimes
interfered seriously with his plans, and
he graciously suffered two pieces of
information to be extracted — first, that
Mr. Wotherspoon had offered a reward
of a thousand dollars for the recovery
of the stolen jewelry; and, secondly,
that Detective Wright, who had been
assigned on the case, was ill, and that
his place had been taken by Detective
Bundlesroth.
"Bundles, eh?" queried Nick, with a
slight uplifting of the eyebrows and
an indrawing of the lips, which did not
escape the keen eyes of the chief.
"Have you got any objection to my
putting him on?" he asked, sarcastically.
"If you have, why, don't hesitate to
say so, and I'll switch the staff around
to accommodate you." The chief's
eyes might be open to the deficiencies
of certain members of his force, but he
did not choose that others should
comment on them, even by depreciatory
pantomime.
Nick laughed. "Oh, Bundles is all
right, I guess," he said.
"What's the matter between you and
Bundlesroth these days?" the chief
enquired. "You used to be as thick as
thieves. A bit too thick to suit me
sometimes," he added, with a grim
smile.
"Just a little difference of opinion,"
replied the reporter, carelessly. "We'll
get over our grouch some day." He
showed no inclination to pursue the
conversation along these personal lines,
and a few minutes later took his leave.
Passing down the stairs Nick met
another reporter, to whom he imparted
the routine information which he had
just received. The other grinned.
"It's a pipe for the bird if old man
Bundles has got the job of putting
salt on his tail," he said. "Why, the
old jay couldn't catch the smallpox in
a pesthouse. He's beginning to tumble
to the fact that he's getting pretty
dead, but this'll bloat him up some."
Two policemen, standing near, overheard
the remark, and snickered
appreciatively.
"Poor old Bundles!" soliloquized
Nick, as he left the building. "If he
doesn't get a move on, I'm afraid it's
going to be a case of sack;" and then
he fell to meditating ruefully on his
own relations with the despised detective.
It was true, as the chief had
remarked, that Nicholas Hogaboom and
Detective Bundlesroth were no longer
"thick," and the reason for the split
was a woman. Bundles had a daughter,
Mamie, a bright-faced, wholesome,
attractive lass, and Mamie had found
favor in the eyes of the police reporter.
He had seen her on many occasions
when he called for a private and
confidential chat with her father, and had
taken her several times to the theater
with full parental sanction. He felt it
hard, therefore, that, after he had
obtained from the girl a blushing
confession that his attachment was
reciprocated, Bundles should have
rounded on him and sternly refused to
allow of an engagement. Nick pointed
out that his savings and his present
salary were amply sufficient to warrant
his taking a wife, but the father was
obdurate, and forbade any intercourse
between the young people. Consequently
the two men now confined themselves
to a strictly professional
relationship, and spoke to one another as
seldom as possible.
Nick, strolling towards the "Courier"
office, paused in front of the alluring
jewelry display in the windows of
Mullarkey & Co. Those windows had
recently held a great attraction for him,
and he never passed them without
stopping to select a ring, usually the
most expensive in the collection, which
he pictured himself as purchasing and
slipping on to Mamie's finger, with an
appropriate accompanying speech. Nick
had that speech down pat, and he was
running his eye over the ring-cases,
preparatory to going through his
customary mental theatricals, when he
became aware that another man was also
regarding the jewels, and with the eye
of a connoisseur. The stranger was
tall, well dressed in a frock-coat and
silk hat, and wore an air of distinction.
Nick looked at him once or twice out
of the corners of his eyes, and his
brows drew together in a puzzled
frown. For the moment Mamie was
forgotten. He had seen that face
recently, under circumstances which lent
the recognition an additional interest,
and he had seen it some years before,
under other circumstances which his
mind was unable to recall. As he tried
in vain to locate the brain-cell in which
this special memory was stored, he saw
the man raise his hat, draw a handkerchief
from his pocket, and, grasping
it delicately between forefinger and
thumb, pass it once or twice across his
forehead. Then a great light broke
suddenly on the young reporter, and he
checked a whistle of astonishment
which gathered behind his lips.
"What a cinch," he whispered, as he,
continued to gaze fixedly in front of
him. He permitted himself the luxury
of snapping the finger and thumb
of the hand in his trousers' pocket, but
externally he gave no sign of the
triumph surging in his bosom.
"It's a case of shadow, sure," he said
to himself, as the man moved away
from the window, and while the tall,
silk-hatted figure strolled leisurely
along the street, the sturdy form of the
reporter loafed behind at a convenient
distance.
Before they had gone far the object
of Nick's pursuit encountered the
assistant manager of, one of the city
banks, and stopped for a few minutes'
conversation. Nick, who happened to
be passing a corset emporium, at once
halted and became engrossed in the
contents of the window, until the two
separated after a warm handshake.
Now, it so happened that the bank
manager lay under a slight obligation
to Nick Hogaboom, and he greeted the
young man pleasantly when they met.
"The man I was just talking to?" he
said, in reply to Nick's artless
enquiry. "Oh, that's Walter Welfern of
Boston. Been here some months trying
to get people interested in a patent
soap-dish. Live? Has a flat at 17
Marobel street. Why? D'ye want to
interview him? Just told me he was
leaving for New York to-morrow for a
few weeks. Well, so long! Glad to
have seen you."
The bank manager hurried away, and
Nick abandoned the chase. He had
learned all that he wanted to know.
Fifteen minutes later he rang the bell
at 17 Marobel street.
"Mr. Welfern ain't in just now," said
the servant who opened the door. "Did
you want to see him pertic'lar?"
"Pretty particular," replied Nick.
"When would I be likely to catch him
in?"
"He'll be in about ten o'clock
to-night, I guess," said the servant. "He's
goin' away to-morrow on the 8.15
train."
Nick expressed his thanks for the
information and withdrew.
"Things are looking my way all
right," he said, "and now to play my
hand for what it's worth."
When Mamie Bundlesroth opened the
door of her father's house in response
to Nick's ring and saw who stood outside,
she blushed and beamed, and then
looked frightened.
"Paw in, Mame?" asked Nick. He
winked and grinned in a manner
incomprehensible to the girl, but he made
no lover-like advances. Mamie's face
fell.
"He's in the parlor, Ni— Mr. Hogaboom,"
she said, with a pathetic
attempt at dignity.
"All right, Miss Bundlesroth," replied
Nick, jocosely. "Just show me in, will
you?" and added in a low voice, as she
preceded him along the passage,
"Things are coming our way at last,
little girl, and we can afford to wait for
paw's blessing."
Detective Bundlesroth did not wear
the appearance of a hospitable host
when Nick walked jauntily into the
parlor, ushered in by a "Here's Mr.
Hogaboom to see you, paw," from
Mamie. He fixed a stony,stare on his
visitor, and emitted an interrogative
grunt, which, translated into polite
English, stood for, "To what am I
indebted for the honor of this visit?"
"I dropped in to see you, Bundles,"
began Nick, easily, "for two reasons.
First," because I want to find out
whether you haven't changed your
mind about Mamie ——"
"I haven't, then," replied the other,
sourly, "an' I don't mean to. I
suppose you an' her have had a huggin'-match
in the passage?"
"Then you suppose wrong," said
Nick. "For a detective you're a mighty
poor judge of human nature. "I'm
playing my cards on the table and so's
Mame. There's no back-door business
about us."
The detective's expression softened a
little.
"It ain't no use talkin', Nick," he said.
"You've got to give her up. I've got
no objections to you personally, but
there's richer men than you wants to
marry my girl, an' she's got to take
one of 'em."
Nick shrugged his shoulders. "We'll
drop it, then," he said; "and now, how're
things going in that Wotherspoon
business? The chief tells me he's put
you on to it. Picked up any clues yet?"
An air of profound, wisdom, the air
with which the professional detective
masks the more or less of knowledge
which he happens to possess, spread
over Bundles' face.
"Youse fellows'll get to know in good
time," he replied. "Mum's the word
just now."
The reporter took a couple of cigars
from his pocket, and rolled one across
the table to his companion, who, after
eyeing it for a moment with professional
mistrust, bit the end off and lit it.
"It'll be a great thing for you, Bundles,"
said Nick, meditatively, as he
blew a succession of rings and impaled
them on his forefinger. "A thousand
bucks ain't to be picked up every day,
and then there's your rep. Say, I don't
want to rub it into, you, old man, but
your brother cops are kind of giving
you the laugh, and the papers are just
a bit sore on you. They say you haven't
pulled out anything since that
Ellerman hold-up, and that you'd never
have got wise to that if one of the
thugs hadn't squealed to you on the
q. t."
Now, in spite of an overweening vanity,
Detective Bundlesroth was aware,
in the inmost recesses of his soul, that
Nicholas Hogaboom was not far from
the truth. He had caught covert smiles
on the faces, of detectives and policemen
when he had been expounding his
theories.' Humiliating references to his
lack of acuteness as an officer, dropped
in casual conversation by newspaper
men, had come to his ears, and the
chief's manner had not been as cordial
of late as it used to be. There was no
disguising the fact that he had failed
lamentably in several cases entrusted
to him, and although he had plenty of
plausible explanations at command, he
nevertheless felt that it behooved him
to do something to re-establish a
reputation which was fast becoming
tarnished. The Wotherspoon robbery
afforded him a brilliant opportunity, but
unfortunately he was at the present
time as far from any solution of the
mystery as ever. Nick's remarks
consequently touched him on a very raw
spot, and it was with no very friendly
look that he replied:
"They say that, do they? Well, I'll
show 'em in a little while that Bundles
ain't such a stiff as they think."
"It'll be a great thing for you, sure,"
continued Nick, placidly, "and it
would look pretty in print. 'Detective
Bundlesroth has again shown his old-time
sagacity, and demonstrated that,
in spite of advancing years, his intellect
is as acute, and his intuition as
sure, as in the days when he bore the
reputation of being one of the most
astute officers on the continent.' Say,
how'd that hit you as part of the
introduction to the story? Great, wouldn't
it?"
The smile of gratified vanity, which
had played over the detective's face
during this recitation of a possible
paragraph, faded as he realized its
visionary character.
"It'd be no more'n the truth," he
grunted.
"Well," said Nick, with a sigh, "it's
no use gassing about what might be;
I guess I 'll drop over and see
Emmett."
"What d'ye want to go an' see that
stiff for?" queried Bundles. Emmett
was a well-known private detective,
whom the officers of the city force
regarded with undisguised hostility.
Bundles was especially bitter, Emmett
having carried to a triumphant
termination a case in which his, Bundles',
lack of success had been conspicuous.
Nick blew a ring, impaled it with
great exactness, and looked the
detective straight in the eye.
"I want to put him next," he said.
"Next to what?"
"To who pinched those bits of glass
at Wotherspoon's."
"And what in h—— do you know
about it?" Bundles seldom swore, but
he was agitated. Then Nick fired his
blast.
"I know all about it," he said. "I
know the man; I know where he lives,
and I can put my hands on evidence.
Oh, it's a lead-pipe, and to think that
I've got to cough it all up to Emmett,
and throw down the force, and you in
particular. Say, Bundles, why ain't
we friends?"
The detective's face flushed, and his
eyes bulged out. "Are you giving it to
me straight, or are you putting up a
bluff?" he asked.
"Bluff be damned!" replied the young
man. "I've got the cards for a showdown.
Look here, I'll give you a little
bit of it. Some years ago I was working
on a paper in — well, never mind
where, but it's quite a good-sized
village. There was a big robbery trial on,
and one of the slickest crooks in the
States was in the dock. I was on the
case, and used to sit day after day in
the court room. The prisoner was a
fine-looking fellow, and when the
evidence was thin and there was nothing
for me to do, I used to sit and look at
him. He had a trick of wiping his
forehead with his handkerchief, which
struck me as peculiar — sort of lady-like
fashion. Well, he was convicted, and
got seven years, but on his way to the
pen he made a clean getaway, and I
never heard that they'd pinched him
again. There was a reward of five
hundred out for him, which I guess, is
still standing. At the Wotherspoon
lay-out I piped this same man, but I
didn't know him; couldn't think where
I'd seen him. Two hours ago, in front
of Mullarkey's, was this same coon
standing, and I tried to size him up,
but it was no go, till he pulled out his
wipe and mopped his fevered brow.
Then I tumbled right off. I found out
his name, where he lives, when he's
going to make a sneak, and all about it,
and — and I guess that's about all at
present from yours truly."
There was a long pause. Nick sat
smoking deliberately and gazing
abstractedly into the atmosphere. The
detective shifted uneasily in his seat,
examined the ash of his cigar with
great minuteness, and cast sidelong
looks at the other. Presently he broke
the silence.
"What do you want?" he asked,
huskily.
"I reckon you don't wear blinders,"
replied the police reporter, coolly.
"Now, Bundles, I'll give it to you
straight. You give me your word —
and you're not the man to go back on
it — that I may marry Mamie inside of
six months, and I'll put you next to
the whole business. You can pouch
all the stuff — fifteen hundred nice,
juicy samoleons — and I'll see that you
get all the credit that's coming. I'll
square the boys on the other papers to
give you the best send-off any of you
cops ever had; they'll do that for me
when they know I'm going to marry
your girl. I'll pick the picture for you
out of the gallery — it'll be there, dead
sure — and we'll tell the people how
Detective Bundlesroth saw the man on the
street, and, possessing one of those
phenomenal memories, rare among the
cleverest of the force, that never
forgets a face, recalled a certain
photograph sent in to the office years ago,
and worked this slight clue to a
successful termination. Say, I'll never
need to show in the business at all. I'll
fix the man who handles A. P. here,
and you'll get a good show in every
paper in the country. What do you
say? Is it a go?"
As the reporter proceeded, the
imagination of the detective painted a
series of highly-colored pictures in
rapid succession. He saw himself raised
to a pinnacle far loftier than that from
which he had slipped so unaccountably.
He saw his fame blazoned forth, from
ocean to ocean, as the solver of a deep
mystery and the captor of a noted
malefactor who was badly "wanted."
And last, but not least, he saw his
bank account, now sadly attenuated,
swelled into comparative fatness by the
addition of fifteen hundred dollars.
Hitherto his reputation at its best had
been local; to-morrow it would be
continental. He hesitated, but not for
long. Taking a last suck at his cigar,
and throwing it into a spittoon, he rose
to his feet and held out his hand.
"It's a go," he said.
"Good," replied Nick. "I guess I'm
going to be proud of my pa-in-law;
and now, maybe we'd better call in
Mamie and give her the latest bulletin."
At eight o'clock next morning a cab
waited in front of 17 Marobel street,
and two men stood near in animated
discourse. A trunk was brought, out
and placed on the box, and a few minutes
later a tall, well-dressed man
appeared on, the steps. As he leisurely
descended, the other two moved
forward, still talking, and reached the
door of the cab just as the tall man
had comfortably ensconced himself.
Then, to the great surprise of the
occupant, one of the pedestrians jumped
suddenly into the vehicle and seated
himself,beside him.
"What does, this mean?" cried Mr.
Welfern of Boston, in great indignation.
"It's no go, Brady," said the intruder.
"It's all up. Now, don't make a
beef, because there's a gun in my
pocket stickin' right into your ribs. Get
in, Sam. Coachman, you know me —
Detective Bundlesroth; drive to
headquarters."
In spite of the excellent advice
proffered by the detective, Mr. Welfern did
make a considerable "beef," and it was
not till a systematic search of his
trunks at the central police station had
revealed the missing articles of jewelry
that he ceased to threaten all kinds of
pains and penalties for the outrage to
which he was being subjected. Then
he accepted the situation with philosophical
composure, and handed round
his cigar-case with charming
cordiality.
Nicholas Hogaboom was as good as
his word. He squared the boys and
the Associated Press correspondent, as
he had promised, and Detective Bundles
reaped a harvest of glory such as
he had never dreamed of. The
rewards were duly paid over to him, and
no one, not even Mamie, ever knew
that the entire credit for the achievement
really belonged to another.
"How did you ever persuade paw to
let you marry me?" Mamie asked
wonderingly of her husband as they drove
from the paternal mansion, followed
by a shower of slippers discharged by
the paternal hand.
"You know what a scoop is, don't
you?" Nick enquired.
"Of course I do. It's something that
you reporters get exclusive."
"Well," replied Nick, laughing, "this
was just a case of scoop."
And more than that Mamie could
never get him to say on the subject.
