How to Be a Detective. James Brady
Mr. Kean is a detective. He’s put in the office to watch us.”
“Shut up with your nonsense!” I cried. “I only want to help you fellows—that’s all.”
“Don’t deny it,” persisted Gleason.
“I might have guessed as much,” said Spencer. “I never seen a sharper fellow than you are, Sam Kean. Don’t you fret. I’ll snake the key out of old Buzby’s desk while he’s at lunch to-morrow. We’ll have him where the wool is short and don’t you forget it. It’ll serve him just right too, for all his impudence to me.”
“How much has he taken altogether?” I asked.
“Why he reports that $500 is missing so far,” was Spencer’s reply, “but as he’s doing the stealing himself, how is one going to tell?”
After that I did not attempt to deny to these two that I was in the office as a spy.
They got the key and I had the duplicate made.
Thursday night was set for the execution of our little plan, for the reason that Spencer pretended to have been told by the old bookkeeper that he was going out of town that night.
“I’ll bet you what you like it’s only a dodge,” he said. “That’s the night he intends to make his next haul.”
I was in high feather. I had no orders to go to the office and report to you so I didn’t go.
“Wait till I surprise Mr. Brady by dragging Buzby to the New Church street station,” I said to myself, for we three had agreed to do that very thing, provided we caught him in the store.
When the store closed that evening I slipped down-stairs to try my key in the lock of the freight-room door.
All hands had gone, or at least I supposed they had, so I was awfully startled at having a slim young fellow with black hair and determined-looking face suddenly pop up from behind some cases and ask me what the mischief I was doing there.
Really I forget what excuse I made, but I know I lit out as soon as I could, and made the best of my way up-stairs.
When I met Gleason and Spencer at a certain beer saloon in Greenwich street at eleven o’clock that night I told them about it, and could see that they looked worried.
“That’s the new hand, Jack Rody,” said Jim.
“I hope he ain’t one of Buzby’s pals,” added Hen, “but I wouldn’t be one mite surprised if he was.”
Now I thought this was nonsense, and I said so. We got to talking about other things, and there the matter dropped.
“Time’s up, boys,” said Jim at last, just as the clock struck twelve. “We’d better slip round there now. There’s just one thing that worries me though.”
“What’s that?” asked Hen.
“Suppose the cop catches us trying to enter the store.”
“Well,” replied Gleason. “Sam can fix that. He’s got his shield I suppose.”
“I’ve got no shield,” I answered, this disagreeable possibility occurring to me for the first time.
But I was a good deal worried. I felt that it would be simply sickening to be arrested for burglary and have to send for you to get me out.
No such trouble occurred, however.
We watched our chance and slipped in through the back door of the Eagle Line office without the slightest difficulty.
It was not until we got the door shut and locked that I began to wonder what we were going to do for a light.
“Oh, I looked out for that,” whispered Jim. “I’ve got a dark lantern.”
He pulled it out, lit it and flashed it round him. There was no sign of Jack Rody, though I must confess I half expected to see him spring up from behind the cases again.
“Old Buz ain’t here, that’s one thing sure,” whispered Gleason, when we got up-stairs into the office.
“We’ll lay for him an hour or so, anyhow,” replied Spencer.
“Mebbe he’s been here already,” suggested Jim.
“Suppose we open the safe and see if he’s taken anything?” said Spencer, after a moment.
Now I give you my word, Mr. Brady, that this was the first I began to suspect there was anything wrong.
“Open the safe!” I exclaimed. “How are you fellows going to open the safe? What do you mean?”
“We mean this,” hissed Jim, turning suddenly upon me, “we are tired of playing a dangerous game for small stakes. There’s a thousand dollars in that safe to-night and we intend to have it, and leave you here to be pulled in as the thief.”
I was thunderstruck. I saw it all.
“You’ve been playing me for a sucker,” I blurted out. “I’ll show you——”
“No you won’t!” breathed Spencer, drawing a revolver and thrusting it in my face. “We have been playing you for just what you are. You pretend to be a detective! Bah! you’re nothing but a little squirt, anyhow. We’ll fix you. Here, Jim, give him his drink.”
I fought like a tiger, never heeding the revolver, for I was sure they wouldn’t shoot. Still I did not dare to make any outcry, for that would be sure to bring matters to a crisis.
It was all over in a minute. They had me down, and, while Gleason held me, Spencer got a rope out of his desk and tied me. Then Jim forced my mouth open, while his companion poured a lot of whisky down my throat, almost strangling me. I seemed to be entirely powerless to help myself.
Then I yelled like a good fellow.
All it amounted to was to cause them to jam a handkerchief in my mouth.
Never before nor since have I been a prey to such terrible feelings as I endured while I lay there and watched those two scoundrels open that safe.
Spencer was the one who had the key—a ridiculous old thing made up of a number of steel prongs which fitted in a slot.
I thought then and I still think that it served Sandman just right to be robbed, for trusting his money in such an old-fashioned affair.
Well, they opened it and they took the money from the cash-drawer, shaking the bills in my face in triumph.
“They’ll find you here in the morning,” sneered Gleason. “Mebbe they’ll believe your story, and mebbe they won’t. Anyhow your goose on the detective force is cooked. Next time you try to pump a fellow, go at it in the right way.”
Of course I could say nothing—only stare helplessly.
I heard them laugh, I saw them move toward the basement door.
Then all of a sudden I saw the door fly open, and a determined voice shouted:
“Drop that money, gents, and the shooter along with it, or I’ll drop you!”
It was Jack Rody, the new freight clerk.
His face was pale, but determined, as he stood there covering those two rascals with a cocked revolver in each hand, and to my further surprise I saw that his hair was not black now, but red.
Then I knew him.
It was David Doyle, the young fellow I had met in your office the day I first called.
Did we capture them?
Well, we just did.
Rather, I should say, Dave Doyle did it.
He made them release me, and then we took them to the station together, and next day Jim Gleason confessed that he and Spencer had done all the stealing.
You remember