CHAPTER XXXV.A VisitorHubert answered the telephone, and called to Sam. I followed him into the living-room to hear what was to be heard. I think that John and Mrs. Ricker followed for the same reason.When Sam said, “Read it, please,” I knew that it was another telegram. They telephone all of our telegrams to us from Rattail, and mail them later, when they get around to it, if they don’t forget.We had been pestered nearly crazy with telegrams, on account of all the ruckus Sam had stirred up about Canneziano, on the night of the murder. I supposed this would be another one of them, about some poor Indian or other who had been found at a desert water-hole. But, almost right away, I could tell from Sam’s answers that this was about something different. He kept writing things on the telephone pad, and asking central to repeat, and to repeat again, and to spell that, please. Lands, but I got nervous, before he finally hung up the receiver, and turned to us, and asked:“Any of you ever hear of a fellow named Lynn MacDonald?”None of us, of course, ever had.“Seems he is a kind of detective,” Sam explained. “He calls himself a crime analyst, and he specializes in murder cases. Works on his own hook, kind of like Sherlock Holmes did, I guess. He had a list of references, and past cases, long as your arm. They sounded fine. I forget them now. Anyway, he made a straight proposition. He wants to come here and take the case. He wants his expenses, and nothing else, if he fails. If he succeeds, he wants ten thousand, cash. Poor fish, I’d have paid twenty thousand just as quick. Anyway, that’s a fair proposition. It is the way I am used to trading; money down if I deliver, nothing if I don’t. I’m going to wire him to come.”“Dad,” John objected, “you don’t know a thing about this guy, except what he tells you. If you have to drag a detective into this, now, after what Mrs. Ricker has told us, why don’t you wire to a reputable agency, and have it send someone?”“I like the tune this fellow sings. I like the straight way he made his proposition. When I wanted the best doctors for Martha, I always got specialists, didn’t I? Well, this fellow’s a specialist. His references were damn good. I like his name. An honest Scotchman comes pretty close to being the noblest work of God.“Let’s see—Danny is coming up on Friday afternoon, isn’t she? I’ll wire MacDonald to take the same train. That will save us two trips to Rattail in the heat.”“Listen, dad—sleep over it,” John urged.I hated the quick, sharp way both Sam and Hubert Hand looked at him. I hated him noticing it, and jumping right into an explanation.“If Mrs. Ricker is right about all this,” he said, “and I swear that I think she is, isn’t it enough for us to know about it, dad? If you get a detective here, and he comes to the same conclusion, we can’t keep it a secret, then.”Sam said, “He won’t. And we aren’t wanting, nor needing any secrets on the Desert Moon, just now.”He sat down and began to write the telegram. Five minutes, and he was reading it to the operator at Rattail. He had just hung up the telephone receiver when the doorbell rang, a long, impudent ring.Nobody, I thought as I went to the door, with any sense of decency would ring our bell, like that, on this evening.I was right. For a minute I did not recognize the man standing there on the porch. In the next minute I did recognize him. My heart stood stock still. He was Daniel Canneziano.
Hubert answered the telephone, and called to Sam. I followed him into the living-room to hear what was to be heard. I think that John and Mrs. Ricker followed for the same reason.
When Sam said, “Read it, please,” I knew that it was another telegram. They telephone all of our telegrams to us from Rattail, and mail them later, when they get around to it, if they don’t forget.
We had been pestered nearly crazy with telegrams, on account of all the ruckus Sam had stirred up about Canneziano, on the night of the murder. I supposed this would be another one of them, about some poor Indian or other who had been found at a desert water-hole. But, almost right away, I could tell from Sam’s answers that this was about something different. He kept writing things on the telephone pad, and asking central to repeat, and to repeat again, and to spell that, please. Lands, but I got nervous, before he finally hung up the receiver, and turned to us, and asked:
“Any of you ever hear of a fellow named Lynn MacDonald?”
None of us, of course, ever had.
“Seems he is a kind of detective,” Sam explained. “He calls himself a crime analyst, and he specializes in murder cases. Works on his own hook, kind of like Sherlock Holmes did, I guess. He had a list of references, and past cases, long as your arm. They sounded fine. I forget them now. Anyway, he made a straight proposition. He wants to come here and take the case. He wants his expenses, and nothing else, if he fails. If he succeeds, he wants ten thousand, cash. Poor fish, I’d have paid twenty thousand just as quick. Anyway, that’s a fair proposition. It is the way I am used to trading; money down if I deliver, nothing if I don’t. I’m going to wire him to come.”
“Dad,” John objected, “you don’t know a thing about this guy, except what he tells you. If you have to drag a detective into this, now, after what Mrs. Ricker has told us, why don’t you wire to a reputable agency, and have it send someone?”
“I like the tune this fellow sings. I like the straight way he made his proposition. When I wanted the best doctors for Martha, I always got specialists, didn’t I? Well, this fellow’s a specialist. His references were damn good. I like his name. An honest Scotchman comes pretty close to being the noblest work of God.
“Let’s see—Danny is coming up on Friday afternoon, isn’t she? I’ll wire MacDonald to take the same train. That will save us two trips to Rattail in the heat.”
“Listen, dad—sleep over it,” John urged.
I hated the quick, sharp way both Sam and Hubert Hand looked at him. I hated him noticing it, and jumping right into an explanation.
“If Mrs. Ricker is right about all this,” he said, “and I swear that I think she is, isn’t it enough for us to know about it, dad? If you get a detective here, and he comes to the same conclusion, we can’t keep it a secret, then.”
Sam said, “He won’t. And we aren’t wanting, nor needing any secrets on the Desert Moon, just now.”
He sat down and began to write the telegram. Five minutes, and he was reading it to the operator at Rattail. He had just hung up the telephone receiver when the doorbell rang, a long, impudent ring.
Nobody, I thought as I went to the door, with any sense of decency would ring our bell, like that, on this evening.
I was right. For a minute I did not recognize the man standing there on the porch. In the next minute I did recognize him. My heart stood stock still. He was Daniel Canneziano.