Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 19, 1924 — page 100: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

570 His eyes were instantly attracted to an article in a jeweler’s window. little shop, neat and well kept. A placard announced that one Moe Gordon was about to acquire the business, stock and goodwill, and would after inventory display the best line of watches, rings and ladies’ novelties ever seen in Midville, and for less money than his competitors. Within, two men, probably Gordon and the retiring dealer, were checking off mer- chandise upon the shelves. But what held Putter’s regard was a large watch fob in the form of a scarab of red enamel and green gold. It was eye-filling, aglow with shimmering fire. Putter had chanced upon a copy of the Geographers’ Magazine, and knew, in a loose way, that the scarab beetle had been sacred in the eyes of the people of King Tut’s day. The swells had expensive ones—like this in the window—buried with ’em for luck in the next world. Egyptian junk had the class, just now. He yearned to attach this fob to his watch. Its price—ten dollars— was not unreasonable. He started to enter. ~ Then, it came to him that if he waited till the shop had changed hands, he might get it cheaper. He moved on. Fifteen minutes later he was seated in the hotel dining room awaiting the planked steak he had ordered. After dinner he sat alone in the lobby, thinking over his case. As usual, he had been sent without special instructions. They never hampered him by trying to indicate the steps whereby he should solve the mys- tery on hand. Keene was too wise to crab his game! Of course, he had to send in regular reports, like every operative. Not to have demanded that would have roused his suspicions. Also, the joy that the reports of “ Oper-: ative No. 23 ” brought to the jaded nerves at the Keene headquarters was not lightly to be given up. They were treasured, and copies passed from city to city wherever a Keene Agency was located. Putter drew from a pocket a map of the city. Upon it, in red ink, was indicated each jewelry store, with the date upon which it had been robbed. Putter studied this, a portentous frown between his prom- inent eyes. He traced, with a pencil, a line from the first break to the last. It was a ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. It made a meaningless spiral, like the homing foot- steps of a New Year reveler. There was nothing to indicate what locality the gun- men would choose for their next break. No apparent system. Several of the most pros- perous shops hadn’t been troubled at all, One small place had suffered three times. There were twenty-one jewelry stores in Midville, all indicated on the map. Thinking always fatigued James Putter. It made his head ache. Why the devil didn’t the local bulls cover each of the twenty-one stores, and simply wait? Probably they hadn’t that many on the force! He folded the map and returned it to his pocket. The thought of that gold and crimson scarab fob returned. He might as well take another look at it. Nothing else to do, until some clew leaped out at him. A little walk would settle his dinner —that was a corking good steak! His mouth watered at the thought of its suc- culent thickness, nestling in a pleasing wreath of mashed potato and green and pink vegetables. Midville’s lighting system reflected the parsimony of its chamber of commerce. Washington Street was sufficiently bright to enable the curfew evaders to dodge the un- even spots in the brick sidewalks, but the cross streets invited lovers and porch climbers. Depot Street, on which was the shop Putter sought, had little on a rustic hedgerow. There were few wayfarers astir, and between the infrequent gas lamps there was only here and there a pool room or fruit stand or night lunch to cheer the passer-by. Moe Gordon’s was pleasantly aglow how- ever. The two men he had seen that after- noon were still figuring and squabbling. And the show window, though denuded of everything of a precious nature, still dis- played, amid a litter of cheap German clocks and strings of glass beads, the noble scarab that had won Putter’s approval. He paused to fill his eyes with it; list- lessly noting as he did so that an idler who had been shuffling past turned and stared at him while fumbling in his pockets for a match to relight the butt of a cigar CoOMmmicooolkSse©