Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 4, 1925 — page 125: what you’re looking at

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

TWO one came to the little rear room. It was Con Milroy, followed by two cutthroat crimps who had agreed to dispose of the old Professor for a trifling piece of money. Their specialty was shanghaling lusty sailor- men; and an elderly vagabond, gentle of voice and mild of manner, wasn’t much of a job for such as they. Their price for con- signing him to the waters near Fisherman’s wharf had been very reasonable. For an instant the three formed a petrified tableau at the door. Milroy spoke. “Terry Watts!” he gasped. “ Dead!” he added, advancing a step into the room. “ Stuck with a chiv!” The last of the Farnsworths said nothing. His hands trembled a bit, but his gray and bloodshot eyes looked bravely up at Mil- roy. The latter’s face suddenly darkened with hate, and he spat a dripping oath. Then he darted a look about the room. “ Where’s Lou?” he demanded, slipping past the body and grabbing hold of the Professor. “ My good sir, I haven’t seen Miss Lou al] evening.” “Vou lie like all hell!” growled Milroy, but his face broke into a triumphant smile.” ‘““T know who killed Terry, and I know who’s going to swing In her place.” He turned on his two companions. ‘ The deal’s off, you guys. We don't need to throw the blankety-blank bum into the bay. John Law’ll take care o’ him now.” VITT. So the ancestral estate of J. Trowbridge Farnswoith dwindled even smaller. He lay in a murderer’s cell hard by the Palace of Justice, only a few short blocks from Pacific Street and the Four Deuces Bar. There newspapermen came to see him and take his picture, for the Professor had be- corne something of a character along the Barbary Coast. Besides, this was not one of your ordinary demimonde killings. Terry Watts had been a power in city politics, and the motive for his murder was in- triguingly obscure. ‘“Why was he killed?” the reporters de- manded., STEP LOU AND THE PROFESSOR. Then Con‘ 915 To which the Professor, still the mild, frank, gentle-spoken classicist, would raise his tired gray eyes to the cynical young faces of the scribes and reply: ‘The magistrates have acquitted them- selves with credit. I am, as they charge, guilty of this homicide. Like Theseus, I siew the dragon who had been devouring the flower of Greece. I rejoice in my ac- complishment. It was a deed worthy of Achilles.”’ “Well, how about Two Step Lou?” the persistent reporters would ask, still unsatis- fied. ‘‘ What’s become of her, Professor?” ‘“T do not know, my good sirs,” he would reply, nor could he hide the alarm he felt whenever this question was spoken. The newspapers laid hold of the story with a will. Their best reporters pounded typewriters which painted sympathetic word pictures of the gentle old vagabond who, it was plain to see, wouldn’t harm a fly. Yet he was a confessed murderer! The re- porters couldn’t swallow that; and their stories, well interspersed with the Professor’s classic speech, hinted at the truth behind Watts’s violent passing. The citizens of the bay district read and shook their heads in wonderment. Out-of-town subscribers, up in the mountains and valleys of northern California, discussed the strange case in ranch house, cabin, and shack. But the last of the Farmsworths did not waver from his claim. The grand jury in- dicted him, and the day came when they ar- raigned him before a judge. The charges were read. “Do you plead guilty or not guilty?” askecl the court. ‘““Guilty,”’ was the quiet response. Then the district attorney presented his evidence against the defendant. Con Mil- roy took the stand and told of finding the body. The Professor was kicking the dead man in a rage when he burst into the room, Milroy said. His picture of the Professor was a black one: a degenerate who, Con claimed, had once threatened to poison him because he refused him liquor. The evidence was soon in, and the judge asked the defendant if he had anything to say before sentence was pronounced. It was late afternoon when the last of the An lDOOlK