The afternoon newspapers carried big headlines: Blind Beggar Sought by Police.
A job printer made a quick job of knocking out some stationery for Bertha Cool. By using ink which dried almost instantaneously, he was able to get her half a dozen sheets of stationery reading, BANK NIGHT SUPER DRAWING, INC., Drexel Building, Los Angeles, California.
Bertha took the stationery back to her office building, arranged with the elevator starter to take care of mail, and then went to her own office where she dictated a letter:
Dear Miss Jackson:
In order to keep alive an interest in bank night, an association of motion picture theatres has arranged to contribute a small percentage into a large fund on which every sixty days there is a super drawing. It is, of course, necessary to take extraordinary precautions to see that the winnings are paid to the right person. If you can, therefore, convince us that you were the person who registered at one of our member theatres during the past three months, we will give you some information which will doubtless cause you a great deal of pleasure. However, please bear in mind that since this entire matter is gratuitous and in addition to any bank night sponsored by any member theatre, the entire system of awards is handled purely as a gratuitous disbursement. There is no right whatever on the part of any person whose name is drawn to receive anything.
Very truly yours,
Bank Night Super Drawing, Inc.
by
“You can sign that, Elsie,” Bertha Cool said. “I’ve arranged with the elevator starter to take care of any inquiries and see that they’re passed along all right.”
“How about using the mail to defraud?” Elsie Brand asked.
“Pish. When she shows up, we’ll give her twenty-five dollars and tell her it’s a gratuitous disbursement.”
“Think she’ll show up?”
“I’ll say she will. She’ll read that letter and think she’s won about five thousand dollars, but someone is trying to gyp her out of it. Unless I miss my guess, Myrna Jackson has something she’s keeping very much under cover. She is not going to make any squawk to the postal authorities nor anyone else and when I get done with her, she’s going to be a very, very good little girl.”
Elsie Brand whipped the letter out of the typewriter, picked up her fountain pen, and signed it. “Under your orders,” she said.
“Under my orders,” Bertha Cool acknowledged reluctantly.
Chapter XXIV
Sergeant Sellers settled himself comfortably in Bertha Cool’s office and regarded her with a quiet skepticism which Bertha Cool found hard to combat.
“This blind man, Rodney Kosling,” the sergeant said. “Know where he is?”
“No, of course not.”
“Client of yours?”
“He was. As I told you, I did a small job for him.”
“Satisfactorily?”
“I hope so.”
“He might come back to you in case he wanted something else done?”
“I hope so.”
“Peculiar problem when you’re dealing with a blind man.” Sellers went on. “You can’t exactly get what you want on him.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, with an ordinary man, when it’s blazoned all over the headlines of the newspapers that the police are looking for him and he still continues to stay away, you feel that you have something on him. With a blind man, it’s different. He can’t see the newspapers. You know, there’s just a chance Rodney Kosling may not know anything at all about what has happened and may not know that the police are looking for him.”
“That’s probably it,” Bertha said, just a little too eagerly, as she realized as soon as the words were out of her mouth.
Sergeant Sellers went on without letting her comment divert him in the least, “I say there’s a chance of it — about one chance in twenty.”
“You mean about one chance in twenty that he knows you want him?”
“No, I mean about one chance in twenty he doesn’t know we want him.”
“I don’t get you,” Bertha said.
“Well, let’s look at it this way. We’ve eliminated nearly all of these beggar peddlers. Time was when you used to see a lot of them on the street — people going around with tin cups and guitars. It got to be a racket. We kicked them all out except half a dozen who had done things for the police in times past or had some political pull. These people have very definite locations where they’re permitted to work. When they die off, there won’t be any others to take their places. We’re getting the city cleaned up. At least, we’re trying to.”
“Well?” Bertha asked.
“How do you suppose those blind people get to work?”
“I don’t know,” Bertha Cool said. “I’d never thought of it.”
“They have a nifty little club,” Sergeant Sellers said. “It’s a co-operative affair. They jointly own an automobile and hire a chauffeur. He drives around, picks them up in the morning according to a regular routine, takes them out and spots them, and calls for them at a fixed hour at night. They ride out to the chauffeur’s house. His wife has a nice hot dinner axed for them. They eat and chat, and then the chauffeur drives them home one at a time.”
“Well,” Bertha said, thinking it over, “I can understand that. If I’d stopped to think, I’d have known there must have been something like that; that it was handled somewhat along those lines. He can’t drive a car, and he can’t very well take streetcars to and from his place of business. Hiring a private car and chauffeur and a housekeeper would be pretty much of an impossibility. Who keeps his house anyway?”
“The chauffeur’s wife. She goes around to the houses in rotation and cleans ’em up once a week. The rest of the time the chaps get along by themselves. And you’d be surprised at how much they’re able to do regardless of being blind.”
“Who’s the chauffeur?” Bertha asked.
“Man by the name of Thinwell, John A. Thinwell. He and his wife have pretty good references; seem to be pretty well thought of. Tells a straightforward story.”
“What is it?”
“These chaps don’t work Sundays. On Sundays, they all get together around three o’clock at Thinwell’s house, listen to music on the radio, sit and talk, and get acquainted. Thinwell serves ’em a dinner around seven and then takes ’em home.
“Sunday about noon, Thinwell got a telephone call from Kosling. He seemed rather excited or disturbed and was talking rapidly. He said he wasn’t going to be home all day, couldn’t attend their little club meeting, and that Thinwell was not to call for him.
“Thinwell had to go right by the house anyway to pick up another one of the members, so he stopped in. That was about ten to three. The place was deserted all right, and Kosling had left the door propped open a few inches so his tame bat could get in and out.”
“Did Thinwell look inside?” Bertha asked.
“He says he just peeped inside the door. There’s something strange about that too. He said Kosling’s pet bat was flying around inside the room. That’s unusual. Unless bats are disturbed, they fly around at night. Now why should this bat have been flying around at three in the afternoon?”
“He must have been disturbed,” Bertha said.
“Exactly,” Sellers agreed. “And what disturbed him?”
“I’ll bite. What did?”
“It must have been the person who was putting up the trap gun. That brings up another interesting thing.”
“What?”
“I think the trap gun was set up by a blind man.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Because of the way it was set up. In the first place there was no attempt at concealment. The thing stuck out as big as an elephant, right where it could be seen by anyone entering the room. In the second place, in pointing the gun, the man who set it up didn’t squint along the sights the way, a man with vision would have done. He tied a thread along the barrel, pulled that thread tight, and used it to tell him where the charge was going. That’s one way of sighting a gun. It’s the hard way.”