The other features were present, but unimportant. He was neither strikingly handsome nor markedly ugly. He was neither very fat nor very thin: not tall and not short. His clothes seemed ordinary, neither ragged nor stylish.
In short, there was only one thing noticeable about him. He was blond. And not just an ordinary blond, but remarkably and memorably so. His pale coloring gripped the eye. It caused him to stand out like one white canary among a thousand yellow songsters.
The two men faced each other for a long moment, neither speaking. During that moment, Stan remembered Lieutenant Andreason’s skepticism because Lois Callum could not give a better description of the mysterious caller. Rut it had really been an excellent description. Trained operative that he was, Stan could not have improved on the girl’s simple phrase, “a blond man.”
The blond man broke the silence.
“You can put away your gun,” he said quietly. “I’m not a criminal.”
“Yeah. What are you?”
The other shrugged. “I’ll explain that to the proper authorities.”
“Your mistake, my friend,” said Stan. “You’ll explain it to me.”
“No, sir.” The blond man was unfrightened and thoroughly businesslike. “You’ll have to call the police. I won’t offer any resistance, I promise. But on the other hand, I refuse to say anything to you — or anyone else connected with the Randt company. And that’s another promise.”
Stan Baxter said, “Raise the hands, mister.”
He slapped a hand over the other’s garments.
“You see,” said the blond man, “I am unarmed.”
Stan grunted, reached into the man’s inner coat pocket. He drew out a brown leather wallet. The blond man made a gesture of protest; said, “You’ve no right to—”
Stan’s eyes widened over the wallet’s identification card. “Good Lord!”
The blond man nodded. “Yes. My name’s George Worthington. I’m an investigator for the Federal Trade Commission.”
Chapter XIII
Pieces of Glass
Stan Baxter echoed, “The Federal Trade Commission!” He regarded the blond man with considerable respect. The Federal Trade Commission, to the average newspaper reader, would mean little — just another vaguely familiar arm of the United States Government — in fact, not even an arm, but only one of Uncle Sam’s little fingers. FTC — it didn’t sound very glamorous. Probably another of those alphabetical agencies. A gang of long-haired economists poring over charts and graphs. A bunch of people with soft jobs.
But Stan knew better. His law schooling had given him an insight into the workings of the Commission. It was the watchdog, the umpire of American business. It maintained headquarters in Washington, with field offices in New York, Chicago, Seattle, and San Francisco. Its staff, over five hundred strong, was constantly on the alert to squelch fraud and deception.
These men were the government’s aces in a war against business rackets, just as the men of the FBI were its aces in the war against underworld crime.
True, the FTC lacked glamor. Unless you could see the glamor in forcing poisonous tonics and contaminated foodstuffs off the American market. Unless there was glamor in keeping shifty schemers from stealing people’s money with false advertising of phony products.
All of this flashed through Stan’s mind in an instant. Then he closed the wallet and handed it back to Worthington. “But what are you doing here?”
The FTC investigator shrugged. “I’ve told you twice, I won’t answer that — except to the police.”
“But look, Worthington,” said Stan quickly. “I’m not the night watchman, as you seem to think. I don’t work for the Randt company at all. And what’s more, I don’t intend to hand you over to the police.”
The other’s blue eyes narrowed in a frown. “Well!” he said. “Then what in the devil are you doing here?”
Stan Baxter smiled. Events had taken an unpredictable turn — the kind of a turn the police would call “the break” in the case. He meant to make the most of that break, and to do so he had to win the blond man’s confidence. It was a vital step.
He said: “Frankly, I have no business in the plant. I’m as much of a trespasser here as you are. My name is Baxter. I’m Lois Callum’s lawyer. You surely know that she’s been arrested for the murder of her uncle?”
“Yes, sir,” said the blond man. “I read that in the papers.”
“Then you also read that the police want you as a witness?”
“I know.” Worthington’s lips tightened. “It happens that I can’t tell the police anything of importance. My work is extremely confidential. I wanted to avoid publicity, at least for a day or so. The circumstances were unusual, and I took it upon myself to say nothing. After all, there’s no doubt the girl did kill Callum, is there?”
“I doubt it,” said Stan grimly.
“Speaking as her lawyer?”
“No. Speaking as man to man. I think she’s innocent, and I expect you to help me prove it.”
The blond man did not attempt to disguise his amazement. “Oh! In that case, naturally I’ll report to the authorities at once! I only kept silent because I thought Miss Callum’s guilt was unquestionable. And, as I say, because I knew nothing whatever about the murder.”
Stan grunted. “But it won’t do any good for you to report to the police.”
“What? Why not?”
“Because they think her guilt is unquestionable,” said Stan. “Because your story won’t mean a thing to them.”
The FTC man studied Stan Baxter searchingly. He shook his head slowly.
“I’m sorry, Baxter. What you are saying doesn’t make sense to me.”
Stan said: “All right, it doesn’t make sense to you. But will you trust me, anyway? Will you? — remembering that a girl’s life depends on your decision? For this means life or death to Lois Callum.”
The words were impressive, and even more impressive was the manner in which Stan voiced them.
“No decent man could say no,” replied the blond man. “But wait a moment, Mr. Baxter. Your name is familiar — I saw that in the newspapers, too. But can you prove your identity? How do I know that you are Baxter?”
Stan nodded. “I was a private detective before I became an attorney. I carry a permit and a pistol license. Here they are.”
“These papers could have been stolen,” said Worthington. He drew a fountain pen from his coat, and took a scrap of wrapping paper from the packing box. “Will you sign your name here?”
“Sure!”
The blond man carefully compared the freshly written signature with those on the permit and license.
“Thank you,” he said gravely. “The precaution seemed necessary to me. Now, what do you want to know?”
Stan drew a long breath of relief. “First,” he said, “I’ve got to know why you went to Callum’s home last night.”
Worthington nodded. “I was sent there by Frank Kendall. Mr. Kendall recently filed a complaint with the Commission, alleging that his Ameroptic Company was suffering unfair competition from the Randt Camera Company. The investigation was assigned to me. I called on Kendall yesterday morning, and he arranged an appointment for me to meet Callum.”
“Why?”
“Kendall claimed Callum had some evidence against Randt.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” said Stan. “Callum told me the same story. But did you actually see any such evidence?”