Nick felt pushed off base. His mind was not working as coldly and analytically as it should. “You are worried about investments,” he suggested, picking up the clue.
Chinter’s lips parted again, but this time the smile was not amiable. “Every banker worries about investments,” he said. “But if I wanted financial information I wouldn’t come to you. Is that the best you can do?”
The anger he always seemed to feel against these bland, self-satisfied, well-to-do people possessed Nick. “There is an account at the bank that is causing you concern,” he fished, but in safe enough waters. Every bank had at least one account like that. “You do not know how to get out of your difficulty at the moment. Also in this affair you are hindered by a woman.” It was also true that in most tangled accounts where there was an overdraft there was usually a woman involved.
Chinter’s smooth face remained expressionless. But in the hairless space between nostril and lip line Nick saw a bead of sweat which had not been there before. He switched to flattery.
“You are the sophisticated worldly type, too big for a small community. You belong where your talents would be more appreciated. You have a fatal attraction for women — young women. You are held back by people who do not understand you.”
He was watching the banker closely through half-closed eyes as he reeled off the rote spiel he had given a half dozen others. Imperceptibly, almost, he saw Chinter’s head nodding in agreement with each point. “Your heart rules your mind. You are generous to a fault. You...” He paused, suddenly remembering something that June Purvey had said — “Clyde works at the bank, you know” — a hunch! If he could make this sneering man squirm a little...
Nick pinioned the banker hypnotically with his red-rimmed eyes and continued, “I see a ring. A diamond ring in the hands of a blonde woman, a young girl...” Had there been no reaction to this he would have said, “but this does not concern you.”
But there were now three beads of sweat on the mouth and one coursing down the chin. Nick gambled. “The diamond ring is a present. Yet she dare not wear it. I see her again on a railroad train. She is nervous. There is an address in her bag. I cannot read it clearly but it is the name of a hotel in Kansas City.”
He stopped. Chinter did not move. “Go on,” he said hoarsely, “what else do you know?”
Bull’s-eye! Clytie Vroom, then, had gone to her married lover in panic and told him the mind reader had learned her secret. But why had he come there when Clytie had not named him? What further did he fear? With what other guilt was he burdened?
Nick remembered June Purvey saying, “If the murderer came here, you’d know it.” But banker Chinter was the one man who could not have committed the murder for which Erd Wayne was to hang, since he knew that the widow Booth kept her money in his bank and not in her house. Therefore...
Nick’s sordid, cynical mind was now spinning like the drive wheel of a locomotive, weighing, testing, remembering. Figures bashed through his head — the sum of $1,500, the widow’s fortune — enough to buy a diamond ring and other gifts. Who would have easier access to it than banker Chinter? He had only to take it. But if the widow had found out...
The atmosphere in the booth was suddenly thick and heavy with animal fear as Nick droned, “I see the woman who hindered you with the account that was giving you difficulty. She will hinder you no longer. She is dead.”
“Aaaaaah!” A long sigh came from the man on the other side of the table. His right hand dropped casually to his side.
“I see the widow Booth in her kitchen. Outside there lurks a man who must silence her at all costs. The hired man, Wayne, enters, disturbing his plans. But the man outside sees in him the chance to kill and let another hang for it. And l know why the murderer had to silence the widow...”
The explosion of the gun burst shockingly over the noises of the midway and filled the narrow booth with black smoke and powder stink. But the bullet passed harmlessly through the roof, for Nick had seen the glint of metal creeping from the hip pocket where a right-handed man’s wallet ought to be, and had kicked viciously under the table, spoiling his aim.
Then he kicked him twice more in the same spot, disabling him into a groveling wreck on the floor as men, carnies and passers-by, led by the ubiquitous Sheriff, rushed in.
The latter shouted, “I warned you to keep out of trouble. By God, it’s Mr. Chinter. You’ll swing for this, Baba...”
The old man stared at him. “You’re mighty quick with that rope, Sheriff. He’s got the gun, not me.”
Bowers, the carnival boss, had arrived. He took in the situation. “Yeah, Sheriff, take it easy. This bozo, whoever he is, tried to murder one of my men.”
Nick began to laugh, a horrid, high-pitched cackle. “Rats, are we?” he gasped, “Thieves, rascals, scalawags, eh? You’ll keep an eye on us! What about that sweet-smelling hypocrite there? There’s your real murderer of the widow Booth. Are you or aren’t you, banker Chinter?” — and Nick raised his foot again.
The wreck moaned, “Yes. Oh, God, don’t kick me again.”
The fortuneteller croaked on, “He embezzled the widow’s funds to buy his doxy a diamond and other things. Go ask Clytie Vroom to show you the ring. When the widow discovered her money was gone he had to kill her to keep her quiet.”
And he added, “You’re through, Sheriff. You hang too fast in this county.”
He touched the prone man with his foot as though he were filth and said, “Go on. Get that trash out of here.”
The crowd withdrew with the Sheriff and his prisoner, following them silently. Nick Jackson began to set his booth to rights again. He bit off a large chew of tobacco, picked up the overturned table and chair, and fixed the curtain. He fingered the hole in the clapboard roof made by the .38 caliber bullet, and then he grinned. Lack of courage was not one of his failings. He readjusted his turban which had fallen awry in the brief melee and sat down looking moodily before him.
The curtain stirred and parted, admitting June Purvey. She was white, but her eyes were shining with joy. She said, “I heard what happened — what you did. They told me they’re a-going to set Erd free tomorrow.”
Nick nodded. In the excitement of the shooting he had forgotten all about the girl and the man she loved. Then he made a strange admission. “You helped,” he said. “Erd owes you a lot. It was you told me Clytie worked in the bank.”
She said swiftly, “I’d never let him know.”
Nick said, “Mirza Baba reads the future. Erd’s your man.”
Tears fell from the lovely eyes again. She opened her purse and took out the 40 dollars. “It’s all I’ve got,” she said, “but I could mail you a dollar a week for as long as you say.”
Nick looked at the money and at the girl. “All right,” he said, “gimme it.” He took it from her. “You don’t need to pay any more. We’re square.”
June cried, “Oh thank you, thank you, dear Mr. Baba!” Then, going to him, she put her arms around him and kissed him on the side of his bitter, tobacco-stained mouth, and quickly ran out.
The old faker remained sitting there, the wad of bills in one hand. With the fingers of the other he touched the spot that she had kissed, rubbing at it as though the imprint of such goodness, purity, and innocence were something searing and unbearable. He felt older and more in need of a drink than he ever had before and, for the first time in his life, strangely desolate and forlorn.
Edgar Wallace
The Man Who Sang in Church
Edgar Wallace created many different detectives, crooks, and secret service agents — Mr. J. G. Reeder, Anthony Newton (The Brigand), Heine, Anthony Smith (The Mixer), Oliver O. Rater (The Orator), Four Square Jane, The Ringer, and quite a few others. But perhaps the most popular Wallace characters are The Four Just Men — later, because of the death of one, The Three Just Men — who, as self-appointed avengers (and therefore both detectives and criminals) “unearthed villainy that the law does not punish.”