Top-Notch Magazine/Volume 14/Number 5/The Missing—What?

by Roland Ashford Phillips

 

The Missing—
⁠What?

By

Roland Ashford Phillips

THE assistant baggageman and general porter of the railroad station at Rock Siding was running up the street, scattering the chickens and mercilessly waking the dogs.

“Hey, constable!” he cried.

Nap Kent, his chair tilted against the sun-warmed wall of the barber shop, his hat pulled low on his forehead, and his pipe dangling from his mouth, opened one eye; then he started wide awake, for the breathless man was waving a telegram.

“For me?” he exclaimed, as the yellow envelope was thrust into his hand. "What is it, Joe?”

“From the sheriff at Branchville,” replied Joe Rickers. “It just come, and Cooper said I was to bring it over.” And he stood aside in respectful silence.

The constable adjusted his glasses, and scrutinized the address. Then he cleared his throat impressively. The receipt of a telegram was an event. Only once before had he been so honored; that was on the occasion when a distracted old lady had wired him with regard to a missing pet cat.

After he had satisfied himself that the message was actually intended for him, Kent tore open the envelope and carefully read the three typewritten lines. This is what he read:

Constable Kent, Rock Siding: Lok up Walter Sidwell, ⁠ McCally.

Kent read and reread that one line. Then he turned to Rickers. “How do you spell lock, Joe?”

“L-o-c-k,!” replied Rickers, spelling it aloud for the constable’s benefit.

“Do you suppose Cooper knows that?”

“I reckon he does. Why?”

“Guess he’s slipped a cog on that typewritin’ machine,” observed Kent, his forehead wrinkling. “He’s got it spelled l-o-k.”

“Let’s see,” said Rickers.

The telegram was passed over and given a careful examination by the assistant baggageman. “Darn funny, ain’t it?” he observed, scratching his head meditatively. “Cooper don’t usually go wrong on that machine of his.”

“I’ll just go down to the station and find out for certain,” declared Kent. “We can’t afford to go guessin’ when it comes to carryin’ out the majesty of the law.”

The constable pocketed the telegram, picked up his hat from the ground, and went hurriedly down the road, followed closely by the perplexed Rickers.

“I say, Kent,” Rickers inquired suddenly, “who in tarnation is this Walter Sidwell, anyhow? He don’t belong in Rock Siding.”

“He’s a stranger to me,” answered the other. “Most likely some crook from Branchville. But I’ll find him if he’s in the county,” said Kent grimly. “’Tain’t goin’ to be said that Rock Sidin’ is harborin’ crooks—not so long as I’m constable here.”

“That’s right, Kent,” observed Rickers. “They can’t pull the wool over your eyes!”

The two men arrived at the station, out of breath. Rickers unlocked the door. “Darn me if I ain’t been forgettin’,” he said, stopping short in the doorway. “Cooper’s gone down to see his sister in Middletown, and he won’t be back till train time to-night.”

“Can’t you get into the office?” asked Kent.

“No. Cooper’s got that key. He don’t allow me to fool around near the telegraph contraption.”

Kent tugged at his whiskers. “That’s too bad. But still, I can’t be wrong.” He took out the telegram for the third time, and squinted over the contents. “Cooper must have meant lock, all right. And when old Sheriff McCally says lock a man up he means it. I’ll just hunt up this Sidwell.”

“By cracky!” exclaimed Rickers, snapping his fingers. “I just come to think on it! Don’t that name suggest somethin’ to you?”

“Can’t say as it does,” observed the constable. “Why?”

“There was a show troupe stopped off here this mornin’,” the baggageman replied. “They was six men and three ladies and a hull pile of trunks.”

II.

KENT’S eyes snapped. “That’s it, Joe! This fellow is one of them troupers. I might have known it. They’re all a bad lot, the play actors, chasin’ around the country. And they’re up to all kinds of tricks. Where did they put up? American House?”

“Yep. I took up the stuff myself—six trunks.”

Kent reflectively fingered the big star that was pinned on his suspender. “I’ll just go up that way and look at things.”

With this he turned and marched up the road in the direction of the hotel. In the lobby he walked to the register, and, after adjusting his glasses, peered at the list of the day’s arrivals.

“Hello, constable,” said Prout, the proprietor. “What’s ailin’ you? Got a murder mystery?”

Kent ignored the question. “I see you got a man here by the name of Sidwell,” he declared, planting his finger on a heavy signature. “Walter Sidwell.”

“Yep,” responded the other. “He belongs to the show. They’re goin’ to give us a mighty darn good show tonight. I been talkin’ with the manager, and he gave me a couple of passes.”

“Where they at now?” demanded the impatient Kent.

“In the bar.” Front’s face lengthened as the constable started toward the swinging door. “Looky here, Kent, you ain’t aimin’ to make trouble for the——”

“I got to carry out the law,” interrupted Kent, “no matter how painful it is.”

He pushed his way into the other room, where half a dozen men were lined up against the bar. The constable looked them over with sharp, inquisitive eyes. “Is one of you named Sidwell?” he demanded.

“That’s my name,” said a quiet, well-dressed young man, who at once stepped forward. “Want to see me?”

“I do,” declared Kent, flipping back his coat and disclosing his badge of office. “You're under arrest!”

“What’s that?” cried Sidwell. “Under arrest?”

“That’s what I said, young fellow,” replied Kent. “I’m the constable of Rock Siding, and I’m the voice of the law. Will you come peaceful, or will I have to use force?”

The other men instantly crowded around the two speakers. “See here,” exclaimed one of them; “there’s a mistake somewhere! Sidwell is a member of our company! We’re playing at the opera house to-night, and——”

“I can’t help that,” interrupted Kent, “and I don’t want to hear any arguments. I said this fellow was under arrest, and I meant it.”

“Is this a joke?” demanded another man. “What sort of a game are you working? Sidwell can’t be the man you’re looking for.”

“Don’t you go triflin’ with the law,” Kent warned him, “or I’ll run the whole outfit in!” He gripped Sidwell’s wrist. “Come along, young fellow!”

But the prisoner twisted himself free. “This is absurd,” he protested angrily. “I don’t intend to submit to arrest by any tin-star constable. These men are friends of mine, and they’ll stand back of me. What’ll you——”

But Constable Kent wasted no time replying. His right arm shot out and caught the speaker under the chin. Sidwell whirled about like a top and went crashing to the floor, upsetting a table as he did so. Two of the other men jumped in; but Kent was prepared. His awkward-looking arms flashed this way and that, and in a few seconds both of them were sprawling amid the débris of broken china.

“Resist the law, will you?” cried Kent, his eyes flashing and his chin whiskers working frantically. “I’ll show you what resistin’ the law in this town means. I may be a tin-star constable, and all that, but I ain’t forgot how to use my fists. Come on, the whole lot of yer!”

But the “whole lot” were reluctant to accept the offer. Sidwell was scrambling to his feet, both hands clasped to his bruised chin; the two who had attempted to defend him were sitting on the floor several yards away. They made no move to repeat their former experience. The rest of the group had backed away out of respect to Kent’s flying fists.

With a toss of his head, Kent walked over to his prisoner and took a firm hold of his coat collar. “Now, young fellow, march! You’ll learn after this that you can’t treat the law with impunity!” At the door he turned to face the others. “I’m Napoleon Kent, constable of Rock Siding! Just remember that while you’re in town!”

And while the crowd looked dumbly on, he half dragged, half pushed the unfortunate Walter Sidwell out of the bar, through the lobby, and down the street to the jail. Here, after he had turned the key in the lock, he removed his hat and mopped his forehead.

“I guess that question is settled,” he observed to no one in particular. “When Sheriff McCally tells me to lock a man up, he can depend upon me doin’ so if it takes a leg.”

III.

AN hour later, while Constable Kent was reading a copy of the Branchville Bugle, he was interrupted by the entrance of a red-faced, silk-hatted individual, who, without knocking, stamped into the little office.

“Are you the man who locked up a member of my company?” demanded the irate intruder.

“I’m Constable Kent,” replied that gentleman. “What can I do for you?”

“Well, you can release Mr. Sidwell at once! At once, understand? This arrest is an outrage!”

Kent tugged at his whiskers. “Who may you be?”

“I’m John Hamilton, manager of the Peerless Dramatic Company! And I want you to understand that I object to your——”

“Hold on!” interrupted Kent. “You got too much to say for your own good. I locked up Walter Sidwell—and he stays locked up till I get word from Sheriff McCally.”

“But my performance to-night!” cried the manager. “I can’t ring up until Sidwell is released!”

“I can’t help that,” replied the unperturbed Kent. “The execution of the law is sometimes inconvenient, but it——”

“I tell you it’s an outrage,” interrupted the other. “Sidwell isn’t a criminal. Why should he be arrested like this and dragged to jail? What has he done?”

“I don’t know what he’s done,” replied Kent. “I only followed the instructions I received from Sheriff McCally. He telegraphed me to lock up Walter Sidwell—and I done so!”

“But it’s a mistake, I tell you.”

“Didn’t your troupe play in Branchville yesterday?” inquired Kent.

“Yes, we did. What has that to do with the case?”

“Sheriff McCally is in Branchville—that’s where the telegram come from. He knows what it’s about—I don’t. You’ll have to wait till I hear from him.”

John Hamilton, of the Peerless Dramatic Company, groaned. “Let’s see that telegram you got? I’m sure you’ve arrested the wrong man.”

Kent brought out the slip of yellow paper and extended it to the other. Hamilton read it over; then he broke into a contemptuous laugh, as he saw the puzzling “lok.” “Why, just look here!” he said. “This explains matters. The telegraph operator has made the error. The message reads; ‘Look up Walter Sidwell.’”

“What’s that?” Kent jumped to his feet and snatched away the telegram. He stared at the mysterious word that began the sentence. A new light began to filter into his brain; he had never thought of such a possibility existing before. Had McCally meant “look” instead of “lock”?

“It’s as plain as the beard on your face,” continued the manager. “If you had an ounce of brains you would have noticed if yourself. The operator skipped a letter in the first word; he meant to write ‘look,’ but he must have been in a hurry, or he didn’t know how to use his machine, and wrote ‘lok.’ Great heavens!” he exclaimed. “You haven’t really arrested an innocent man on the strength of this, have you?”

Kent felt himself losing ground. The manager’s argument did not sound so improbable, after all. “I figured it meant ‘lock,’” said Kent, his voice not so certain. “Still, it might have been the other way. We’ll just go down to the office and find out for sure.”

The two men went rapidly down the street to the railway station. The night train was already in. When the men were within a block of the depot the engine whistled sharply, and the train moved out of the yard. Kent saw a familiar figure board it. He dashed forward, waving his arms and yelling. But the effort proved a futile one. The train disappeared in the dusk, and the telegraph operator. Cooper, was standing on the platform of the rear coach.

“We’re too late,” announced Kent, mopping his forehead. “The operator took that train, and he won’t be back until mornin’. We’ll have to let matters rest till——”

“You can’t hold my man in jail all night,” protested the manager; “at least, not on the strength of this fool message. If you do, there’ll be trouble. You mark what I'm saying, too.”

Kent began to look at the matter from another viewpoint. False imprisonment was not a thing to be lightly treated. He studied over the situation while they walked back to the jail. Finally a happy thought crossed his mind.

“Maybe we can arrange bail,” he suggested.

“Nonsense!” expostulated the manager, “You let Sidwell out and I’ll be responsible.”

“It’s agin’ the law,” protested Kent, with a shake of his head. “The magistrate ain’t in town to-day, but I can attend to the thing.”

Hamilton became more enraged. “Of all the wooden-headed boobs, you’re the worst!” he cried. “I’d like to pull that paint brush you got fastened on your chin. I never heard——”

Kent’s firm hand descended upon the speaker’s arm. “If you say much more I’ll lock you up for contempt! I may be a boob, and maybe my beard looks like a paint brush, but, by cracky! I’m the constable of Rock Siding, and my word’s law!”

There was something in Kent’s tone that calmed the manager of the Peerless Dramatic Company. Perhaps he had heard of the mêlée at the American House bar; or perhaps the constable’s fingers had dug a trifle deep into his arm.

“Well,” he began in a milder tone, “I don’t see what right you got to demand bail. You’re running a big chance in arresting this man. You better let him out—and we’ll call the thing settled.”

“We’ll see what the prisoner has to say,” said Kent. He walked down the hall, unlocked a cell, and came back leading Sidwell by the arm. With his collar gone, his shirt ripped, his clothes soiled, and one eye swollen, the prisoner presented anything but an attractive appearance.

“I’m goin’ to let you out to-night,” Kent said to him, “providin' you can raise bail.”

“How much?” sullenly asked the prisoner.

“Oh, about a thousand dollars!”

“What!” The astounded manager raised his clenched hands ceilingward. “It’s outrageous, that’s what it is! There isn’t that much money in the whole blamed town!”

“I ain’t so particular as to its bein’ money,” said the grinning constable. “Maybe you got a couple of watches or some rings, or a——”

“You must think I’m a walking jewelry store,” retorted Sidwell, interrupting Kent. “I haven’t a thousand dollars, or a decent watch,” he added, “but I have got a ring—if you’ll accept it.”

“Let’s see it,” said Kent.

Sidwell fumbled through his pockets, and finally produced a heavy ring, elaborately carved, containing three sparkling stones set about an elaborately cut sapphire disk. This he passed over to the waiting constable.

“It’s an heirloom,” he asserted; “and it’s worth ten times a thousand dollars to me. Will you accept it as bail?”'

Kent examined it with deep and critical concern. “Yep,” he said at last. “I’ll take the chance. But, remember, you got to be here to-morrow mornin’ at ten o’clock!”

Sidwell smiled. “You should worry,” he replied, as, accompanied by his manager, he moved toward the door. “I’d rather serve a ten-year sentence than lose that ring. It belonged to my father.”

Kent said nothing, but kept turning the bit of jewelry over and over in his fingers. Once outside the door, the manager clutched Sidwett’s-arm.

“For the love of Patrick!” he exclaimed. “Where did you get hold of that sparkler?”

Sidwell laughed. “It’s a phony!” he said. “I got it off a dealer in crackajack imitations in New York last summer. Forgot I had it until the rube suggested rings.”

“Well, the boob swallowed it, all right, didn’t he?” remarked Hamilton. “These rural constables are jokes. I’ll bet he won’t sleep to-night for fear of being robbed.”

IV.

AT nine o’clock the following morning Hamilton knocked on Sidwell's door. He entered to find the actor up and dressed, and engaged in packing a suit case.

“What are you going to do about this fool arrest?” the manager inquired anxiously. “That dunce of a constable might make all kinds of trouble for us. How do you suppose that sheriff in Branchville ever got you mixed up in this affair?”

“I pass it up!” replied Sidwell. “And the trouble is, we can’t hang around this burg for the thing to be cleared up. I’m going to take matters in my own hands, and trust to luck. There’s a train passing through here at ten o’clock. It’ll land me at Dover. From there I can circle around and meet you and the company in Spring Valley in time for the evening performance.”

“That isn’t a bad idea,” observed Hamilton thoughtfully. “I’ll tell the constable that you disappeared. And before night the whole affair will have blown over.”

“Sure it will. We’ll let the constable keep the phony ring. He’ll probably hush up matters and congratulate himself at winning the jewelry.”

At about half past nine Sidwell slipped out of the hotel, took a roundabout way, and reached the railroad station as the train was entering the yards. He hurriedly bought a ticket, and was stepping upon the platform of the nearest coach when a heavy hand descended to his shoulder, and a familiar voice sounded in his ears.

“So you thought you’d jump bail, did you?”

Sidwell whirled to face the constable of Rock Siding. “I’m not jumping bail,” he protested. “I intended coming back after lunch. I’ve an appointment in Dover, and——”

“You’d better keep the one in this town first,” interrupted Kent. “Get down. The train’s startin’.”

“Look here,” cried Sidwell, as Kent jerked him from the platform, “how long is this nonsense going to continue? You know I’m not the man you want.”

“Well,” said Kent, “maybe I don’t want you—but McCally does. And when he tells me to lock you up, I got to do it.”

“But you know that telegram was a mistake,” remonstrated the actor. “My manager pointed it out to you last night.”

The train was moving out of the station, and Sidwell saw that his ruse had been nipped in the bud. He was beside himself with rage, but with the previous day’s experience fresh in his mind, he did not attempt any physical demonstration.

“You’ll pay for this!” he exclaimed. “You’ve no authority to detain me on such——”

“Hello!” broke in Cooper, the telegraph operator, who had left his office to see what was happening. “What’s the excitement, constable?”

“You’re just the fellow I been tryin’ to get hold of,” said Kent. “Do you remember the telegram you had Joe Rickers give me yesterday?”

“Sure I do. You mean the one from Sheriff McCally?”

“Yes. You didn’t have the first word spelled right.”

“Is that so?” Cooper frowned. “Well, I know what it was. It said: ‘Look up Walter Sidwell.’”

“There, I told you so!” exclaimed the prisoner. “I told you it was that way. And now you’ve made all this trouble I hope——”

“Are you sure the first word was ‘look’?” interrupted Kent, paying no attention to the enraged Sidwell.

“Sure as I’m standing here!” responded the operator. “I’ll prove it to you. Come along inside a minute!”

The three men went into the office. Cooper thumbed over a batch of duplicate messages.

“There you are!” He thrust a yellow slip of paper under the constable’s nose. “It says: ‘Look up Walter Sidwell,’ doesn’t it?”

Constable Kent squinted at the handwritten line, then nodded. “I guess you’re right, Cooper,” he admitted, with apparent reluctance. “But you copied it on the typewriter ‘l-o-k,’ and I thought you meant ‘lock.’”

“Great snakes!” exclaimed Cooper. “And you went and locked this man up?”

“That’s just what he did,” broke in Sidwell. “I told him he was wrong, but he wouldn’t listen. It’s an insult the way I’ve been treated. And you can just bet I’m going to bring it to the attention of the authorities. This man will lose his job!”

Cooper shook his head. “It looks like a bad mess,” he said “You shouldn’t have done it, Kent.”

The constable scratched his head in perplexity. “Well, the thing’s been done. There ain’t no use cryin’ over spilled milk. I guess you’d better come along with me, anyhow, Sidwell. Maybe we can clear up the matter when we——”

“What’s that?” cried Sidwell. “Are you still going to keep me in charge? Can’t you see you’ve made enough mess without adding to it?”

“I know,” said the constable; “but I can’t let you go now. Maybe by to-morrow, when I hear from McCally.”

“Better let the man go right now,” suggested Cooper. “You’ll only make matters "worse. You’ve no legal right to hold him.”

But Kent was stubborn. The protests of the operator and the prisoner fell upon deaf ears. So fifteen minutes later Sidwell was locked in the cell he had occupied the previous day, and the constable was sitting in the office with his feet cocked up on the desk.

Ignorant of the actor’s fate, the Peerless Dramatic Company, bag, baggage, and manager, left Rock Siding on the noon train. Twenty minutes later an automobile whirled down Main Street in a cloud of dust, and drew up in front of the jail. A man leaped from the rear seat and broke in upon the constable.

“Hello, Kent,” he cried. “Did you get that telegram I sent yesterday?”

“I did, sheriff,” replied Kent, removing his feet from the desk and shaking hands with his visitor.

“I tried to get you a dozen times last night,” McCally went on to say, “but your blamed telegraph office was shut up. My man at Branchville made a devil of a mistake. I just found it out late last night. I wired you to lock up a certain Walter Sidwell, and the fool in my office sent the telegram as ‘Look up Walter Sidwell.’ I suppose the fellow’s cleared out by this time.”

Constable Kent betrayed none of the excitement he must have felt. “Oh, I looked up the fellow,” he explained, “but I didn’t find out much. What did you want to know about him?”

“Why, this Sidwell is a crook—one of the smartest in the business, too. He’s traveling with a cheap theatrical company, and pulls off different jobs along his route. In Branchville he broke into a jewelry store, and got away with a trayful of stuff. I thought he was headed here, so I wired you to lock him up. I imagined you had, until my man showed me the duplicate telegram, and I saw he’d sent it reading ‘Look up Sidwell.’ Then I knew if Sidwell got wise to the fact that he was being spotted by an officer, he’d dig out for good. Did you ever hear of such infernal luck?”

Kent smiled, and tugged at his whiskers. “Guess ’tain’t as bad as you think, sheriff. I locked up Sidwell on general principles. He’s right here now.”

Sheriff McCally jumped to his feet. “You did lock him up?” he cried. “Bully for you, Kent! How did you happen to do it? You didn’t have authority.”

“I didn’t have authority,” admitted the constable, “but I had an all-fired lot of suspicion. I got hold of a Branchville paper yesterday, and read that the jewelry store had been robbed of a batch of stuff.”

“Funny thing about it,” remarked McCally; “Sidwell took some imitations along with the real stuff. Never knew the difference, I guess, until later.”

Kent nodded. “That’s just what the paper said. And last night Sidwell gave me one of the phony rings for bail. I let him go; but I soon found out that the diamond was a fake, and this mornin’ I nabbed him when he was tryin’ to get out of town on the ten-o’clock train.”

“Kent,” said McCally, “you’re a wonder!”

“I was bound to get even with Sidwell,” said the officer of the law. “He called me a tin-star constable.”