Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 36, No. 4, October 20, 1928

“Stuff and nonsense! My nephew has been terribly mistreated! I know it! I want to find him and give him a chance to look the world in the face and say in its teeth: ‘I am a Santelle. No better blood flows in the veins of kings. I am an honest, upright man, and you are liars — all liars!’ That, Mr. Norton, is the one wish of my life!”

“And it does you great credit, Mr. Santelle,” I applauded warmly. “But whether or not Flash will click to it—”

“Sir!”

I checked myself and offered, apologetically:

“Sorry. But I’m not his uncle, mind you, and can’t quite get the slant you have. I’m hoping you’re right, and that is the best I can say. As for finding your nephew, that should be easy. As a matter of fact, he has been found by, and closely watched by, practically the entire police force already.

“I should say that he is to-day the most ‘found ’ man within the city limits. It would be a shame to take money for finding him for you, since he is already so well—”

“Mr. Norton!” the old gentleman exclaimed, leaning forward, tears flushing his eyes. “If you will bring about a meeting, in private, between me and that poor, abused boy, I will hand you a fee of one thousand dollars — and with it the blessing of an old man whose happiness will be almost too great for words!”

And that from the man whom the godless Spec had referred to as meat-on-the-table!

Chapter II

Flash Santelle

Flash Santelle began his criminal career in New York City, so far as the records go. He was, according to the police, an adaptable crook, trying his hand at everything, getting away with everything he tried. But no act of his ever landed him in jail in New York for long at a time, because the police were never able to prove anything on him. Therefore the cops, tiring of him, made it so hot for him he had to depart and remain departed. They couldn’t jug him, so they, in effect, banished him.

Every large city in the country knew him later, and in some of them the police nearly pinned him to the pasteboard. But nearly is as far as they got. So far as is known, Santelle did time in none of them.

Finally he chose Kansas City. The cops knew about his arrival, for Kansas City’s sunken garden has its stool pigeons, just like other cities. But what could they do about it? There was absolutely nothing against him — and, so long as he wasn’t caught at something crooked, he was as free to come and go as any other citizen.

The cops couldn’t do anything. Santelle knew it. The cops knew it. They located him at a luxurious but shady hotel on East Twelfth Street, a place favored by high class crooks, and watched him with an ardor that would have shamed that celebrated cat at the rathole. But nothing came of it.

Santelle, a medium-sized, dark-skinned, gray-eyed man of about thirty-five years, was, in so far as his conduct showed, a man of leisure who chose to while away the time by reading, visiting theaters, dining well, and occasionally conversing with persons who happened to arouse his interest. Not at all different from many other wealthy loafers in the city.

Now it appeared that he was to be taken out of danger’s way by a fond old fool of a relative, and I was to be an instrument promoting his salvation. That one-thousand-dollar fee looked good to me, and I took the commission.

The clerk at the Hotel Croydon, on East Twelfth, was an old friend of mine, regardless of the fact that I had been instrumental in obtaining for him a two-year vacation at Jeff City while I was on the force. Abe Hopkins was not one to bear malice.

He greeted me affably when I approached the desk on the afternoon of Cato Santelle’s visit to my office.

“Hello, Tug Norton,” Abe welcomed. “How’s tricks? The old Kaw Valley still flourishing?”

“Like the green bay tree, Abe,” I assured him. “But I’m not here on business, exactly. Not looking for anybody to pinch, I mean. Is Flash Santelle still honoring you with his patronage?”

“Absolutely,” Abe returned. “Mr. Santelle is one of our most esteemed guests. He’s in his apartment right now. Want to see him?”

“Yeah. Got nothing on him, Abe, understand. A business matter that he may or may not click to, but I want to have a chance to put it up to him, anyhow. Fix it.”

Five minutes later I was ushered into Flash Santelle’s sitting room, and Santelle was extending a strong, white hand. I shook, and sat down.

“You’re Norton, of the Kaw Valley Detective Bureau,” he remarked casually, also sitting. “Heard of you, of course, but hope that our little chat is to be a pleasant one. Hopkins said you had a business proposition to make me. I’m ready to hear it, Mr. Norton.”

A pleasant spoken chap, and rather pleasing in appearance. A swell dresser, too, without being in the least loud and flashy. Looked like he might be a professional man of some kind — a lawyer, say, and prosperous. None of the earmarks commonly present in a hardened crook. I was impressed.