Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 51, No. 2, June 28, 1930

“Oh, take ’em!” exclaimed the Governor, irritably. “My secretary will fix you up with the necessary papers. I’ll sign ’em. Hang it, I’m almost beginning to believe you started that talk about circumstantial evidence just to make me feel uneasy about this case.”

Clint Kale reached for his gloves, drew them on with an air of quiet finality.

“I did,” he smiled.

“You did! I wondered. What was the big idea?”

“I doubt if the woman’s guilty. There are too many facts, and they’re too conclusive. Circumstantial evidence is really mighty poor evidence. The facts don’t lie, but our interpretation of those facts may be wrong. Ever since the beginning of time man has misinterpreted facts. He thought the thunder was the voice of a god. He thought the sun rose in the morning and set at night. The facts were there. Man simply didn’t have enough knowledge to interpret them correctly.

“Now in this present case there are two facts that the jury considered as pointing to the guilt of Jane Thurmond which I consider point to her innocence.”

“Those facts?” rasped the Governor.

“Will be explained later. They’re as evident to you as they are to me. There’s one thing I want understood, though. I’ve got to use my own methods here. You can’t control those.”

“How do you mean, Clint?”

“Well, I’m going into a backwater of life and civilization. I’ve got to use weapons that those people aren’t familiar with. They’ll all team against me right at the jump. I’ll be like that city lawyer that went in there and got massacred in front of a local jury.

“Therefore I’ve got to hit ’em with something they’re not accustomed to. I’ve got to use weapons they don’t understand.”

“Such as?” asked the Governor.

“Such as humor, for one thing, and applied physics and psychology for another. You see, this Jane Thurmond had only lived in the town for eight years. They all regarded her as being a rank outsider.”

The Governor shrugged his shoulder.

“Don’t do anything that’ll connect you with me in any way. Keep this entirely confidential.”

Clint nodded.

“That,” he observed as he edged toward the door, “was one of the wisest remarks you’ve made in a long time. If those chaps put me in the insane asylum, pardon me out.”

And he was gone.

Chapter II

The Scientific Detective

The bewildered secretary fixed Clint Kale up with the necessary documents which entitled him to one quarter-inch tube of radium, valued at some five thousand dollars. Also with a letter to the prison board which enabled Clint to check over the records of some half dozen eligible burglars of unquestioned skill.

“I want,” he told the warden, at length, “a man who never smiles. I want a man who looks like an undertaker on duty with indigestion and a toothache. I want a man who can open anything except his mouth.”

The warden nodded.

“You want Boston Blackie,” he said, and pressed a button.

Boston Blackie arrived. He was short, solidly built. His head was covered with a shock of black hair. His ebony eyes glared out from beneath shaggy black brows. His face was covered with black stubble. His mouth was twisted to one side until it seemed to grow entirely out of one cheek.

In his bearing was the surly defiance of one who has found all the resources of existence pitted against him in the battle of life. Permanent pessimism was stamped upon his features.

“Blackie,” said the warden, not unkindly, “this is Mr. Clint Kale, at one time a professor of psychology, a friend of the Governor. He wants a man to do certain things and I have recommended you.”

Boston Blackie favored Clint Kale with a dour appraisal.

“My experiments,” said Kale, “will require that the subject come with me as a servant. The duties will be light. There will be fresh air, sunshine, good food, pleasant work.”

“Ugh huh,” moaned Blackie, “you ain’t lookin’ for me.”

“Why not?”

“No luck ever came my way. It’s all a mistake.”

“On the contrary, I think you’ll do. You will be paroled to my charge, and will, of course, be under my supervision.”

“You mean you’re takin’ me?”

“Yes.”

“It won’t do no good. You’ll get run over by an automobile, or get shot or somethin’. I’ll be back here inside of a week.”

The warden turned to a clerk.

“Arrange to have this prisoner paroled to the custody of Mr. Clint Kale.”

Boston Blackie studied Kale gloomily. His face did not change expression as he heard the words which secured him his liberty.

“We’re drivin’ away from here?” he asked.

“In my car,” Kale assured him.

“Drive careful,” husked Boston Blackie.

The town of Middlevale seethed with hissing whispers of gossip.

A detective had arrived, was staying at the Palace Hotel. The detective was investigating something, some said one thing, some another. Some said he was an income tax detective, come to check over Ezra Hickory’s return for the preceding year. Some said he was working on a new angle of the Sam Pixley murder.

Clint Kale registered at ten thirty in the morning.