Part 35 (1/2)

”You would read what she meant you to read,” said Mr. Gubb triumphantly. ”So, then what? If I was in her place and I had written a letter to you, meaning to give you a threat in a roundabout way, and it went dead, I'd write some foolish letters to you to make you think the whole thing was just foolishness. I'd write you letters about weather and tacks and cats and lime and trout, and such things, to throw you off the scent. Maybe,” said Mr. Gubb, with a smile, ”I'd just copy bits out of a newspaper.”

”How wonderfully wonderful!” exclaimed Miss Petunia.

”That is what us deteckatives spend the midnight oil learning the Rising Sun Deteckative Agency's Correspondence School lessons for,”

said Mr. Gubb. ”So, if my theory is right, what you want to do when you get back home is to rush over to Mrs. Canterby's and ask to borrow a book, and look on page fourteen.”

”And then come back and tell you what it says?” asked Miss Petunia.

”Just so!” said Philo Gubb.

Miss Petunia arose with a simper, and Mr. Gubb arose to open the door for her. He felt particularly gracious. Never in his career had he been able to apply the inductive system before, and he was well pleased with himself. His somewhat melancholy eyes almost beamed on Miss Petunia, and he felt a warm glow in his heart for the poor little thing who had come to him in her trouble. As he stood waiting for Miss Scroggs to gather up her feather boa and her parasol and her black hand-bag, he felt the dangerous pity of the strong for the weak.

Miss Petunia held out her hand with a pretty gesture. She was fully forty-five, but she was kittenish for her age. There was something almost girlish in her manner, and the long, dancing brown curls that hung below her very youthful hat added to the effect. When she had shaken Mr. Gubb's hand she half-skipped, half-minced out of his office.

”An admirable creature,” said Mr. Gubb to himself, and he turned to his microscope and began to study the ink of the letters under that instrument. His next work must be to find the identical ink and the identical writing-paper. He had no doubt he would find them in Mrs.

Canterby's home. The ink was a pale blue in places, deepening to a strong blue in other places, with grainy blue specks. He decided, rightly, that this ”ink” had been made of laundry blue. The paper was plain note-paper, glossy of surface and with blue lines, and, in the upper left corner, the maker's impress. This was composed of three feathers with the word ”Excellent” beneath. The envelopes were of the proper size to receive the letters. They bore an unmistakable odor of toilet soap and chewing-gum.

”Dusenberry!” said Mr. Gubb, and smiled.

Hod Dusenberry kept a small store near the home of Mrs. Canterby.

There seemed no doubt that the coils of the investigation were tightening around Mrs. Canterby, and Mr. Gubb put on his hat and went out. He went to Hod Dusenberry's store. Mr. Dusenberry sat behind the counter.

”I came in,” said Mr. Gubb, ”to purchase a bottle of ink off of you.”

”There, now!” said Mr. Dusenberry self-accusingly. ”That's the third call for ink I've had in less'n two months. I been meanin' to lay in more ink right along and it allus slips my mind. I told Miss Scroggs when she asked for ink--”

”And what did you tell Mrs. Canterby when she asked for ink?” asked Mr. Gubb.

”Mrs. Canterby?” said Hod Dusenberry. ”Maybe I ought to see the joke, but I'm feelin' stupid to-day, I reckon. What's the laugh part?”

”It wasn't my intentional aim to furnish laughable amus.e.m.e.nt,” said Detective Gubb seriously. ”What did Mrs. Canterby say when she asked for ink and you didn't have none?”

”She didn't say nothin',” said Mr. Dusenberry, ”because she never asked me for no ink, never! She don't trade here. That's all about Mrs. Canterby.”

The Correspondence School detective had been leaning on the show-case, and with the shrewdness of his kind had let his eyes search its contents. In the show-case was writing-paper of the very sort the Anonymous Wiggle letters had been written on--also envelopes strangely similar to those that had held the letters.

Mr. Gubb smiled pleasantly at Mr. Dusenberry.

”I'd make a guess that Mrs. Canterby don't buy her writing-paper off you neither?” he hazarded.

”You guess mighty right she don't,” said Mr. Dusenberry.

”And maybe you don't recall who ever bought writing-paper like this into the case here?” said Mr. Gubb.

”I guess maybe I do, just the same,” said Mr. Dusenberry promptly.

”And it ain't hard to recall, either, because n.o.body buys it but Miss 'Tunie Scroggs. 'Tunie is the all-firedest female I ever did see.

Crazy after a husband, 'Tunie is.” He chuckled. ”If I wasn't married already I dare say 'Tunie would have worried me into matrimony before now. 'Tunie's trouble is that everybody knows her too well--men all keep out of her way. But she's a dandy, 'Tunie is. They tell me that when Hinterman, the plumber, hired a new man up to Derlingport and 'Tunie found out he was a single feller, she went to work and had new plumbing put in her house, just so's the feller would have to come within her reach. But he got away.”

”He did?” said Mr. Gubb nervously.