Bound to Succeed: or, Mail Order Frank's Chances
Things looked very fair and prosperous for Frank that afternoon. The only depressing feature was the continued absence of Markham and the mystery surrounding it.
Frank had hurried up to get the day off he now promised himself. There had been so much to do. Even now he was due in the city to talk over a proposition with a big manufacturer there. This gentleman offered to furnish Frank free an eight-page illustrated insert for his catalogue and special buying terms, if he would push the goods actively.
The loss of the mailing lists had been severely felt at first. Mrs. Ismond’s bright wits, however, had quite solved that difficulty. She continued to send out circulars from the country papers that were exchanges on the Pleasantville Herald list.
“The business is growing fast,” reflected Frank. “Those who buy once, very often write for some article I haven’t got in stock. Why not run a special purchasing department? It looks very much as if this business will some day run into a great big mail order house, selling everything and having a warehouse of its own. Hold on, son – what’s the hurry?”
A bareheaded, wild-eyed youngster turning a corner had bolted into Frank with considerable force. Frank grabbed him quickly and swung to a rebound poise, or both might have measured their length on the walk.
“The very – fellow I – was after!” panted the urchin in a gasp.
“That so?” said Frank.
“Yes. Say, the fellows all like you.”
“I’m glad. Thanks,” smiled Frank.
“And sent me – to hunt you – and come back.”
“Back where, son?”
“Office – mail order house. Riot!”
“Why, what do you mean?” inquired Frank, quickening his steps.
“Big fellow from the country. Been drinking. Smashed one of your windows. Went away. Came back and smashed in the door. Says he’ll wreck the place.”
“Why, what for?” demanded Frank, now walking still faster.
“Says he’s a customer of yours. Says you swindled him. Says he’ll wipe you out. That’s it – run.”
Frank was not only puzzled, but quite startled. He broke into a run. As he turned into the street where the office was located, he heard a mingled chorus of yells and cries.
A crowd made up mostly of boys filled the lawn space in front of the office. A glance showed to Frank the lower sash of the big front window in ruins.
The showcase outside lay tipped over on the ground. The office door, with an upper panel slivered, hung on one hinge. From inside the place there came slamming, crashing sounds.
Frank realized that something serious was happening. He could not imagine what it could be. He was not the boy, however, to remain inactive while a wanton destruction of the little personal property he owned was going on.
“Here he is!” cried an eager voice.
“Say, Newton, don’t go in there. The man’s wild, crazy. He’ll half kill you.”
“We shall see about that,” retorted Frank, grimly.
He parted the excited crowd and sprang past the threshold of the dismantled door. His eyes flashed as he took a glance about the place.
A waste basket had been kicked to the other side of the room, littering the place from end to end. A file cabinet had been upset against his desk. Packages of circulars ready for the mail had been hurled pell-mell against a partition.
The author of all this reckless riot was just now pulling at some temporary shelves crossing a corner of the room, holding boxes of envelopes. All came down with a crash as Frank shouted sternly:
“Stop that – what are you doing?”
“Huh!” growled the worker of all this mischief. “I’m cleaning out this place.”
He was a husky, big-boned farmer-looking man of middle age.
Frank saw that he had a wicked eye. He also discerned that the fellow had been drinking heavily.
The stranger put his foot across a wicker basket and crushed it to splinters.
“What – what you got to say about it,” he demanded, facing on Frank.
The big mailing table stood between them. The fellow leaned upon it as he stared insolently and savagely at Frank.
“I happen to be the proprietor of this place,” remarked Frank.
“Whoop! you are?” yelled the man in a sort of frantic joy. “You’re the mail order shark, are you? Here’s luck. Better than smashing your traps. Say, I’m going to eat you!”
The man made a pounce around the table to catch Frank. His big fists warned the latter. The fellow in his present condition was positively dangerous, and was four times as big and strong as Frank.
“Hold on,” cried Frank, seeking to temporize, but still keeping his distance by following the table and keeping its broad surface between them. “What do you mean by this riot and destruction?”
“Let me get you once, oh, let me just get my hands on you once,” grated out the man, with a savage crunching of his teeth, “and I’ll tell you all about it. Won’t come to time, eh? Then – I’ll come to you!”
Now excited, alarmed boyish faces peered in at the door and window.
“Run for it, Newton,” advised a quick voice.
“Call the police – there’ll be murder done here soon,” gasped another voice.
The stranger had sprung to the top of the table, poised to next spring upon Frank and put a stop to his retreating tactics.
He staggered as he tried to hold his footing. Frank acted quickly.
Jumping to the farther end of the table he seized its edge, gave it a lift and sent the troublesome intruder sliding off his balance on a sharp slant.
Crash! the fellow struck the half-shattered front window and went through it headlong.
CHAPTER XXV
TROUBLE BREWING
Frank was astonished at the ease and rapidity with which he had dumped his troublesome visitor clear out of the office.
“Good for you Newton!” hailed an approving chorus of voices.
“Look out for him!”
“No, he’s got all he wants.”
Frank parted the excited ring surrounding the ejected visitor. There lay the big, brawny fellow, quiet enough now.
“He’s dead,” pronounced one awesome voice.
“No, only stunned,” dissented a second speaker.
“Yes, that is the case,” said Frank.
In falling the man had struck a row of white boulders edging a flower bed. There was quite a contusion near one temple and he was bleeding at the nose.
“The man’s hurt,” said Frank. “Some of you help me lift him onto the grass, some one go for a doctor.”
“No need,” sharply spoke a bystander – “here’s the police.”
“Make way there, what’s the rumpus here, anyhow?” challenged a stentorian voice.
Frank felt relieved. The speaker was the town marshal. The gathering had been reported to him and he had hurried to the spot.
The marshal dispersed the crowd. Two assistants brought a litter and marched off with the insensible man upon it. Frank closed the office door and barricaded the window as best he could.
Then he accompanied the marshal to the town lock-up. The prisoner was taken to a cell and a physician was called. By and by the marshal came back to Frank. He had a wallet, pocket knife and other little articles in his hand.
“Only stunned, the rest of it is what he’s drank,” he explained. “No need of worrying, Newton. He’s got over two hundred dollars in this pocketbook, so we’ll make him meet your bill of damages. What will it be?”
“Oh, from ten to twenty-five dollars.”
Bob Haven had heard of the trouble and soon joined Frank, and helped him to get things back into order. A carpenter was called on to repair window and door.
“Sort of queer – the fellow making a break on you this way,” suggested Bob.
“It mystifies me,” confessed Frank.
“You don’t suppose he could be one of your old apple-corer customers, do you?” inquired Bob.
“Hardly. He acted like a man having some solid grievance. Here’s the marshal coming. He may have some inkling of the fellow’s motive.”
The marshal looked quite grave as he came down the walk and beckoned Frank out of the office.
“That man’s name is Halsey,” he said “and he comes from Westboro. Newton, he makes some pretty serious charges against you. Says he has been badly swindled.”
“Not by me,” declared Frank. “There must be some mistake.”
“He says not. He claims he sent some money to you and got a worthless article in return.”
“Let me see the man at once,” urged Frank. “His charge is utterly unfounded. I am not in business to defraud people, but to make regular customers of them.”
“We all know that, Newton,” said the marshal in a kindly tone.
Frank readily accompanied the marshal. When they reached the police station he was taken down stairs into the lock-up.
“Hi, let me out of here, will you?” demanded his recent visitor, noisily jangling the door of his cell.
“Keep quiet, you,” ordered the marshal. “Here’s the young man who runs the mail order business here in Pleasantville.”
“Oh, is it,” cried the prisoner, with a savage stare at Frank. “Let me out, officer. I want about two minutes chance at the miserable swindler.”
“It will pay you to act with some reason,” warned the marshal. “Now then, you made the charge to me that you had been swindled.”
“Outrageously,” cried the prisoner.
“Give us the details. Young Newton has the confidence of everybody in Pleasantville, and we don’t believe he would do a dishonest act.”
“Don’t?” flared up the prisoner. “Why, I’ve got the proofs. I got a circular a few days ago, saying that I had been selected as the man in Westboro to receive a full-size hunting-case watch and chain, cut shown, for eleven dollars, provided I would show it to my neighbors and advise them to buy.”
“Never sent out such a circular,” asserted Frank.
“I sent the money. The watch came yesterday evening. It was a five-cent toy watch, tin cases, paper face, no works.”
“Where is the circular you speak of?” asked Frank.
“I left it at home. It was from the United States Mail Order House, Pleasantville – ”
“Oh,” interrupted Frank with sudden enlightenment. Then, turning to the marshal, he added: “This man probably tells the strict truth, but my business advertises only as ‘Frank’s Mail Order House.’”
“Then there’s two in Pleasantville?” demanded the prisoner.
“I think so, yes,” answered Frank. “I shall soon find out. At any rate, you have made a mistake in charging me with this swindle. You have damaged my office, and you must pay for it.”
“Son,” eagerly ejaculated the prisoner, pressing his face close to the iron bars of his cell door, “you find me the right swindler, and give me a brief interview with him, and I’ll pay your bill twice over.”
“We’ll let you know in a little time,” said the marshal, moving off.
“And now for the United States Mail Order House,” said Frank to himself, as he left the village lock-up. “Of course that means – Dale Wacker.”
CHAPTER XXVI
MYSTERIOUS STET
Main Street Block was the oldest business building in Pleasantville. It was here, according to Stet’s brief report, that Dale Wacker had gone into the mail order business.
Frank attended to some necessary writing at the office. Then he went to Main Street Block. Downstairs the street floor of the building was occupied by stores that did a good trade. The upper floors, however, were only partly occupied.
Frank went up the dusty stairs to the second story. Here were a photographer, a surveyor, and a tailor.
Frank ascended the last flight of stairs. When he arrived at their top he found a small hallway ending at a door.
“Why,” he said, “this floor is not divided off into offices. Looks as if it had been used for a lodge room. Yes, there is a peep-hole in that door. I’ll knock, anyhow.”
Frank did knock. He heard some fumbling at a dirt-grimed window at one side of the hall. It moved slightly in as if set on hinges.
Then there was dead silence. Again he hammered at the door. A slight snap suddenly sounded. This was caused by the cover to the little circular hole in being shot back.
“What do you want?” sharply demanded the voice of some one behind the hole, invisible for the darkness of the closed in room or entry beyond.
“Is this the United States Mail Order House?” asked Frank.
“The what?”
Frank repeated the magnificent-sounding name.
“Never heard of it.”
“Well, then, is there a Mr. Wacker here?” persisted Frank.
“No. Nobody but a sick old man. Go away.”
“Hold on,” said Frank, but the wicket went shut with a sudden snap.
“Of course this is the place,” thought Frank. “That’s something to know. Hello – ”
Five steps down the stairs Frank started. Something had struck his shoulder. As he turned he noticed the window being pulled to. Also at his feet the object that had struck him.
It was a little piece of tin – around it was tied a fragment of coarse manilla paper. Frank picked it up. He slipped it into his pocket and descended to the street. Turning the corner he untied the paper. It was scrawled over, and read:
“Keep cool. Be shady. Things working. Important. Midnight.”
Frank had to smile at all this serio-tragic phraseology.
“Stet wrote that,” he said. “Still the dark and mysterious detective! Probably enjoying it. He usually means something though, for all his extravagant ways of mystery. That means he has news to tell me. But where does he expect to see me at midnight? And why midnight?
“Ah! Brr-rr-r! Hist! Good old Stet! He’ll probably do something sensational soon, but meantime I must pursue my investigations.”
These did not result in much. Frank went to the post-office. The postmaster told him that twice a day either Dale Wacker or an old man who was evidently associated with him brought a great many letters to mail. In return they received as many as forty letters a day. They presented a good many money orders, always for the same amount – eleven dollars.
The afternoon was nearly gone by this time. Frank called at the town hall but found that the marshal had gone home to sleep until midnight.
“I will see him bright and early in the morning,” decided Frank. “He can’t make any mistake by assuming that old lodge room to be the headquarters of the United States Mail Order House Swindle. Those fellows are taking some risks. They will be in for a sudden disappearance unless the marshal nabs them soon.”
“Are you going to take a day or two looking up Markham?” his mother asked at the tea table.
“I can’t to-morrow, mother,” continued Frank – “other important business. I hope to get the day following, though.”
Frank put in an hour on a small set of books he kept at home covering the mail order business. Then he went to bed.
Something disturbed him about two hours later, for, almost wide awake, he counted the strokes of the town bell. It was just twelve o’clock.
“Midnight, eh?” mused Frank. “That was Stet’s dark and deadly hour. I say – if it isn’t Stet on hand!”
Some pebbles struck the upper closed sash of the room in which Frank slept. Beyond the wire screen covering the lower half of the window Frank made out a form moving to and fro.
“Hist!” sounded out.
“Yes, Stet,” said Frank, slipping out of bed, “I hear you. Well?”
“It’s me,” said Stet. “Lift up the screen, will you?”
“Oh, want to come in!”
“I don’t, but I do want to give you something.”
“Why, what is this?” asked Frank, as lifting the screen Stet shoved a round package into his hand.
“It’s your missing mailing lists.”
“And where did you get them?”
“Dale Wacker has been using them ever since he started in business,” explained Stet. “Where he got them is easy to guess.”
“From Markham, of course.”
“That’s it. This was my first chance to get away from them. Say, there’s Wacker and his partner. They’re up to the worst swindle you ever heard of. They’ve taken in a big lot of money. They’re booked to leave to-morrow, so I sneaked the lists out of the outfit. I’m not going back to them.”
“Why, then – ”
“I’m going down to Hazelhurst,” proceeded Stet.
Frank was surprised that Stet should mention the very place he had most in his mind.
“To Hazelhurst?” he repeated curiously.
“Yes. From something I heard Wacker say to his partner, I am pretty sure that Wacker has got Markham hidden away or a prisoner somewhere around Hazelhurst.”
“Why, Stet,” said Frank, “I have thought that, too. I was going there myself to-morrow, only some important business hinders me.”
“Tell you what I’ll do,” suggested Stet; “let me see what I can find at Hazelhurst. There’s going to be a big blow-up with Wacker & Co. to-morrow. As I have sort of been in with them, maybe it would be best for me to keep out of the way so I won’t get hit with any of the pieces.”
“What do you mean by a blow up, Stet?” inquired Frank.
“’Splosion.”
“Indeed?”
“Sure thing! Say about ten o’clock to-morrow morning you hang around Main Street Block, and see what a telegram I sent to-day is going to fetch the United States Mail Order House.”
CHAPTER XXVII
THE POST-OFFICE INSPECTOR
“Now then, my friend, behave yourself.”
“Haven’t I paid the damages?”
“You have, but don’t get into any further expensive mischief.”
“H’m!” observed the victim of Dale Wacker’s mail order swindle, “that’s to be seen, if I ever get my hands on the real fellow who robbed me. As to you, stranger,” to Frank, “just send in your bill double. Sorry I disturbed you, but we all make mistakes.”
“No, Mr. Halsey,” replied Frank, “I only ask you to pay the cost of that window you smashed and the door you broke.”
“How much – let me settle it now,” urged Halsey.
“I’ll trust you,” said Frank. “I will send the bill when the carpenter gets the repairs done.”
The trial had come off. A small fine had been imposed by the village judge on Halsey for his disorderly conduct. The marshal had explained to him that Frank was not the person who had swindled him. He added that very probably through Frank’s investigation they would soon discover the identity of the United States Mail Order House.
“You can come with us, but you will have to curb your fighting proclivities,” warned the marshal. “Here is where the law steps in, and you must not interfere with its course.”
“I came a long way to get satisfaction,” muttered Halsey. “Somehow, I’ll have it too.”
The marshal led the way, and they were soon mounting the stairs of Main Street Block. They proceeded quietly, so as to give no warning or create any curiosity with other occupants of the building.
“There is the door,” said Frank in a guarded tone, as they reached the landing of the third story.
The marshal advanced and gave a firm resounding knock on its panels. They could detect a stir within. Then the wicket shot back.
“Who are you – what do you want? Thunder! it’s the marshal.”
Frank fancied he recognized the tones as belonging to Dale Wacker.
“That’s who it is,” answered the official. “Here, here I want a word with you, young man.”
The wicket was shot as suddenly as it had been opened. They could hear a quick scramble in the room beyond.
“Open this door,” loudly demanded the marshal, resuming his knocking.
“They won’t do it,” spoke up Halsey, advancing a step. “Say,” lifting his ponderous fist, “I’ll soon clear the way, if you say the word.”
“No,” responded the marshal, putting up a detaining hand. “We have no legal right to invade the premises. Whoever is in there, cannot escape. There is no other stairway leading to the street except this one.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Frank.
“Why, you had better go back to the town hall with Halsey,” advised the officer. “See the clerk, and let Halsey swear out a criminal warrant against Dale Wacker and others concerned in a swindling scheme at this place.”
“All right,” nodded Frank. “Come Mr. Halsey, let us make haste.”
“I will save you any delay, gentlemen,” spoke up a new voice.
All three turned, to observe a keen-faced, bright-eyed man who had come quickly up the stairs. There was a certain half-military, half-official precision to his make up that at once impressed Frank.
“Yes,” continued the newcomer, coming forward on the landing as though he had a perfect right there, “I’ll soon get action here. You are the town marshal, I believe?”
“That’s right,” nodded the officer, regarding the speaker in some wonderment.
“Well, I am a post-office inspector. Came on a telegram. Got the birds caged in there? Give me a few facts, will you?”
The marshal briefly recited his suspicions and the case of Halsey. The inspector as tersely told of a telegram the post-office department had received, exposing the operations of the United States Mail Order House. Frank at once decided that Stet was its author.
“No dilatory fraud order case here,” observed the inspector briskly. “It’s got to be a raid, I see. Here, let me have a try. In there!” called out the official in a loud tone of voice, pounding on the door panels, “open in the name of the law, or we shall be obliged to use force.”
There was no response whatever to this mandatory challenge. The inspector placed his ear to the door. Then he said sharply.
“Watch out close. I will be back at once.”
“He’s brought the locksmith with him,” announced the marshal a few minutes later, peering over the banisters. “Those government fellows act pretty swiftly when they make up their minds. We haven’t the power that they have.”
The inspector, arrived with the locksmith, ordered the latter to open the door.
Frank looked about him curiously as, the door once opened, all hands passed into the room beyond. Its tables were littered with envelopes, circulars and letters.
The big lodge chamber was partitioned off at one end by a cambric curtain. Here there was a couch, a small oil stove and some eatables and dishes, evidences of light housekeeping on the premises.
The inspector darted about from corner to corner, and into all the little apartments that had formerly been in service as lodge and rooms.
“H’m,” he observed, coming back from his inspection to the others, “birds have flown.”
He moved to an open window. Pendant from an iron shutter hinge was a strong portable knotted fire escape. Its ground end trailed into an inside court of the building.
“If you think you know the people who were here and who have certainly escaped,” suggested the inspector to the marshal, “you had better get your men on their track before they leave town.”
“All right,” said the marshal glumly making for the door.
“Here, I’m in on that arrangement,” observed Halsey.
The inspector with an eagle glance at the letters on the tables and a business-like air, sat down to look over a mass of correspondence lying before him. Frank went up to him.
“Can I be of any assistance to you, sir?” he asked.
“You helped in this thing. Yes, yes you can help me,” said the inspector. “Take this note to the local postmaster, will you?”
The inspector wrote a few words on his own card. It summoned the postmaster. The inspector directed that official to deliver all future mail of the Wacker outfit to himself or his representative.
When the postmaster was gone the inspector impressed Frank into service. This consisted in sorting out the letters and taking down the names of the persons who had been swindled.
“Now you can go for the marshal, if you will,” said the inspector, about an hour later.
Frank found that official just returned from an unsuccessful search for Dale Wacker and the old man with the big beard, his presumable partner, whom Stet had vaguely described to Frank.
“I must catch the afternoon train for the city and make my report to headquarters,” said the inspector, when Frank returned to him with the marshal. “I want you to put a trustworthy custodian in charge here until we can send a regular man to close up the matter, and start after those swindlers.”
“I’ll put one of my deputies in charge,” said the marshal. “As to Wacker and his partner, they’re probably safe and far by this time.”
The inspector regarded the speaker with a half-pitying, half-contemptuous look.
“That’s as may be,” he observed, “for the present. We don’t let matters drop that easily, ourselves. There’s something you mustn’t forget officer: When the United States Government gets after a guilty man, if he fled to the furthest corners of the earth, we never let up till we find him.”
CHAPTER XXVIII
