Dick Kent on Special Duty 4

Dick Kent on Special Duty 4

That was Dick’s first impression of the man. Nor did he stand alone in

this respect. Sandy, too, had been impressed favorably. Just before

retiring for the night, the young Scotchman whispered in his chum’s ear:

 

“Look here, Dick, if you want my honest opinion, I think we’ve come on a

wild goose chase. I believe Corporal Rand is wrong. After seeing and

talking with this man Frischette, I’m absolutely certain that he’s

innocent. Someone else is the guilty person.”

 

“I can’t help thinking that too,” Dick replied. “If looks and actions

are not deceiving, Frischette is innocent. I doubt if he knows any more

about the case than he’s already told Rand. Just the same, we’ll remain

here and follow the corporal’s instructions.”

 

“Just wasting time,” grumbled Sandy.

 

Suddenly, they were aware of a presence near them. Both looked up

quickly and a little guiltily, expecting to see Frischette himself.

Instead it was Toma—Toma, a curious __EXPRESSION__ on his face, the light of

excitement in his eyes.

 

“Sandy, Dick,” he announced breathlessly, “you come with me. I find out

something important to tell you!”

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER IV

FRISCHETTE’S MONEY BOX

 

 

Toma led Sandy and Dick to the seclusion of a poplar grove, a few rods

away from the house. His manner was mysterious. That he had come in

possession of information of extreme importance, neither of his two

friends could doubt. The young Indian’s eyes fairly snapped, as he

motioned Dick and Sandy to be seated, he himself taking a position near

them. Sprawling out on the soft turf, he began eagerly:

 

“I think better we come to this place, where no one hear us. I just find

out something about Frischette. Fontaine tell me. Good news for the

mounted police.”

 

“I hope you didn’t tell your friend what we were here for,” interrupted

Dick. “We mustn’t take anyone into our confidence.”

 

“I no tell him that,” Toma assured him. “All I do is ask once in a while

few questions ’bout Frischette. Then my friend, Fontaine, him talk. Tell

’em me all ’bout murder. He think MacGregor get money all right, an’

hide it away somewhere before police catch him. Never once it come in my

friend’s mind that mebbe Frischette take the money an’ the poke himself.

Frischette, he say, is good man, but very queer fellow. Once in a while

he do queer things—things Fontaine not understand. Every few days he get

out all his money, take it to room where he sleep, lock door, an’ begin

count many, many times. Over an’ over he count all his money ’til he get

tired, then he take an’ put it back in box an’ walk outside an’ find

another good place to hide it.”

 

“A miser!” gasped Sandy.

 

“I don’t know what you call him. But Frischette very queer that way.

Fontaine ’fraid to ask him any questions or make talk when Frischette

like that, because he act like crazy an’ swear an’ beat Fontaine with a

big stick if he say too much.”

 

“The mere fact that Frischette is a miser, Toma,” Sandy pointed out,

“doesn’t necessarily imply that he’s also a thief. If he wants to hide

his money and gloat over it, that’s his own privilege.”

 

Toma nodded.

 

“Yes, I know that. But Fontaine tell me something that make me think

that mebbe Frischette steal money too.”

 

“Is that so? What did he say?”

 

“He say,” Toma hurried on, “that two times last winter a very queer

thing happen. First time he wake up at night an’ hear someone walking in

room, where all the men sleep. Next morning one man him say he lost all

his money. Frischette feel very bad an’ give man mebbe ten dollars an’

say how sorry he is that once in a while thief comes like that in his

house.”

 

“So next time,” continued the young Indian, “when Fontaine hear someone

walk again in middle of the night, he go quick as he can to Frischette’s

room, an’ he very much surprise when he see no one sleep in Frischette’s

bed. Quick he go back again to room, an’ all at once he meet Frischette

coming out.”

 

“‘What you do here?’” Frischette say.

 

“‘I hear noise,’ Fontaine tell him, ‘an’ I go to wake you up.’

 

“‘I hear noise too,’ Frischette say, ‘so I come in here to find out

mebbe another bad thief come,’ he say.

 

“Next morning, sure enough, two men lose all their money, an’ Frischette

very sorry again an’ say bad things ’bout thief an’ give each man ten

dollars.”

 

“It does look suspicious,” mused Dick.

 

“Something of a coincidence,” agreed Sandy.

 

They sat for a short time deep in thought. Sandy got out his knife and

began whittling a stick. Dick’s gaze wandered thoughtfully away to the

fringe of woodland opposite.

 

“It might not be very difficult,” he broke forth suddenly, “to determine

beyond the shadow of a doubt whether or not Frischette is a thief. In

fact, I have a plan. We might try it.”

 

“What is your plan?” asked Sandy.

 

“We’ll lay a trap for him. Between us we can scrape up a little roll of

money, and we’ll use that as bait. I’ll pull it out of my pocket when

he’s looking, and pretend I’m counting it.”

 

“Yes, yes! Go on.”

 

“I’ll return the money to the inside pocket of my coat while he’s still

watching me. At night, when he comes into the room, I’ll throw my coat

carelessly over a chair.”

 

“Look here,” objected Sandy, a wry smile on his face, “I don’t think we

have fifty dollars between us. Hardly an impressive roll, is it?”

 

Dick grinned. “I can easily remedy that.”

 

As he spoke, he pulled from his pocket a number of old envelopes,

containing letters, wadded them together and then began wrapping crisp

new bills around them. With the acquisition of the bank notes Toma and

Sandy gave him, the dummy had grown to noble proportions. The boys

laughed gleefully over the subterfuge.

 

A short time later, returning to the house, Dick awaited his

opportunity. Frischette was nowhere to be seen, when first they entered,

but presently a noise at the back attracted their attention and

immediately afterward Frischette came through the door, leading into the

kitchen, carrying a box under his arm.

 

Dick and Sandy exchanged significant glances. Both recalled what Toma

had told them regarding that box. Also they observed the inexplicable

change that had come over their host. His animation and vivacity were

gone. From under their shaggy brows his dark eyes darted glances from

right to left—the look of a maniac or insane person. Without even a nod,

he passed by the three boys and entered his own room.

 

“Got ’em again,” whispered Sandy, much taken aback. “Not a very good

time for the working out of our plan, is it? He’s deeply engrossed in

that mysterious box by this time.”

 

“We’d better try it out on him tomorrow,” decided Dick. “He’ll be in

there several hours, and it will probably take him another hour to find

a new hiding place for his precious treasure chest. It’s getting late

now. We ought to be in bed.”

 

The boys went over and sat down on a long bench near the fireplace and

began idly to take mental inventory of the room. Bear skins hung from

the wall. In the center of the room stood a long rough board table,

covered with a somewhat frayed and tattered cloth. Above the mantel were

several firearms of various caliber and design.

 

Suddenly, Sandy leaned forward and clapped Dick on the knee.

 

“Dick, I have an idea. Just for the fun of it, let’s follow the old

rascal and find out where he hides that box.”

 

Dick looked at the other dubiously.

 

“Well,” he hesitated. “I don’t know. It seems like meddling to me—prying

into something that doesn’t concern us.”

 

“Wait a moment, Dick. Is it really meddling? For the sake of argument,

suppose that box contained Dewberry’s poke and money. We already have a

suspicion that such may be the case. Why wouldn’t we be justified in

following him, when he leaves his room, and attempt to find where he

hides the box?”

 

“But surely you wouldn’t open it?”

 

“Why not? I don’t think I would have any scruples about that. Remember

you are dealing with a crook.”

 

“Are we?” argued Dick. “What makes you so sure? We have proved nothing

against him. Neither has Corporal Rand. He may be entirely innocent.”

 

Sandy lifted his shoulders in a gesture of impatience.

 

“I’m afraid you’d make a poor detective. You’re too honest, too

cautious.” He paused, looked up and grinned. “Can you picture a

case-hardened police officer or the average sleuth passing up such an

opportunity? Candidly now?”

 

Dick was forced to admit that his chum was right. “I’ll grant you,” he

smiled, “that no one, working on a case like this, ought to have trouble

with his conscience.”

 

“No, he shouldn’t. As long as we are in the business, we might as well