Evening Star Newspaper, June 22, 1930, Page 80

THE SUNDAY STAR, WASHINGTON, D. C, JUNE 22, 1930. MR. FENNIG’S WARDROBE. By 77 allace Irwnn. An Unusual Crime With an Ordinary J Motive—But You Must Read the Story to Get the Plot. HY did they want to steal his clothes twice? Maud May Steat had just let herself down from the lap of Hector Stoat, the de- tective, and run to the small im- provised nursery where Bud had set up a howl. Behind her she could hear her husband’s dazed protest, “What's the matter now, Doll?” She hoped she hadn’t irritated him by jump- ing up right in the midst of his perfectly fas- cinating story. Goodness, she told herself, taking Bud's thumb out of his mouth the way the doctor told her to, it was no snap being a detective's wife, one ear on the home, the other on Hec- tor's living thrillers. But, of course, it was worth it. Hadn't she herself pulled Hec out of the hardware business and into Cheever's Pri- vate Bureau? Hadn't she gone around to her Uncle Dan, who owned stocks in Cheever's? “Sure, anybody can be a detective.” That was what he said when he got Hector a job. She had thought him very superficial when he said that. She put an extra blanket over Bud and tip- toed back to her husband. He was so stunning in his silk-faced dressing gown. His lean fea- tures, hawk nosed, beetle browed, fitted per- fectly to her ideal. And he was biting a short pipe—just like Sherlock Holmes. “Doll, if you don't want to listen——" he began again. “As if I could help listening But when Bud criess— You were saying that Mr. Fennig's clothes were stolen twice—and you said J. Wil- bur Fennig is very rich and delightfully vulgar. He spends a million dollars on his clothes and Jooks like a comic strip. And he gets all his clothes from one tailor, and the tailor has the cloth specially made in England. And Mr. Fennig has a shape like a Summer squash. Now! You say I wasn't listening!” She sat up, clapped her hands. uKIss me,” demanded Hector Stout, the de- tective. She did and he resumed his pro- fessional voice. “The first robbery took place on the evening of the 18th or the early morn- ing of the 19th. Mr. Fennig was giving a din- ner party. His wardrobe was not watched be- cause his valet was killed a week before.” “Poisoned!” said Maud, her eyes wide. “No. He was hit by an automobile. Now try to concentrate. Nothing was taken but Mr. Fennig's suits. The burglar didn't touch his money or his jewels. And that’s what baffies us,” said Hector. “Who would want Mr. Fen- nig's clothes. They're the queerest cut, the most awful-looking goods. And how can they be lost? They're conspicuous as a house afire—" “I'll bet the valet's ghost took 'em,” ventured Maud. “We don't fool with ghosts.” Hector was lofty. ‘“The second robbery occurred exactly 10 days later. Mr. Fennig had gone to his tailor and had the whole wardrobe duplicated—62 suits and 22 extra pairs of trousers. Naturally the first thing we did was to search the house. From cellar to garret. Of course, Fennig hurt his case by reporting it so late. He wouldn't g0 to the police, 30 he called us in, because we're & private bureau. Cunningham and I went up to see him. He was in his pajamas. Manuel Hark, his tailor, hadn't finished the second batch yet and PFennig couldn’t go out. He's one of those fat men, too lazy to stay sore very long. And crazy about society. He offered us a reward five times the price of the theft, 41 we'll get back his clothes with a guaranty they won't be stolen again. He doesn’'t want to put anybody in jail. Notoriety scares him blue. The thing that bafled us at first was to find a motive.” “Some of the servants——" “They’re all being shadowed. They've been with Fennig for 15 years and have clean rec- ords. We've shadowed everybody concerned. We've covered every second-hand clothing store, we've——" Hector glanced at his watch. “The rest of it’s so technical, Doll, I don’t think you'd be amused.” “Go on, Hector, please!” “Well, we've got plenty of finger prints, fresh and plain, off the wardrobe wall.” “Then what are you worrying about, silly? You can just fit 'em on the real criminal and say, ‘Come quietly, my man!" " “The criminal has disappeared—Ileft his boarding house and given no address,” said Horace, and his look was worried. “The best motive we could find was jealousy. Rollo Fen- nig is J. Wilbur PFennig's elder brother. He's an unsuccessful inventor and dresses like a tramp. Recently he had been taunting Mr. Fennig about his fine clothes. He's supposed to have a pass key to the house. We're recon- structing the crime on these clues.” But he mustn’t bore her with the technique of crimi- nology. Just then the telephone trilled. Hector answered. “Yeah,” she heard him say. “About 9 o'clock? . . You mean they repeated the job? Yeah. Funny .. . You say they took ’em all again? . . . Shadowed? Why, boy, every keyhole has an eye . . . Sure, I'll put on C and be right down.” ‘ C, Maud understood, was detective language for a dinner sult, just as 203 spelled Hector Btoat in their code. And well she knew, from what she © ~d heard, that Mr. Fennig's ward- Tobe had L en stolen again. “Isn't that irritat- ing!” she mourned, noting her husband’s pale drawn look as he rushed away to dress. She was saying to herself that she wished to heaven they'd find a sort of criminal who'd keep respectable hours and not be always spoil- ing Hector’s evenings. When Hector, after a hasty change, had gone she went back to the bed room and set herself to tidying up after him. His dressing gown on the floor, his slippers on the bed . . . Oh! Her eyes had lighted on a small table. Scraps of cloth, a bundle of papers, several suspender buttons. Hector had forgotten to take his evi- dence with him, She sat down, the littered pile in her lap: and, because there was nothing else to do, let her imagination play upon the disconnected fragments of detective lore. There were three little books of samples; “Manuel Hark, Merchant Tailor,” was printed on their buckram covers. ‘The smaller one, marked “Trousers,” revealed Mr. Fennig’s passion for peculiar plaids. AUD loosed the band from a bundle of crisp glazed photographic surfaces, dimly marked with smudgy awkward smears. Pinger- prints. You couldn't fool Maud on that. She had scrubbed too many from the kitchen wall after the man had come in to fix the gas stove. But these round ugly blots. Hector swore that everybody’s signature was on the ends of his fingers. She believed it, but to test the theory she went to the kitchen, rubbed her pinkly fragile digits on the gas range, pressed them on a sheet of paper. Her round brown eyes were wide as she compared her home-made job with the neat professional work on Hector’s evidence. Queer little swirls and creases. Surely they looked alike to her. Finally she set out a percolator for her hus- band’s early coffee, took a peep into the nursery, then sleepily went to bed. She wondered if that Frenchman — what - you - call - him — Bertilion didn’t make a lot of mistakes. She never did believe in palmistry. She wondered about a lot of things. If Mr. Fennig’s poor brother was wearing the clothes why didn’'t somebody catch him? And what did Manuel Hark do, suddenly asked to make 186 suits and 66 pairs of trousers? For that was what making three sets came to! It must be like bhaving company descend on you when there's nothing in the ice box. Oh, il o At 11 next morning Maud, holding a pair of Hector’s trousers with one hand and with the other propelling Bud’s go-cart, bore toward Co- lumbus Circle and the tailor shop where a cer- tain Mr. Applebaum wove holes out of clothes. In a careless moment Hector had sat on a ciga- rette. At Applebaum’s Mending and Cleaning Shoppe she discovered Miss Sybil Applebaum and re- vealed the hole in Hector's trousers to Sybil's alarmed, “What do you know about that? A bullet hole!” “He sat on a cigarette.” Maud was dignified. “Leave it to us, Mrs. Stoat!” Sybil was chatty. “This New Tex Process is just perfect, Mrs. Stoat. Papa’s going to open up two new stores. We're that rushed. Everybody wants to have their clothes mended nowadays. Economy. You'd be surprised if you saw the stylish people coming in here to have things mended.” Maud's imagination, unreasoning, flew to the problem of Mr. Fennig's lost wardrobe. But she was casual when she asked, “Why is it stylish to have your clothes mended?” “My dear!” Miss Sybil lowered her voice. “It's on account of the high cost of these ex- clusive tailors.” “Really?” Think of paying $250 for a tuxedo suit! Lots of the very swell gentlemen are buying ready- made clothes. They really are. And see all the fine tailor-mades we're mending just like new.” Maud gazed along serried ranks of hanging ,/ &/ coats, suspended trousers; they hung like dis- embodied dandies, awaiting souls to inhabit them. “Who'd think that one was 7 years old?"” Sybil showed a dinner jacket. “Manuel Hark made that. He'’s very exclusive.” Manuel Hark. Again Hector’s fateline seemed drawn across her day. “Who are you doing that one for?” Maud asked and tried to be casual. Sybil looked at the bit of paper pinned to a sleeve. “That's one of Mr. MacLaren's. He's a very rich contractor. You can always tell Manuel Hark’s clothes. They're so swell and showy. Now here’s a pair of pants.” The trousers which Sybil Applebaum held up had a pinkish pin-check and green plaid pat- tern! Maud would have known them in Mars. “Are those Mr. MacLaren'’s too?” “Oh, no. They're awful.” She looked at the tag pinned to them and read, “Mr. Fennig.” “But Mr. Pennig » Mr. Fennig, or somebody using his name, would be calling for those trousers! That was logical. Maud decided to find out. They gossiped. More customers came in. Then, her heart breaking with suspense, Maud saw a tall thin seedy man with dreamy gray eyes slouch In and ask, “Have you my trousers ready, Miss Applebaum?” Sybil went straight to the proper hanger and returned with the brilliant garments. She began to wrap them up. “Never mind,” said the tall mild stranger. He took them over his arm. And now he was start- ing into broad daylight with the important evi- dence exposed to public view! What should Maud do? Instinctively she did it. Twisting Bud’s go-cart awkwardly, she managed to block the door. “I beg your pardon.” The kindest of eyes vmhesmingdownuwnherlh&mpmdlu— ment. “Let me help you, may 17" “Oh, thank you.” There was no precedent for her behavior. With her engaging smile she 8ave over the go-cart and the next she knew was walking beside a notorious refugee and a Ppair of the most famous trousers in New York. AS they walked Mr. Fennig made remarks about the baby. Difficult when they cut their teeth, weren't they? Yes. He had two. But they were married and living in Australia. “Australia seems odd, doesn't it?” asked Rollo, for it could be none other. “Nothing seems odd,” she said, gaining cour- age. Then, a leap in the air, “Mr. Fennig, where did you get those trousers?” If she had expected him to stammer, strike a blow, run, she was disappointed. Studying the garments sadly, he said, “I thought of car- rying them under my coat. But they might burn through.” “Aren’t you afraid the police will grab you?"” “Me?” The eyes of an idealist grew puzzled, whereupon Maud vaulted to another of her un- reasoning guesses. He didn’t know what she was talking about. “Mr. Rollo Fenning,” said she, “I recognized you the minute you came out of the shop.” “Famous at last!” whimsically. “Don’t you know those things belong to your brether?” Shaggy brows went up. “Has he a mortgage on them, too? He gave them to me in 1918. A fit of generosity. And the pants—excuse the term—were about worn out.” Still they walked. Rollo Fennig still rolled the cart. She had the feeling of implication in a crime. And he asked blandly, “By the way, have I the honor of talking to a detective?” +“My husband is.” She decided to be frank. “And maybe you don't know that a great many detectives are looking for you.” “Incredible! Nobody's ever looked for me.” He showed her the face of a puzzled philos- opher. “And what for?” She whistied. “Haven't you even heard that all your brother's clothes have been stolen— “If yow'll examine these,” said she, bor rowing her manner from Hector, “you’ll see the resemblance.” stolen three times—186¢ suits and 66 extra pairs of trousers?” “My gracious!” Rollo put back his head and laughed, a pleasant sound. “Who in the world took all that trouble? A comic opera troupe, do you think?"” “Well, you've got a pair, for one.” “Yes. Yes.” Blinking at the garment. “As a matter of fact, my dear, I've had these hung up forever, dreading to wear them. But neces- sity knows no law”—indicating the sorry bags he wore. “And I have an important business appointment today.” “What sort of business? “Firecrackers,” he sald solemnly. “You're really, truly in earnest?” “Dreadfully. I'm something of an inventor. T've been working on a Fourth of July novelty— a sort of parachute you send up with a paper cap. Does it sound silly to you?” “I don’t believe in fireworks for children,® said Moud. “But it doesn't sound silly.” “My brother thought it was asinine. I'm afrald we quarreled over it. I lost some money for him a few years ago on a patent Roman candle. That was the time he handed me these trousers and told me I was crazy. Possibly I am.” “No, you're not.” She was serious. “ people, you know, never admit it. But you're not very practical. Why did you quit your boarding house without leaving any address?” “I was behind with my board. I'm really ashamed of getting out like that. But Mrs. Fortescue was unreasonable. I promised to pay with the first money I made on my novelty parachute.” What do they want with me?” “They found finger prints on the wall,” said she, “and they'd kind of like to know if they're yours.” “Did my brother put them up to that?” Rollo’s scholastic pallor deepened to crimson. “Detectives are so suspicious,” she explained. “And listen to me. I know very well that you didn’t commit that crime. Then why don't you go right around to your brother——” “Never.” He wrinkled the small chin of & stubborn man. “Why not?” “I'll not see him for a year. when we quarreled. word.” I told him so I never go back on my TH!N came a saving inspiration. “I think you're foolish. But_ you'll do me a favor, won't you? I mean, my husband works so hard chasing false clues. And if he only had the fin- ger prints——" “I don’t know your husband.” This sounded unpromising until he added, “But I should love to do you a favor because you're the only origi- nal detective I ever heard of. I like your method. Just walking up to people and telling them about it.” Beaming now, he plunged into his seedy coat and brought out a seedy envelope. “This has my name on it, you see. And I'd better put down my address, in case your husband wants it.” He scribbled with a pencil; then, going to the sooty rail around the janitor's entrance, rubbed his fingers over the surface, pressed them firmly on the envelope, handed it to her. “Oh, thank you so much,” said Maud. “They're perfectly lovely. Hector'll be tickled to death. Well, good-by. And good luck to your parachute.” “Thank you, Mrs. Hector.” He removed his dusty hat and vanished into the cheap brown building. Hector, it seemed, was getting desperate. He paced up and down excitedly. ‘“‘Cheever says something’s got to happen in 24 hours or I'm off the job,” he announced. “Hector!” Maud felt like crying. “I wonder if his finger prints would do any good?” “Mr. Cheever's? Don't be silly.” “No. I mean Rollo Fennig's. Because I've got them.” “What?” Like an explosion. He snatched the envelope from her hands, brought out his