Evening Star Newspaper, June 22, 1930, Page 81

— THE SUNDAY STAR, WASHINGTON, D. C, JUNE 22, 1930. magnifying glass, scrutinized. world did you get this?” She told him and wondered if he was lis- tening. He sat by the table, closely comparing the prints with the photographed ones. “That makes it worse,” he said at last with a desperate sigh “These prints don't match up at all.- He probably wcrked with a confed- erate.” “I think Rollo is a dear,” said she. “And he’s just as innocent as I am.” But because Hector still looked severe, “Or maybe I'm not innocent. Honey, did I do wrong, talking with Rollo like that?” “It was all right, Doll.” “No. But you're mad at me.” “After all, Doll,” he admitted, “you're an amateur. You meant all right. But you went at it in the wrong way—sort of hindside before, I mean. We were preparing to close in on him in a systematic way. And now you've put him on his guard. You've spoiled everything.” She was miserable. Twenty-four hours to find 186 suits of clothes and 66 pairs of extra trousers. And all this was up to Hector. Poor, pig-headed darling. And he'd accused her of spoiling his star case. She left home and walked—and tried to think. Presently she came to a halt and studied a four-story brick house on the opposite side of the street. J. Wilbur Fennig's house. Almost superstitiously she regarded it, drawing her amateur conclusions. The clothes had gone through the roof, perhaps. There was an apart- ment-house window less than 12 feet above. But this had been boarded up, as if to resist the very thieves who had plagued Mr. Fennig. A man with a fierce black mustache eyed her keenly. “Detective’s written all over him,” she informed herself. For Maud, in her blindness, had made a de- cision. Hector had called her an amateur and that still rankled. But hadn’t Rollo said that very morning that she was the only original detective he had ever seen? Maud had theories. Home-made, amateurish theories which somehow scared her. “I just know that’s it,” she kept telling herself for en- couragement, and hoped that Hector wouldn’t catch her again in mischief. But she wasn't going to see her husband lose his job merely because he had a system. Too excited to be nervous, she took a taxi to a small but opulent tailor shop near Vander- bilt avenue. A glazed partition at the back was labeled “Mr. Hark,” and through an open door she could see 3, well groomed leg bending below a desk chair. An ogre-ish leg. “I'm scared blue,” she told herself, and walked in and faced him. Worse than she had expected. A red-faced, spectacled, gigantic person, dressed formally as a bridegroom, sat poring over his bioks. He didn’t even look up, just glowered at the figures on his desk. “I didn't want to disturb you, Mr. Hark,” she explained rapidly. “Really, I didn't. But you see this business about Mr. Fennig's clothes——" “You're from the Cheever Bureau?” “I'm connected with it.”” She felt easier now. “You see, my husband's on the case, and he's got to finish it up right away. So I decided.to come %o you and ask why you stole Mr. Fennig's clothes.” This was sate, she thought, talking it over in a friendly spirit. But Mr. Hark wasn't so friendly. “What sort of nonsense is this?” was low. “Now don't try to pretend, Mr. Hark. TI've got some finger-prints you might look at.” “Where in the His voice SHE fished out two sets of prints; the photo- graphed ones Hector had forgotten and some amateur ones she had made. She was glad she had smudged hers, for Mr. Hark's fingers were large. “If you'll examine these,” said she, borrowing her manner from Hector, “you’ll see the resem- blance.” A wild shot in the dark—as wild as the impulse that had brought her there. And in a smothered delirium she saw how surely it had brought down the big game. Mr. Hark’s face had turned gray. He had glanced at the prints, turned away from them as ‘rom an accusing ghost. “I was so careful!” he whispere” “There’s no such thing as a pes’ect crime, Mr. Hark.” She put the evidence beck in her bag, afraid that his haunted eyes might catch the deception. “You left a smear on the wall,” she said. “And finger-prints are as gund as 8 signature.” Borrowed from Hector. Mr. Hark's wrists were crossed, as if alrendy manacled. “I only ask you to take me aw\y quietly,” he said “There’s a back entrancy I can’t bear to have my son see this.” Sud- denly he removed his glasses, and she was sur- prised to see that his eyes were swimming with tears. “I've worked so hard to keep up my end —keep up——" And he buried his face in his arms. “Exclusive tailors like you are having an awful time, aren't they?” Maud sympathized. “With all those mending companies and ready- made clothes and everything.” She was quoting more or less from Miss Sybil Applebaum, whose hint had sent her on his trail. Suddenly he sat up, wiping his eyves apolo- getically “I've had the worst year a man ever had. I've been losing customers. I'm overstocked and the importers have been hounding me for money.” “I don’t see why ycu'd want all Mr. Fennig's suits when you're overstocked,” she pointed out “I had to meet creditors or go bankrupt. I was crazy. One night I came itno my shop and saw bolt on bolt of cloth, specially im- ported for Mr. Fennig. I'd ordered enough last year to outfit him three times over. And he didn’t come around.” His confession, cnce loosened, came flooding. “Then 1 thought of the way. I know Mr. Fennig's house; I've been there often to take orders. But how to get in puzzled me. Then I thought of my Uncle William. He's care- taker for an apartment while the people are away.” “The boarded Pennig's!™ window right over Mr, | \ -. ~ - 7 “It wasn’t much trouble to swing down on a rope.” This seemed to make no impression, so deep was Mr. Hark in his own undecing. “Uncle William is old and deaf and not very bright. I asked him if he’d mind storing my overstock of clothes.” “So they're there!” “Please let me finish. I waited till Uncle William’s lodge-night—he usually stays quite late—then I opened the shutter on the window. It's on hinges and easy to work. It wasn’t much trouble to swing down on a rope to Mr. Fennig’s roof. I knew the pebble-and-tar sur- face wouldn't show tracks. And the scuttle, leading down to the attic, hadn't been locked.” He stopped and rubbed his tired head “And you got into his bed room?" “It was deserted. His valet, you see, is dead. I went through the pockets and left all his little valuables on his dressing teble. I'm not a thief, you see.” With a look of pallid suppli- cation. “No, I suppose you're not exactly.” She con- sidered his status. “You're just very, very en- terprising. You only put Mr. Fennig's clothes in storage with Uncle Bill.” “That was it. I intended to get them back to him—and he’ll have encugh to last him the rest of his life.” N/IR. HARK continued to pour out his story without urging. The second job was easier than the first, practice making perfect. He watched Mr. Fennig leave for the opera, then bribed Uncle William with a musical comedy ticket. This time Mr. Hark hauled the bundles, derrick fashion, up through the window. “But what did you do the third time—I mean with all those detectives nosing around the house?” “They made it easier for me. One of them had brought a chair to the roof and went to sleep. The servants were giving a party for the other detectives downstairs. The one on the roof had left the scuttle open.” Somewhat sadly, Maud thought of Hector's assistants. “I intended to make that my last job, miss,” Mr. Hark mumbled. “I've used up all Mr. Fen- nig's cloth. Now I can meet my creditors.” Then he seemed to melt into a helpless mass. “I'm not defending myself. You can take me away.” Sorry for him, she almost laughed. “Look here, Mr. Hark, Mr. Fennig doesn’'t want to arrest anybody. He won't arrest anybody unless he gets mad—and he’s growing sorer every minute. Now I've got you at my mercy, haven't I? I mean, with those fingerprints and all. Well, I'll make a bargain. No police, no hand- cuffs, no jail, no nothing. But you've got to promise. Hold up ycur hand—the right one.” And when he complied: “If you were so smart about taking Mr. Fennig's clothes away, you can put them back again so slick he won't know it. You promise to do that?” “I promise. Only you're so very clever, miss, that I wonder if you could help me——" “Put back the clothes?” “Well, ves. I could work so much faster.” “I don’t see how you could be improved,” she said. “But let's see. Give me a piece of paper, will you? And a pencil. We'd better start planning this crime right now.” So they planned. Restoring property is as dangerous as taking it. Mr. Hark had just let down the last bale, containing a dozen pairs of remarkable plus- fours. Even in her weariness, Maud could not refrain from admiring their eye-splitting col- oration. “You like them?” It was a gentle voice at the door. Caught. Caught redhanded in her criminal benevolence. And restraining an im- pulse to faint and have done with it, she beheld a figure which could have been none other than Mr. Fennig's own. “Oh. you're Mr. Fennig” She had put on her fairest smile. “You came in so suddenly.” “It was sudden,” said Mr. Fennig. His eves W hite [.ilacs. By Daniel Whitehead Hicky. Who once has seen white lilacs, nevermore Upon the altar of his heart shall keep A place for things more lovely, though he Into a hundred garden lanes and reap A harvesting of blooms whose petals hold The embers of the sunset’s fires, and glow Of purple twilights quivering with dez. Who once has seen white lilacs cannot know A thing more glorious to blind his eves, A beauty lovelier to pierce his heart, And though he tread the hills and secl the plains, Trail every silver stream and counterpart, He shall come back to lilacs whispering Beside a garden gate; pale lilacs white Against the quict stars the loveliest pocmn The gracious hand of God shall ever write! ——d reviewed the sartorial army marshaled beforq him. “Young lady, what are you doing here?"” “Putting back your clothes. A hundred and eighty-six suits and 66 pairs of trousers. I've counted them. Right?” She faced him. “Do you think I'm a burglar?” “It’'s only reasonable to, suppose,” he replied, “that when your house has been robbed three times and you find a s‘range young lady, no matter how attractive, lcoking over your clothes ., . . “Isn’t it reasonable to think, with a house full of detectives, that one of 'em might be a detective?” “Ah! So that't it. I beg your pardon. Of course, it was such a surprise, my clothes com= ing back——" “Wasn't it! And it's such attractive clcthing, Mr. Fennig.” “I'm glad you like it.”” He was beaming, “But it’s got on my nerves, this affair——" “Den’t you let it worry you any more, Mr, Fennig. You'll never be bothered again.” Mr. Fennuig was amused. “I think you might tell me who took all thag trouble for nothing. You know—" hesitating—e “I rather suspected my brother.” “You’ll never know from me,” replied Maud, “And I'll bet you’ll never find out. If you do, ring me up.” “Thank you, I shall.” She had arisen, judging this an ideal point at which to close the conversation. “Well, good night, Mr. Fennig.” “I'll take you to.the door, if I may,” said he, Then, pausing, “I'm ever so grateful to you, You did it in such a nice way.” This was her opportunity. “Would you do me a little favor, if you're really grateful?” “Thousands of them!” He was more than gallant. “Don’t mention me to Mr. Cheever when you pay the reward.” “But why not? You—" F “We detectives are not supposed to be indi- viduals. It makes Mr. Cheever sore when he thinks one of us is playing to the grandstand. We don’'t have names, even. We're just numbers.” “Really? can’t I?” “Oh, yes. And won't you call up the Cheever Bureau right away? And say the clothes are back, and that 203 did it?” He unlatched the door for her. “You're clever. You renew my faith in detectives.” Two am. Maud was in bed, too excited for sleep. And when would Hector come home? She felt his gladness radiating even before he en- tered the room. And when she saw him he seemed all bathed in the brilliance of victory. “Oh, darling!” she cried, dropping her book. “I know the clothes got back! I know it! I know it!” “It's a miracle, Doll. I knew my system would work if I gave it time. The crooks gob cold feet. Tonight they brought back the whole shebang. Fennig phoned the old man at mid- night. Know what he said? He said that 203 had done a brilliant job.” “Kiss me!” she cried, and holding to him she repeated over and over, “My brilliant detective, My brilliant, smart detective!” “Den’'t give me all the credit, honey,” he begged. “It was my system that did it.” (Copyrizht, 1930.) I can give credit to a number, Tax Burden on Farms. ANY a North Carolina farmer is ready to agree with the old saying, “There are oaly two things sure—death and taxes.” Particu- larly they will subscribe to the latter, A survey carried on by the Bureau of Agri- cultural Economics of farm finances during 1927 indicated that farm operators paid an average of 22 cents out of every dollar of in- come in taxes. Owners of rented farms paid even more heavily, being assessed 29 cents per dollar of inccme. In reaching these figures the experts de- ducted frcm the farm's gross income a fair wage for the farmer and the unpaid members of his family, tcgether with 5 per cent on the value of his live stock and equipment. Using these figures as a basis, the average income on 1,156 farms in 1927 was $508 and the taxes were $103. Loss on Credit Accounts. TT seems from a survey conducted by t'@ Department of Commerce that it's the litt’s fellow who gets the worst of it from the publiz, At any rate, it's the little grocer who losoy most through poor pay by patrons with credi accounts. A study carried on among 1,300 groceyry stores in Philadelphia revealed that the lo~y on poor accounts in the larger stores averaged about two tenths of 1 per cent, while in the little stores the loss reached a total of 8 per cent. However. large as these losses were to the little fellow, poor accounts were the cause of only 2 out of 35 failures investigated, although it was a contributing cause in three others, Poor business methods, inexperience and poor investments were the principal causes of the failures. New Source of Raisins, THE after effects of the war, which are blamed for many things, can with all jus- tice be blamed for the loss of market of Amer- ican raisin growers. At the conclusion of the war many discharged British soldiers received grants of land in Aystralia, which upon invesii« gation were found to be suitable to the growily of various vine fruits. The development of their vineyards hag reached a state where Australia, which used to import more r ns than were exported, has now entered the British market with a renge- ance, and where a few years ago the Unitad States filled the greater part of Britain's needs the figures for 1929 show the United States supplying 24 per cent of the British imports, while Australiy gent in 45, s cent.