FullReads

“My dear boy!” says Judge Orley Morvis, of Riverbank (and it is what he did say), “I couldn’t think of the nephew of a Chief Justice of the United States existing for that length of time on a sandwich. Here! Here are twenty dollars! Take them–I insist! I must insist!”

Some give him more than that. We usually give him five dollars.

I admit that when the Bald Impostor visited me and asked for one dollar and eighty cents I gave him five dollars and an autographed copy of one of my books. He was to send the five back by money-order the next day. Unfortunately he seems to have no idea of the flight of time. For him to-morrow never seems to arrive. For me it is the five that does not arrive. The great body of us consider those who give him more than five to be purse-proud plutocrats. But then we sometimes give him autographed copies of our books or other touching souvenirs. And write in them, “In memory of a pleasant visit.” I do wonder what he did with my book!

Judge Orley Morvis was the only Who’s Whoer in Riverbank, but the town was well represented in “Iowa’s Prominent Citizens,” and after collecting twenty dollars from the Judge the Bald Impostor proceeded to Mr. Gubb’s office.

“Detective and decorator,” he said to himself. “I wonder if William J. Burns has a son? Better not! A crank detective might know all about Burns. I’m his cousin. Let me see–I’m Jared Burns. Of Chicago. And mother has been to Denver for the air.” He took out the memorandum book again. “The Waffles-Mustard case. The Waffles-Mustard case. Waffles! Mustard! I must remember that.” He knocked on the door.

“Mr. Gubb?” he asked, as Philo Gubb opened the door. “Mr. Philo Gubb?”

“I am him, yes, sir,” said the paper-hanger detective. “Will you step inside into the room?”

“Thank you, yes,” said the Bald Impostor, as he entered.

Philo Gubb drew a chair to his desk, and the Bald Impostor took it. He leaned forward, ready to begin with the words, “Mr. Gubb, my name is Jared Burns. Mr. William J. Burns is my cousin–” when there came another rap at the door. Mr. Gubb’s visitor moved uneasily in his chair, and Mr. Gubb went to the door, dropping an open letter carelessly on the desk-slide before the Bald Impostor. The new visitor was an Italian selling oranges, and as Mr. Gubb had fairly to push the Italian out of the door, the Bald Impostor had time to read the letter and, quite a little ahead of time, began wiping perspiration from his forehead.

The letter was from the Headquarters of the Rising Sun Detective Agency, and was brutally frank in denouncing the Bald Impostor as an impostor, and painfully plain in describing him as bald. It described in the simplest terms his mode of getting money and it warned Mr. Gubb to be on the outlook for him “as he is supposed to be working in your district at present.” The Bald Impostor gasped. “A number of victims have organized,” continued the letter, “what they call the Easy Marks’ Association of America and have posted a reward of fifty dollars for the arrest of the fraud.”

The Bald Impostor glanced toward Philo Gubb and hastily turned the letter upside down. When Mr. Gubb returned, the Bald Impostor was rubbing the palms of his hands together and smiling.

“My name, Mr. Gubb,” he said, “is Allwood Burns. I am a detective. I have heard of your wonderful work in the so-called Muffins-Mustard case.”

“Waffles-Mustard,” said Mr. Gubb.

“I should say Waffles,” said the Bald Impostor hastily. “I consider it one of the most remarkable cases of detective acumen on record. We in the Rising Sun Detective Agency were delighted. It was a proof that the methods of our Correspondence School of Detecting were not short of the best.”

Philo Gubb stared at his visitor with unconcealed admiration.