FullReads

“I’m him,” said Philo Gubb, swallowing a hunk of sandwich with a gulp and wiping his hand on his overalls.

“You’re who?” asked Uncle Gabe.

“I’m the deteckative,” said Philo Gubb.

“You are, hey?” said Uncle Gabe. “All disguised up, I reckon.”

“Disguised up?” said Philo questioningly. “Oh, this here paper-hanging and decorating stuff? No, this ain’t no disguise. Even a deteckative has got to earn a living while his practice is building up.”

“Humph!” said old Gabe. “Detecting ain’t very good right now?”

“It ain’t, for a fact,” said Philo.

“Well, if that’s so,” said old Gabe, “maybe you and me could do business. If you want to do a little detective work to sort of keep your hand in, maybe we can do business.”

“I ought to git paid something,” said Philo doubtfully.

“Pay!” exclaimed old Gabe. “Pay for bein’ allowed to sharpen up and keep bright? Why, you’d ought to pay me for lettin’ you have the practice. It ain’t goin’ to do me no good, is it?”

“I don’t know what you want me to detect yet,” said Philo. “I might pay some if it was a case that would do me good to practice on. I might pay a little.”

“I knew it,” said old Gabe. “Now, this case of mine–What sort of a case would you pay to work on?”

“Well,” said Philo thoughtfully, “if I was to have a chance at a real tough murder case, for instance.”

“Humph!” said old Gabe. “How much might you pay to be let work on a case like that?”

“Well, I dunno!” said Philo Gubb thoughtfully. “If it looked like a mighty hard case I might pay a dollar a day–if it was a murder case.”

“This case of mine,” said old Gabe, coming farther into the room, “is just that sort of a case. And I’ll let you work on it for a dollar and a quatter a day.”

“Well, if it’s that kind of a case,” said Philo slowly, “I’ll give you a dollar a day, and I’ll work on it hard and faithful.”

“A dollar and a quatter a day,” insisted old Gabe.

“No, sir, a dollar is all I can afford to pay,” said Philo.

“All right, I won’t be mean,” said old Gabe. “Make it a dollar an’ fifteen cents and we’ll call it a go.”

“One dollar a day,” said Philo.

“A dollar, ten cents,” urged old Gabe.

“One dollar,” said Philo.

“Tell you what let’s do,” said old Gabe. “We ain’t but ten cents apart. You add on a nickel and I’ll knock off a nickel, and we’ll make it a dollar five. What say? That’s fair enough. You ain’t come up any. I come all the way down.”

“All right, then,” said Philo. “It’s a go. Now, who was murdered, and when was he murdered, and why was he murdered? Them’s the things I’ve got to know first.”

“You pay me a dollar five for the first day’s work, and I’ll tell you,” said old Gabe.

Philo dug into his pocket and drew out some money. “There,” he said. “There’s two dollars and ten cents. That pays for two days. Now, go ahead.”

He drew out his notebook and wet the end of a pencil and waited.

“The reason this is such a hard case,” said old Gabe slowly, and choosing his words with care, “is because the murder ain’t completed yet. It’s being did.”

“Right now?” exclaimed Philo excitedly. “Why, we oughtn’t to be sitting here like this. We ought–“

“Now, don’t be in such a hurry,” said old Gabe. “If you mean we ought to be where the victim of the murder is, we are. He’s right here now. I’m him. I’m the one that’s being murdered. I’m being murdered by slow murder. I’m liable to drop down dead any minute. But I don’t want to be murdered and not have the feller that murders me hang like he ought. I can’t be expected to. It ain’t human nature.”

“No, it ain’t,” agreed Philo. “A man can’t help feeling revengeful against the man that murders him. If anybody murdered me I’d feel the same way. How’s he killing you? Slow poison?”