The Grub-and-Stakers Spin a Yarn Read Free Page A

international spies who dropped by here a few minutes ago. The first one had been shot and was dripping all over the place. Miss Wuzzy appeared to be somewhat miffed about the mess he was making.”
    “Do you mean Miss Jane?”
    “Is that what she’s calling herself now?”
    “That seems to be what she prefers. I wish she wouldn’t, it’s so confusing with Jane Binkle living right next door to—Arethusa, what about those other two spies? Are they the ones who shot him?”
    “I really couldn’t say. He’d already been shot when he got here, his car was quite riddled with bullet holes. The other car was not so much riddled as pocked. I think I mean pocked.”
    “Pocked sounds all right to me. Were the two men pocked, too?”
    “I saw no sign of pockment. Or is it pocation? At any rate they didn’t appear to be bleeding, unless they were doing it in a civil and restrained manner.”
    “Where are they now? Did Sergeant MacVicar arrest them?”
    Arethusa shook her hat decisively, causing considerable agitation among the quills. “He didn’t get the chance. They were in the act of departing as he arrived. The two unpocked ones, if I’m using the term correctly, took the pocked one away.”
    “You’re sure he was pocked and not riddled?” said Clorinda.
    “Quite sure. All I saw was one bullet hole in the back of his trench coat, which is how I knew he was a spy like the other two.”
    “Because of one single hole? That would hardly seem definitive to me.”
    “Not because of the hole,” Arethusa replied with quiet dignity. “Because of the trench coats and the felt hats with the brims pulled down over their eyes.”
    “Arethusa, dear, spies don’t go around in trench coats riddling cars and pocking people. Spies wear long black overcoats and carry umbrellas with poisoned darts hidden in the shafts. I believe these men must in fact have been racketeers, also known as gangsters. They riddle the cars with their tommy guns, which they carry around in violin cases. Do you recall whether any of the three happened to have a violin case with him?”
    “To the best of my recollection, no. They could have left them in their cars, I suppose. Are you quite sure about the trench coats, Clorinda?”
    “Oh yes, positive. Trench coats and pulled-down felt hats are de rigueur in gangland circles. To hide those awful zoot suits, you know, and their slicked-down hair. I’ve watched them scads of times in the movies. Dear old Ditson never could pass up a George Raft or Edward G. Robinson rerun. I never understood why; Ditson was the sweetest, gentlest, most law-abiding man who ever lived. Hurry, Arethusa, never mind the gore. We’ve got to let Sergeant MacVicar know Lobelia Falls is being taken over by the mob.”
    To refuse such a call to civic duty would have been wholly graceless. Heedless of the splashes on the sidewalk, Arethusa turned toward the Yarnery. “Very well, Clorinda, if you say so. Perhaps I did get mixed up about the trench coats.”
    “One can’t blame you, dear,” her friend consoled her. “They’re hardly in your period. If it had been a question of perukes and dueling swords, you’d have got it straight in no time flat. Ah, good morning, Miss Jane. Oh dear, he did bleed a lot, didn’t he? Before I forget it, I wish you’d try to match this wool for me. After you’ve finished mopping up the blood, of course. Sergeant MacVicar, I do hope you have a few tommy guns over at the station.”
    Sergeant. MacVicar was not a man to be easily disconcerted, particularly not by Clorinda, whom he knew of old. “I have not. You did not want one for yourself, surely?”
    “Heavens to Betsy, no! I just want you to be prepared for the influx of gangsters. Or racketeers. I’m not quite sure whether the terms are synonymous, but I’m quite clear on the inadvisability of your letting Lobelia Falls be taken over by them. Ditson might have rather enjoyed having a few around because he used to think they were all