An Everyday Detective Story
BY HULBERT FOOTNER
A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers New York
Published by arrangement with George H. Doran Company
Copyright, 1918,
By George H. Doran Company
Printed in the United States of America
My first case!—with what an agreeable thrilla professional man repeats the words to himself.With most men I believe it is as it was withme, not the case that he intrigues for and expects toget but something quite different, that drops out ofHeaven unexpected and undeserved like most ofthe good things of life.
Every now and then in an expansive moment Itell the story of my case, or part of it, whereuponsomething like the following invariably succeeds:
"Why don't you write it down?"
"I never learned the trade of writing."
"But detective stories are so popular!"
"Yes, because the detective is a romantic figure,a hero, gifted with almost superhuman keennessand infallibility. Nobody ever accused me of beingromantic. I am only an ordinary fellow who plugsaway like any other business man. Every day I amup against it; I fall down; some crook turns a trickon me. What kind of a story would that make?"
"But that's what people want nowadays, the realthing, stories of the streets day by day."
Well, I have succumbed. Here goes for betteror for worse.
Before beginning I should explain that though itwas my first case I was no longer in the first bloomof youth. I was along in the thirties before I gotmy start and had lost a deal of hair from mycranium. This enabled me to pass for ten yearsolder if I wished to, and still with the assistance ofmy friend Oscar Nilson the wig-maker I could makea presentable figure of youth and innocence.
During my earlier days I had been a clerk in arailway freight office, a poor slave with only mydreams to keep me going. My father had nosympathy with my aspirations to be a detective. Hewas a close-mouthed and a close-fisted man. Butwhen he died, after having been kept on scantyrations for years, the old lady and I found ourselvesquite comfortably off.
I promptly shook the dust of the freight officefrom my feet and set about carrying some of thedreams into effect. I rented a little office onFortieth street (twenty dollars a month), furnished itdiscreetly, and had my name painted in neatcharacters on the frosted glass of the door:"B. Enderby"—no more. Lord! how proud I was of theoutfit.
I bought a fire-proof document file for cases, andhad some note-paper and cards printed in the sameneat style:
B. ENDERBY
Confidential Investigator
You see I wished to avoid the sensational. I wasnot looking for any common divorce evidence business.Since I had enough to exist on, I was determinedto wait for important, high-priced, kid-glovecases.
And I waited—more than a year in fact. But itwas a delightful time! Fellows were always droppingin to smoke and chin. My little office becamelike our club. You see I had missed all this whenI was a boy. Any youngster who has ever beenspeeded up in a big clerical office will understandhow good it was. Meanwhile I studied crime inall its aspects.
I worked, too, at another ambition which I sharedwith a few million of my fellow-creatures, viz.: towrite a successful play. I started a dozen andfinished one. I thought it was a wonder of brilliancythen. I have learned better.