Arson Plus | Page 4

about an acre in all --
had been pretty thoroughly cut and trampled by wagon wheels, and the feet of the
firemen and the spectators.
Having ruined our shoeshines, McClump and I got back in our car and swung off in a
circle around the place, calling at all the houses within a mile radius, and getting little
besides jolts for our trouble.
The nearest house was that of Pringle, the man who had turned in the alarm; but he not
only knew nothing about the dead man, he said he had never even seen him. In fact, only
one of the neighbors had ever seen him: a Mrs. Jabine, who lived about a mile to the
south.
She had taken care of the key to the house while it was vacant; and a day or two before he
bought it, Thornburgh had come to her house, inquiring about the vacant one. She had
gone over there with him and showed him through it, and he had told her that he intended
buying it, if the price wasn't too high.
He had been alone, except for the chauffeur of the hired car in which he had come from
Sacramento, and, save that he had no family, he had told her nothing about himself.
Hearing that he had moved in, she went over to call on him several days later-"just a
neighborly visit"-but had been told by Mrs. Coons that he was not at home. Most of the
neighbors had talked to the Coonses, and had got the impression that Thornburgh did not
care for visitors, so they had let him alone. The Coonses were described as "pleasant
enough to talk to when you meet them," but reflecting their employer's desire not to make
friends.
McClump summarized what the afternoon had taught us as we pointed our car toward
Tavender: "Any of these folks could have touched off the place, but we got nothing to

show that any of 'em even knew Thornburgh, let alone had a bone to pick with him."
Tavender turned out to be a crossroads settlement of a general store and post office, a
garage, a church, and six dwellings, about two miles from Thornburgh's place. McClump
knew the storekeeper and postmaster, a scrawny little man named Philo, who stuttered
moistly.
"I n-n-never s-saw Th-thornburgh," he said, "and I n-n-never had any m-mail for him.
C-coons"-it sounded like one of these things butterflies come out of-"used to c-come in
once a week to-to order groceries -- they d-didn't have a phone. He used to walk in, and
I'd s-send the stuff over in my c-c-car. Th-then I'd s-see him once in a while, waiting f-for
the stage to S-s-sacramento."
"Who drove the stuff out to Thornburgh's?"
"M-m-my b-boy. Want to t-talk to him?"
The boy was a juvenile edition of the old man, but without the stutter. He had never seen
Thornburgh on any of his visits, but his business had taken him only as far as the kitchen.
He hadn't noticed anything peculiar about the place.
"Who's the night man at the garage?" I asked him.
"Billy Luce. I think you can catch him there now. I saw him go in a few minutes ago."
We crossed the road and found Luce.
"Night before last -- the night of the fire down the road -- was there a man here talking to
you when you first saw it?"
He turned his eyes upward in that vacant stare which people use to aid their memory.
"Yes, I remember now! He was going to town, and I told him that if he took the county
road instead of the state road he'd see the fire on his way in."
"What kind of looking man was he?"
"Middle-aged -- a big man, but sort of slouchy. I think he had on a brown suit, baggy and
wrinkled."
"Medium complexion?"
"Yes."
"Smile when he talked?"
"Yes, a pleasant sort of fellow."
"Brown hair?"

"Yeah, but have a heart!" Luce laughed. "I didn't put him under a magnifying glass."
From Tavender we drove over to Wayton. Luce's description had fit Henderson all right,
but while we were at it, we thought we might as well check up to make sure that he had
been coming from Wayton.
We spent exactly twenty-five minutes in Wayton; ten of them finding Hammersmith, the
grocer with whom Henderson had said he dined and played pool; five minutes finding the
proprietor of the pool room; and ten verifying Henderson's story. . . .
"What do you think of it now, Mac?" I asked, as we rolled back toward Sacramento.
Mac's too lazy to express an opinion, or even form one, unless he's driven to it; but that
doesn't mean they aren't worth listening to, if you can get