Something for the Sweeper | Page 5

office near here?"
"Sure, on Court Street. Three blocks down and one to your right."

"Show me," said Jones. He opened the door of the taxi, climbed in, and
plumped himself down on the seat with a sigh of relief.
It was a 'small, neat office with a big plate glass window that ran clear
across the front and had an enormous bullet painted on it with red lines
trailing behind to show it was traveling at tremendous speed. There
were several people waiting when Jones limped up to the high counter
and leaned on it with his elbow, looking as mysterious and hard-boiled
as possible in view of the fact that his feet were hurting him more and
more all the time.
A clerk with a polished haircut and a vacantly cordial smile stepped up
to the other side of the counter. "Yes."
"I'm a detective," Jones sneered at him. "Don't act funny. Just be
natural. Treat me like anybody else."
The clerk gulped. "Police! What--"
"Shut up," said Jones. "I said act natural. I want some information
about a party who sent a message by one of your boys to Mrs. Hendrick
Boone at Forty-five-fifteen Raleigh Street. Was it sent from this
branch?"
The clerk nodded once, then again, and finally said, "Yes," in a
frightened stage whisper.
"When?"
"About--about an hour ago."
"Did a woman send it?"
"Yes," the clerk said. He swallowed and then said: "Her 'name was
Sarah Boone."
"So?" said Jones sharply. "And how do you know that?"
"Well, we have a rule about messages. A few months ago someone

started sending poison-pen letters--anonymous--through our messenger
service. Brought us a lot of bad publicity. Now, we require anyone
sending a sealed message to sign it in our presence. This lady did."
"What'd she look like?" Jones asked.
The clerk stared. "Well, she was a woman--I mean, sort of young, I
think. She was veiled. I didn't notice. She had a lot of birthmarks on her
arms."
"Yeah," said Jones absently. He squinted thoughtfully at the clerk for a
moment, then suddenly pulled one of the blank pads of paper on the
counter toward him, picked up a pencil, and wrote rapidly You're a liar.
"I'm not!" the clerk denied, instantly indignant. "You--"
Jones slapped the pad down. "I thought so! You're a shark at reading
handwriting upside down, aren't you? That's the why of your signature
rule, to give you boys a chance to spot a poison-pen letter before it goes
out. Now, what did Sarah Boone's message say? Don't stall me."
The clerk shifted uneasily. "Well, I can't repeat it, word for word. I
didn't pay enough attention. I saw right away it wasn't anything like
what we've been looking for. It was headed 'Dear Mother,' and it said
something about a lot of serious trouble and for the mother to meet her
right away at Ten-eleven Twelfth Avenue."
"Where?" Jones asked.
"Ten-eleven Twelfth Avenue. I remembered that on account of the
sequence of figures--ten, eleven, twelve. I was thinking that ought to be
a lucky address--"
"Maybe not so lucky," said Jones. "Keep this under your hat--if you
have a hat. Thanks."
Half the pickets were gone out of the fence, and it swayed backward
wearily toward the wet brown square of earth that had once been a lawn.

The house was gaunt and weather-beaten and ugly, and it had boards
nailed haphazardly across the windows on the lower floor. It looked
long deserted. A sign beside the gate said For Sale or Lease and gave
the name of a realty company.
Jones looked from the sign to the house and back again, squinting
thoughtfully. He turned his head slowly. There were no other houses
within a half block.
Jones said, "Huh," to himself. He dropped his right hand into the pocket
of the trench-coat. He was carrying a pair of flat brass knuckles in the
pocket, and he slid his fingers through the metal loops and closed his
fist. He unfastened the middle button of the coat with his left hand and
touched the butt of the .38 Police Positive he carried in his waistband.
Then he nudged the sagging gate open with his knee and strolled
aimlessly up the narrow walk.
There were some children playing in the street a block away, and their
excited cries carried high and shrill in the stillness. Jones' feet made
hollow thumps on the steps, on the damp-warped boards of the porch.
The front door was open about an inch. Jones took his right hand out of
his coat pocket and rapped with the brass knuckles. The echoes came
back from empty rooms, hollow and thin and ghostly. Jones put his
right hand behind him and waited. Nothing happened.
Jones closed the fingers of his left hand