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      "See here," said the man decisively, "you heard my offer. It was wrung from me by hunger—that alone. If you cannot accept it say so before another minute. I will go out among my friends; surely they will aid me to live until such time as I am able to redeem it." He paused to give the pawnbroker opportunity to think, then said, "The minute is up—what is your decision?"

      The pawnbroker, still deliberating, allowed his customer to reach the door before he called him back. "Stop, stop, please," he cried. "I can—I can give you a hundred and fifty. It's all the money I have in the store. A princely offer, and one I shall not make again."

      The man made as if to depart, then, as the door opened to admit another customer, he squared his shoulders, bit his lips, and moaned, "Give me the money."

      Waiting only long enough to count the bills tendered him, and to surrender his pawnticket, he hastened away, his very back suggestive of a burden of lifetime regret. Myer allowed but one pang of sympathy to intrude on his self-congratulation. After all, a hundred and fifty was a bunch of money, and if the poor fellow didn't know he was selling a "Strad" he would realize that he had been well paid — when he came to think it over. "An old master!" cooed Myer to his purchase, and longed to fondle it all night.

      An hour after opening up next morning, Myer went to the telephone and, thrilling under the glow of ​commercial conquest, asked for the Copley Hotel. When the connection was made he inquired for Mr. James, the name on the card.

      "Don't know him," came back over the wire, after several minutes of waiting. "We have no guest of that name stopping here."

      Uncle Myer hung up the receiver weakly, as a disquieting thought crowded upon him. He rushed wildly to the hotel, but there was nothing to add to the telephone conversation. Inquiry at other hotels brought no hope. Mr. James was an unknown person.

      Toward his three-ball establishment Uncle Myer moved mechanically and when he had entered he found a seat. His suspicions developed into facts. Sadly from the safe he took the violin and hung it back on the hook, while all and sundry among the pledges seemed to join in the sneer, "An old master!"

      "It's a new game for the crooks," Myer soliloquized. "And I it had to be that should be the victim and lose my hundred and fifty. What a slick pair of Jesse Jimmies."

      No sooner had he reported the fraud to police headquarters than he received a visit from Max Klein, a neighboring pawnbroker. "Say, Goldman," asked Klein, as he entered, "did you get caught on the new violin game?"

      "What business, tell me, is it of yours?" groaned Goldman. "For the post mortem cackle you come round."

      "I came for the reason that misery likes company," said Klein. "They got me for a hundred and twenty-five. And you?"

      "A hundred and fifty," reluctantly admitted Goldman. "Twenty- five dollars you're better off than I am."

      "Who wouldn't get caught?" said Klein, consolingly. "They were a nifty pair of actors. Show me your fiddle."

      Goldman obeyed, and then Klein shook his head knowingly. "Just like mine, a cheap new fiddle, fixed up to make it look old and valuable.

      "I'll bet they're breathing a balmier climate by now," he gloomed, before returning to his own place.

      When Goldman had made his day's report to the police and locked up securely, he wandered toward the white light district. He felt versed in the weaknesses of the unrighteous, and thought it just possible the pair who had duped him might be lingering where the cafés harbored the cabarets. Two hours of Sherlocking somewhat damped his ardor. He decided to begin to enjoy himself, sat down and ordered refreshments with which he really intended to refresh himself. An orchestra of three pieces, cornet, violin and piano, was playing an enticing waltz, and playing it well, considering the place and the hour. A very pretty girl adorned the piano stool, and the cornetist, an elderly chap, took such good care of her that Goldman thought he must be her father. The violinist stood outside the family group, fiddling cleverly. Goldman liked him because he was so different from the man who had pawned the fiddle. He should never care for pale men with flowing locks again. This chap had short black hair and a red face, the healthy glow of which included even ​the nose. He was carefully dressed, and looked as if used to his "three squares and a snack" daily.

      Yet even while indulging in these reflections Myer's heart gave that old familiar thump. The man looked different in every particular. He had not run away, but was publicly exposing himself in the brightest of lights. His gaze, as he bowed to the perfunctory applause of the drinkers, was now dreamy, now keen and practical, never desperate—as that other gaze had been. But—he hugged the violin as that man had hugged it. The peculiar attitude was registered on Myers' memory.

      "It's him," he gulped, and rushed out for a policeman.

      He came upon one lolling carelessly at a street corner, to whom the pawn-broker, in high-pitched tones, imparted news of the fraud and its discovery.

      "Wait," said the officer, "I'll 'phone to the station for a plain clothes man. It wouldn't do for me to make the arrest in uniform. It might hurt the management."

      Ten minutes later the plain clothes man put in his appearance and in deference to the wishes of the café people the officer waited until the place closed before arresting his man. Goldman, much elated by the result of his sleuthing, went home to a much needed rest.

      Next morning he was honored by a visit from headquarters.

      "You had it right, Goldman," advised the inspector, "the man whose arrest you caused is the guilty party. He confessed after we found the makeup, wig and so on, in his room. He had played the game on more than you and Klein — half the pawnbrokers in town were left lamenting. His partner, who framed the job, got away to New York, beating the chap we have in custody out of his share of the proceeds. In fact, the man who pawned the violins and did the dirty work was really a dupe. The fellow who got away, an old-time gentleman crook, uses his brains to pick out uncompromising jobs, attended, with little risk. He got acquainted with the violinist at the cabaret, where the plan was arranged.

      "The queerest part of the story," added the inspector, "begins with the stealing of all the violins in Providence. One of the lot was taken from a wealthy residence and is a real Stradivarius, for which there is a reward of five hundred dollars. It has a special V-shaped mark burned in the wood at the bridge. Now some of you pawnbrokers—"

      Goldman, without waiting for further information, rushed behind the counter and grabbed the fiddle. His eyes traveled hungrily to the bridge- and there they stopped, as he emitted a shout of joy.

      "This is it," he cried; "this is the real Stradivarius!"

      "You're lucky, after all," said the inspector, "but remember," he continued, "you'll be wanted in court tomorrow morning as a witness."

      "I'll go," said Goldman, "but inspector, please, I ask you, don't ask me to testify. I shouldn't want to say anything against that fiddler. He done me a favor. Think of it, inspector, three hundred and fifty profit. I had a suspicion all along it was an old master!"

      The Black Cat (magazine)/Volume 22/Number 2/Dematerialization

       Table of Contents

      ​DEMATERIALIZATION

       Table of Contents

      BY C. MASON

       It is a simple matter to dematerialize a body by cremation. In this case, a man locks a good, healthy girl in a bank vault for two hours and tries to send her soul into the infinite with the aid of soft music instead of fire.

      FAIR young thing, with tender blue eyes, entered Woodworth's office and calmly seated herself. A glance at her portfolio impelled him to

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