Adams Average Jones

1. Auflage 2015
ISBN: 978-3-95676-621-3
Verlag: OTB eBook publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 188 Seiten

'Average Jones,' is a collection of short stories by Samuel Hopkins Adams, first published in 1911, more then 100 years ago, but they are as fresh - and as much fun - as if they had just been written last year. Samuel Hopkins Adams was a muckraking investigative journalist, and his newspaper and magazine articles about the evils of advertising in general and medical advertising in particular are generally credited with forcing Congress to create the Food and Drug Administration, the FDA.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Adams, Samuel Hopkins

Leseproben

CHAPTER II. RED DOT
From his inner sanctum, Average Jones stared obliquely out upon the whirl of Fifth Avenue, warming itself under a late March sun. In the outer offices a line of anxious applicants was being disposed of by his trained assistants. To the advertising expert's offices had come that day but three cases difficult enough to be referred to the Ad-Visor himself. Two were rather intricate financial lures which Average Jones was able to dispose of by a mere "Don't." The third was a Spiritualist announcement behind which lurked a shrewd plot to entrap a senile millionaire into a marriage with the medium. These having been settled, the expert was free to muse upon a paragraph which had appeared in all the important New York morning papers of the day before. REWARD-$1,000 reward for information
as to slayer of Brindle Bulldog "Rags"
killed in office of Malcolm Dorr, Stengel
Building, Union Square, March 29.
"That's too much money for a dog," decided Average Jones. "Particularly one that hasn't any bench record. I'll just have a glance into the thing." Slipping on his coat he walked briskly down the avenue, and crossing over to Union Square, entered the gloomy old building which is the sole survival of the days when the Stengel estate foresaw the upward trend of business toward Fourteenth Street. Stepping from the elevator at the seventh floor, he paused underneath this sign: MALCOLM DORR
ANALYTICAL AND CONSULTING CHEMIST
Hours 10 to 4
Entering, Average Jones found a fat young man, with mild blue eyes, sitting at a desk. "Mr. Dorr?" he asked. "Yes," replied the fat young man nervously, "but if you are a reporter, I must—" "I am not," interrupted the other. "I am an expert on advertising, and I want that one thousand dollars reward." The chemist pushed his chair back and rubbed his forehead. "You mean you have—have found out something?" "Not yet. But I intend to." Dorr stared at him in silence. "You are very fond of dogs, Mr. Dorr?" "Eh? Oh, yes. Yes, certainly," said the other mechanically. Average Jones shot a sudden glance of surprise at him, then looked dreamily at his own finger-nails. "I can sympathize with you. I have exhibited for some years. Your dog was perhaps a green ribboner?" "Er—oh—yes; I believe so." "Ah! Several of mine have been. One in particular, took medal after medal; a beautiful glossy brown bulldog, with long silky ears, and the slender splayed-out legs that are so highly prized but so seldom seen nowadays. His tail, too, had the truly Willoughby curve, from his dam, who was a famous courser." Mr. Dorr looked puzzled. "I didn't know they used that kind of dog for coursing," he said vaguely. Average Jones smiled with almost affectionate admiration at the crease along the knee of his carefully pressed trousers. His tone, when next he spoke, was that of a youth bored with life. Any of his intimates would have recognized in it, however, the characteristic evidence that his mind was ranging swift and far to a conclusion. "Mr. Dorr," he drawled, "who—er—owned your—er—dog?" "Why, I—I did," said the startled chemist. "Who gave him to you?" "A friend." "Quite so. Was it that—er—friend who—er—offered the reward?" "What makes you think that?" "This, to be frank. A man who doesn't know a bulldog from a bed-spring isn't likely to be offering a thousand dollars to avenge the death of one. And the minute you answered my question as to whether you cared for dogs, I knew you didn't. When you fell for a green ribbon, and a splay-legged, curly-tailed medal-winner in the brindle bull class (there's no such class, by the way), I knew you were bluffing. Mr. Dorr, who—er—has been—er—threatening your life?" The chemist swung around in his chair. "What do you know?" he demanded. "Nothing. I'm guessing. It's a fair guess that a reasonably valuable brindle bull isn't presented to a man who cares nothing for dogs without some reason. The most likely reason is protection. Is it in your case?" "Yes, it is," replied the other, after some hesitation. "And now the protection is gone. Don't you think you'd better let me in on this?" "Let me speak to my—my legal adviser first." He called up a down-town number on the telephone and asked to be connected with Judge Elverson. "I may have to ask you to leave the office for a moment," he said to his caller. "Very well. But if that is United States District Attorney Roger Elverson, tell him that it is A. V. R. Jones who wants to know, and remind him of the missing letter opium advertisement." Almost immediately Average Jones was called back from the hallway, whither he had gone. "Elverson says to tell you the whole thing," said the chemist, "in confidence, of course." "Understood. Now, who is it that wants to get rid of you?" "The Paragon Pressed Meat Company." Average Jones became vitally concerned in removing an infinitesimal speck from his left cuff. "Ah," he commented, "the Canned Meat Trust. What have you been doing to them?" "Sold them a preparation of my invention for deodorizing certain by-products used for manufacturing purposes. Several months ago I found they were using it on canned meats that had gone bad, and then selling the stuff." "Would the meat so treated be poisonous?" "Well—dangerous to any one eating it habitually. I wrote, warning them that they must stop." "Did they reply?" "A man came to see me and told me I was mistaken. He hinted that if I thought my invention was worth more than I'd received, his principals, would be glad to take the matter up with me. Shortly after I heard that the Federal authorities were going after the Trust, so I called on Mr. Elverson." "Mistake Number One. Elverson is straight, but his office is fuller of leaks than a sieve." "That's probably why I found my private laboratory reeking of cyanide fumes a fortnight later," remarked Dorr dryly. "I got to the outer air alive, but not much more. A week later there was an explosion in the laboratory. I didn't happen to be there at the time. The odd feature of the explosion was that I hadn't any explosive drugs in the place." "Where is this laboratory?" "Over in Flatbush, where I live—or did live. Within a month after that, a friendly neighbor took a pot-shot at a man who was sneaking up behind me as I was going home late one night. The man shot, too, but missed me. I reported it to the police, and they told me to be sure and not let the newspapers know. Then they forgot it." Average Jones laughed. "Of course they did. Some day New York will find out that 'the finest police force in the world' is the biggest sham outside the dime museum. Except in the case of crimes by the regular, advertised criminals, they're as helpless as babies. Didn't you take any other precautions?" "Oh, yes. I reported the attempt to Judge Elverson. He sent a secret service man over to live with me. Then I got a commission out in Denver. When I came back, about a month ago, Judge Elverson gave me the two dogs." "Two?" "Yes. Rags and Tatters." "Where's Tatters?" "Dead. By the same road as Rags." "Killed at your place in Flatbush?" "No. Right here in this room." Average Jones became suddenly very much worried about the second button of his coat. Having satisfied himself of its stability, he drawled, "Er—both of—er—them?" "Yes. Ten days apart." "Where were you?" "On the spot. That is, I was here when Tatters got his death. I had gone to the wash-room at the farther end of the hall when Rags was poisoned." "Why do you say poisoned?" "What else could it have been? There was no wound on either of the dogs." "Was there evidence of poison?" "Pathological only. In Tatters case it was very marked. He was dozing in a corner near the radiator when I heard him yelp and saw him snapping at his belly. He ran across the room, lay down and began licking himself. Within fifteen minutes he began to whine. Then he stiffened out in a sort of a spasm. It was like strychnine poisoning. Before could get a veterinary here he was dead." "Did you make any examination?" "I analyzed the contents of his stomach, but did not obtain positive results." "What about the other dog?" "Rags? That was the day before yesterday. We had just come over from Flatbush and Razs was nosing around in the corner—" "Was it the same corner where Tatters was attacked?" "Yes, near the radiator. He seemed to be interested in something there when I left the room. I was gone not more than two minutes." "Lock the door after you?" "It has a special spring lock which I had put on it." Average Jones crossed over and looked at the contrivance. Then his glance fell to a huge, old-fashioned keyhole below the new fastening. "You didn't use that larger lock?" "No. I haven't for months. The key is lost, I think." Retracing his steps the investigator sighted the hole from the radiator, and shook his head. "It's not in range," he said. "Go on." "As I reached the door on my return, I heard Rags yelp. You may believe I got to him quickly. He was pawing wildly at his nose. I called up the nearest veterinary. Within ten minutes the convulsions came on....