Argosy All-Story Weekly, February 12, 1927 — page 122: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

116 stared into the air directly in front of his eyes, brows knitted m fierce concentration. The item which had held Mr. Tack’s in- terest follows: LOSES LIFE SAVINGS IN OLD STOVE SAL Wife Sells Heater With One Thousand Six Hundred Dollars Hidden Wealth For Two Dollars When Joseph Conti, of First Avenue, returned from work last evening, his wife, Anna, met him at the door with a happy smile. Producing two one dollar bills, she thrust them into her husband’s hand with the words: “ Two more dollars for the farm, Joe.” “Where did you get them?” he asked. “For that old stove in the back room. A sucker he was, the man who gave me two dol- lars for it.” Joseph’s face had turned white even as his wife spoke. When she finished, the man rushed wildly into the room where the stove had stood, stared about him and collapsed in a heap on the floor, crying: “ My God! The money for the farm! it was all in that stove! Oh, my God!” A reporter for the Blade found the pair in an hysterical state. Mrs. Conti, it appears, had no idea of the identity of the junk dealer to whom she sold the stove containing the family savings of twenty years. She had known that her husband kept the money hidden, but did not dream that he had selected the old stove as a receptacle. The police are investigating the matter, but hold out nest hope of recovering the cash. IV. Tue frown on Sam’s face gave way to a satisfied smile. Swiftly the picture rose before him. The creaking wagon—the pot- bellied old stove—the name, Shapiro, in straggling letters. Enough to go on—for a person of cleverness. Armed with a knowledge of the junk- man’s name, if Sam Tack couldn’t beat the police to it, he was a bum! Anyhow, it was an eight hundred to one shot, well worth taking on! There was, of course, the possibility that Shapiro had yead the news story. But, in Sam’s mind, that was astonishingly remote. He knew his section of the city; was aware ee = bee not one in a Reser = read i ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY, There might be a picture in the tabloids —a picture of the unfortunate Mrs. Conti. Promptly, Mr. Tack secured the sheets in question and sighed with relief when he found no photograph. His chief worry was that the old stove might already have been broken up for junk. He took down the telephone direc- tory and plunged into the long list of Shapiros. It seemed to him that there were a mil- lion of them and that half of the lot were junk dealers or second hand men. Still, with that old horse and cart as a means of transportation, it was unlikely that the headquarters of the Shapiro he sought were very far afield. Laboriously, Sam copied the addresses of the local and semi-local prospects. He would start out at once and make the rounds of the places on his list. He must be careful, of course—to do nothing to excite suspicion. Above all, he must not appear anxious to have the stove. should he be successful in locating it. It was a weary morning for Sam. The first Shapiro to whom he paid his respects, presided over a wilderness of broken metal, discarded tires, dirty ‘bottles—scattered about a boarded-in space close to the East River. . Sam inquired for the boss, but was told he was not present and on the plea of searching for odd lengths of lead pipe, Mr. Tack wandered about the premises for a good half hour. It was then he discovered that all of Mr. Shapiro’s hauling was done by motor truck. Which gave Sam an idea. Thenceforth, in approaching another potential benefac- tor, Sam immediately endeavored to inter- est the prospect in a new truck. By this method, he soon eliminated such as went in for mechanical transportation. Nevertheless, the gentleman had visited eleven establishments before the call of hunger guided him into a small eating house not far from Chatham Square and well ta the east. He eased his two hundred and forty pounds into a frail-looking chair and Rem an sd for seulets dill pickles, cernichoaks.cor