Lourens Trit - Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 118, No. 6, April 16, 1938

If thine hobby offend thee, put it away, for it is better to be without a hobby than to be condemned to everlasting hellfire

Murray Hobart was sitting in his den under a very strong shaded light, gazing through a magnifying glass at a small flat object held up by his other hand with a tiny pair of tweezers, when someone knocked at the closed door. He put down the tweezers first, with infinite care, then the glass, and then he got up with an air of great annoyance, strode over to the door and unlocked it.

Well? he scowled. Is the house on fire? If its anything less than that, Ill have your

The servant standing out there said apologetically, I know, Mr. Hobart. I told him you were going over your collection and couldnt be disturbed, but

Who is it?

Its an Inspector Foster on the wire, sir.

I dont know any Foster, snapped his employer irritably. Get rid of him. Tell him Im not He gestured. Wait a minute. Inspector, did you say? Inspector of what?

I... I dont know, sir. I think he said Homicide Bureau.

Hobart felt his chin. Police department, eh? Thats unusual. He took an extra twist in the cord of his dressing gown. Ill talk to him, he said, and stepped out through the doorway. Before moving away, however, he transfered the key to the outside, closed the door and locked it. Then he went down the paneled hall to the telephone.

The manservant, with a single sullen scowl at the insulting precautions his employer had just taken, went on about his business. His lips moved sneeringly. Little colored pieces of paper, he breathed contemptuously.

Hobart, at the phone, stood in such a position that he commanded a full view of the door he had just come from.

This is Murray Hobart, he said.

Inspector Foster introduced himself a second time. Then, I was wondering, he said, with the hesitancy of a man asking a favor, if we could trouble you for a little expert advice. I understand youre a specialist in this particular field, and I was wondering if youd be good enough to give us the benefit of your opinion.

Hobart kept his eyes on the room door, as though he wished the unwelcome interruption were over, so he could go back inside there to resume his recent occupation. Brokerage? he said shortly. Thats my occupation.

The inspector laughed disarmingly. No, no, no. I mean, er, your sideline, your hobby postage stamps.

Oh. But the change that came over Hobart was almost miraculous. His eyes lit up, his voice took on life, for the first time he began to take a real interest in the conversation and no longer waited for the first opportunity to cut it short.

How did you happen to hear of me? he asked interestedly.

Well you see, were by that l mean the Bureau is on a job, a case, and theres an angle to it that has us stumped. Its a little over our heads. Were none of us qualified to give an opinion. Were not authorities in the matter, you understand. It would mean a trip to New York, to some big stamp dealer, to clear it up, and that would take days. I wired the head of one such firm, to find out if there was any possibility of getting the information we need without the trouble of sending someone there personally, by means of photostats for instance, and he wired back, of course, that there wasnt, but mentioned your name as being competent to help us. He said hed been supplying you for years and you were on his mailing list, right here in the same town with us.

Well, if it has anything to do with stamps, agreed Hobart, not bragging but with the air of a man stating a simple fact, I dont believe theres anyone can tell you more about them than I can. What is it youd like cleared up?

Im afraid youd have to examine the evidence personally to be able to pass an opinion on it.

Yes, in the case of stamps I think thats always necessary. Particularly if its a question of detecting a forgery.

Im afraid its a little more gruesome than that, the inspector said apologetically. Its a murder case, and its important for us to know

Stupid of me, interrupted Hobart. Homicide Squad. It would be, of course. Where is it you want me to go down to headquarters?

No, if it wouldnt be asking too much, could you come out to 215 Rainier for a short while? Ill send an official police car for you if you like.

Thanks, but that wont be necessary. Ill drive out in my own car.

The inspectors voice became almost effusive in his gratitude. Thanks, Mr. Hobart. We appreciate your cooperation a lot.

Not at all. Im very interested myself now in finding out what this can be, Hobart assured him. Ill be there almost directly.

Think you can find it all right? The inspector repeated the address.

Im sure I wont have any trouble. Hobart hung up, went back into his den. It took him less than five minutes to put away the paraphernalia of his obsession. A wall safe figured in this. When he came out again, locking the door after him and pocketing the key, he had exchanged his dressing gown for the jacket of his suit. He called to the servant for his hat and coat.

Dont bother waiting up. Im taking my own latchkey.

Yes sir. Good night, Mr. Hobart. The man closed the front door after him respectfully, then grimaced savagely. Him and his colored scraps o paper! he seethed. Lucking em up like they was blooming diamonds!

Hobart went around to the side of the house, took his car out of the garage, and set out. He stopped at the first intersection he came to and asked another motorist, waiting there for the light to change: Whats the nearest way to Rainier Street?

The directions the man gave him were simple enough to follow. Hobart reached his objective in about twenty minutes, going at a rather fast clip. The thoroughfare was wide but rather shabby looking. It seemed to him to be just the kind of street upon which murder was apt to strike. He coursed along it slowly, scanning the door numbers.

The curb before 215, when he finally found it, was empty, and there was no sign of any undue excitement or activity going on about the premises. He braked, got out, and rang the doorbell. A pugnacious looking woman in sweater and apron looked out at him.

Tell Inspector Foster Mr. Hobarts here, he said pleasantly.

She tightened her grip on the door. Theres no Foster lives here, she said surlily.

I didnt say he lives here, Hobart explained patiently. He told me to come out and meet him here.

He couldnt of, snapped the woman, because theres nobody here by that name, waiting for you nor nobody else!

Hobarts jaw dropped in surprise and annoyance. He took a step back, verified the number beside the door, came in again. But this is 215 Rainier Street, isnt it? Im sure I heard him right. He repeated it twice.

Yeah, this is 215 Rainier Street, but theres no Foster here and never has been. I been living in this house five years and I ought to know. Somebodys been kidding you. Congenitally suspicious, she shifted the burden of responsibility to her husbands shoulders, though Hobart had made no move to force his way in. Max, come here a minute, talk to him, will ya?

The man of the house, as is often the case, was a little less hostile, but no more helpful than she had been. No, he said in answer to Hobarts perplexed question, nobody along this street has called the police in. There aint no trouble around here, as far as I know.