Chapter IV

21

STRANGE FISH

“Schulte. John Schulte. My brother's name is Chapman Schulte. Wait a minute.” The little man bobbed to his feet and darted out of the room and came back with a photograph in a shiny frame. “This is Chapman, taken five years ago.”

The photograph was of a sullen−looking thick−necked man with an upstanding thatch of dark hair and domineering eyes. There was not much family resemblance. A trifling amount around the mouth, possibly.

“Don't know him,” Doc said.

“You don't! That's very strange!”

“Just what,” Doc asked, “makes it strange?”

“Why, the things that have happened. The—the rather frightening things that have happened.”

“For example?”

There was more hand fluttering. “Maybe I had better tell you all I know just as it happened.”

“That,” Doc said, “would be an excellent idea.”

The small man nodded violently. “That's what I want to do. Yes, indeed. Chapman, my brother, has always been the wild dog of the family. He ran away from home when he was thirteen, and we didn't hear from him until he was eighteen, when the police contacted us in an effort to trace him. Chapman, I am afraid, had become a crook. He had perpetrated a robbery at the age of eighteen, for which he served a small sentence.

Six months, I think.”

He looked miserably at Doc. “We are a peace−loving family, you understand. Righteous, law−abiding people.

I think the shock of Chapman's misdeed contributed to the early death of our mother.”

Doc said, “I take it you and your brother have never been closely associated.”

“No, never.” The small man folded his hands piously. “You see, I studied for social service. I intended to study for the ministry, but after due thought, I chose social service work instead. It may sound inhuman, but I must confess that I have not, not for a number of years, felt any feeling of true brotherhood for Chapman.

However, he has had a certain—”

“Get to the point,” Doc said.

“I AM getting to the point,” the small man said with unexpected vehemence. “Chapman has had a certain evil influence over me. Over my conscience, I should say. He dulls my finer instincts. He brings out in me certain feelings of which I am ashamed.” He fell to twisting his hands together.

Doc asked, “Are you trying to say that you've known of some crooked work Chapman has pulled, and you kept quiet about it?”

The small man flopped back as if he'd broken a handcuff which had been restraining him.

“That's it,” he said eagerly. “I have known where Chapman was when I knew the police were hunting him.”