Лоуренс Трит: 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 it’s anything less than that, I’ll have your—”

The servant standing out there said apologetically, “I know, Mr. Hobart. I told him you were going over your collection and couldn’t be disturbed, but—”

“Who is it?”

“It’s an Inspector Foster on the wire, sir.”

“I don’t know any Foster,” snapped his employer irritably. “Get rid of him. Tell him I’m not—” He gestured. “Wait a minute. Inspector, did you say? Inspector of what?”

“I... I don’t know, sir. I think he said Homicide Bureau.”

Hobart felt his chin. “Police department, eh? That’s unusual.” He took an extra twist in the cord of his dressing gown. “I’ll 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 you’re a specialist in this particular field, and I was wondering if you’d 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. “That’s 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, we’re — by that l mean the Bureau — is on a job, a case, and there’s an angle to it that has us stumped. It’s a little over our heads. We’re none of us qualified to give an opinion. We’re 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 wasn’t, but mentioned your name as being competent to help us. He said he’d 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 don’t believe there’s anyone can tell you more about them than I can. What is it you’d like cleared up?”

“I’m afraid you’d have to examine the evidence personally to be able to pass an opinion on it.”

“Yes, in the case of stamps I think that’s always necessary. Particularly if it’s a question of detecting a forgery.”

“I’m afraid it’s a little more gruesome than that,” the inspector said apologetically. “It’s a murder case, and it’s 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 wouldn’t be asking too much, could you come out to 215 Rainier for a short while? I’ll send an official police car for you if you like.”

“Thanks, but that won’t be necessary. I’ll drive out in my own car.”

The inspector’s voice became almost effusive in his gratitude. “Thanks, Mr. Hobart. We appreciate your cooperation a lot.”

“Not at all. I’m very interested myself now in finding out what this can be,” Hobart assured him. “I’ll be there almost directly.”

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

“I’m sure I won’t 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.

“Don’t bother waiting up. I’m 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: “What’s 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. Hobart’s here,” he said pleasantly.

She tightened her grip on the door. “There’s no Foster lives here,” she said surlily.

“I didn’t say he lives here,” Hobart explained patiently. “He told me to come out and meet him here.”

“He couldn’t of,” snapped the woman, “because there’s nobody here by that name, waiting for you nor nobody else!”

Hobart’s 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, isn’t it? I’m sure I heard him right. He repeated it twice.”