Hulbert Footner

The Folded Paper Mystery

Warsaw 2022

Contents

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER I

FINLAY CORVETH hustled in the direction of the Lackawanna terminal. When it was a question of getting the low-down on anything in Hoboken, he immediately thought of Henny Friend, big boss and proprietor of the Boloney Bar. Fin was not more hard-hearted than the run of young men; he was genuinely sorry for his friend lying dazed and half sick amid the wreck of his poor belongings but... Gosh! what a situation was opening up! What a chance for a free-lance writer! Ought to make his everlasting reputation if he handled it right. He thrilled with the possibilities of mystery and danger. “Dearer to me than life!” Nick Peters had muttered. Naturally, a woman was suggested.

Fin took Hudson Street because it was less crowded than Washington. He had not gone a hundred paces before he discovered that he was being followed. It was the first time in his life, so far as he knew, that anybody had ever considered it worth while to follow him. It gave you a feeling like no other. Not exactly fear. Fin did not consider there was much danger of being shot down in the open street. Just wants to see what I’m after, he told himself.

And if there was a sensation of fear mixed with his excitement, he wasn’t going to let anything on. He coolly stopped in front of a small haberdasher’s and made believe to admire the satin ties in the window. His trailer could not stop, because the pavement was empty at the moment and there was no other convenient store window. Slowing down, the man passed behind Fin. Whereupon Fin went on and passing him, got a good look. A weird foreign-looking cuss, tall and excessively lean; dressed in black broadcloth like the deacon of some outlandish church. Fin was reminded of the portraits of Robespierre with his greenish complexion and lank black hair.

He wondered if this was the man who had struck down Nick Peters, and anger made his throat tight. However, this one had not the look of a hired spy such as Nick had described; there was too much crazy fire in his sunken eyes. Perhaps this was the principal, then, the chief of Nick’s enemies. Why go to Henny for information if the man himself was in his grasp? But if I grabbed him without evidence I’d only make a fool of myself, thought Fin. I’ve got to beat him at his own game–lead him on.

The Boloney Bar is on River Street near the Lackawanna ferries. There it functions exactly as in the old days, with its long mahogany bar to pound the seidels on, brass foot-rail, sawdust- covered floor, and free-lunch counter displaying every variety of the delicacy which gave it its name. Behind the bar is a long range of mirrors covered with a film of soap as a protection from fly specks. In the soap Ed Hafker, the chief bartender, is fond of tracing toasts with a flowing forefinger, such as: Prosit! Here’s How! Drink Hearty! Never Say Die!

Fin’s trailer did not follow him inside, but remained watching from across the street. The Boloney Bar is always crowded, for men will make a long pilgrimage nowadays to plant their elbows on the veritable mahogany. Fin was well known there, and his friends the bartenders greeted him jovially as he passed down the line: “‘Lo, Fin!... Howsa Boy?... What’s the good word, Fin?... What’ll you have?”

To which Fin replied: “See you later, fellas. I’m lookin’ for Henny.”

“Well, you know where to find him.”

Henny Friend’s sanctum was in the corner room upstairs. Like other magnates, his days were spent in “conferences.” A diverse collection of humanity passed unobtrusively in and out every twenty-four hours. The door was always locked. Fin knocked, and Henny’s thick voice was heard from within.

“Who is it?”

“Fin Corveth.”

“Half a mo’, Fin.”

When he was ready, Henny pressed a button and the latch clicked. As Fin entered, somebody left by another door. Henny never allowed his callers to meet unless he had an object in it. A huge, toadlike hulk of flesh planted in an oversize chair behind a desk, with an over-size cigar elevated from one corner of his mouth. Notwithstanding his name, he was certainly Italian; swarthy, smooth, and expressionless. “Henny Friend” had been adopted for professional purposes in a German community. His brown eyes were as bright and hard as agate.

“Well, Kid, how’s tricks?”

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