Chapter 1

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_Title:_ The Folded Paper Mystery
_Date of first publication:_ 1930
_Author:_ Hulbert Footner (1879-1944)
_Date first posted:_ Nov. 25, 2020
_Date last updated:_ Nov. 25, 2020
Faded Page eBook #20201158

This eBook was produced by: Al Haines, Jen Haines & the online
Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net

[Cover Illustration]

_A Crime Club Book_

Nick Peters was a repairer of watches, sole proprietor of a little store
in Fourth Street—a strange little man, a bit of a philosopher too, and
fond of friendly arguments with Fin Corveth, a free-lance journalist.
One day Peters is murdered, and Corveth finds himself involved in a
baffling mystery in which a little brass ball plays an important
part—for the little brass ball conceals an emerald locket, which in
turn conceals a blank square of folded paper, which obviously holds a
secret . . . but what?

[Illustration]

H. C. O’NEILL _SAYS_:
“Mr. Hulbert Footner is a practised hand.”
_IN THE OBSERVER._

THE DAILY SKETCH _SAYS_:
“Most thrilling . . . exciting incidents in every chapter.”

THE SUNDAY EXPRESS _SAYS_:
“Unfolded with skill.”

_By the Same Author_

EASY TO KILL THE DOCTOR WHO HELD HANDS
THE VELVET HAND THE VIPER
A SELF-MADE THIEF MADAME STOREY
THE UNDER DOGS OFFICER! RAMSHACKLE HOUSE
THE SUBSTITUTE MILLIONAIRE
THE DEAVES AFFAIR THE OWL TAXI
QUEEN OF CLUBS

* * * * *

[Illustration: THE
FOLDED PAPER
MYSTERY

HULBERT FOOTNER
Author of “Officer,” etc.

_A Crime Club Book_
LONDON 48 PALL MALL
W. COLLINS SONS & CO LTD
GLASGOW SYDNEY AUCKLAND]

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 amidst 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, toad-like hulk of flesh
planted in an over-size 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?”