Erle Gardner: The Monkey Murder

“Any photographs of him?”

“Yes, sir. Here’s one, sir.”

Leith studied the photograph of the thin hatchet face, prominent cheekbones, and large eyes. “Rather young to be a chauffeur, isn’t it, Scuttle?”

“I don’t think he’s so young, sir. It’s because he’s thin that he looks young; the effect of a slender figure, you know.”

“I see,” Leith said, frowning thoughtfully. “And after the monkey was killed, he was slit open?”

“That’s right, cut almost in two, and then tossed back into the car. Mainwaring said he’s been afraid all along that an attempt would be made on the monkey’s life by some religious fanatic. He said that the monkey was a temple monkey, that his life was supposed to have been consecrated to the priests of Hanuman. He says that in India when a monkey has been so consecrated and then leaves the temple, the priests consider it a desertion just as they do when a priest has consecrated his life to the monkey god and then tries to leave the temple and take up life somewhere else.”

“Sounds like a barbarous custom, Scuttle.” Lester Leith said.

“Yes, sir, it is, sir. Oh, quite.”

“Any other witnesses, Scuttle?”

“None who saw the man’s face, sir. A young woman glimpsed a very fat, paunchy man with a mask which concealed his entire face driving a car. She couldn’t even tell the make of the car, however. She thought it was a sedan. The car the man used was, in reality, a coupe. It had been stolen about six o’clock in the evening. Because the man took such pains to conceal all of his skin, the police deduce he must have been swarthy.”

Leith grinned.

“Aided in that deduction, of course, Scuttle, by the chauffeur’s statement.”

“Yes, sir, I suppose so, sir. But Mainwaring and the nurse both thought he was a native of Southern India, you’ll remember, sir.”

Lester Leith held up his hand for silence. “Wait a minute, Scuttle; I want to think.”

For several seconds he sat rigid in the chair, his face an expressionless mask, his eyes slitted in thought. The valet-spy, his big form perched on the edge of the chair, regarded Lester Leith thoughtfully.

Suddenly Lester Leith said: “Scuttle, let me have the telephone book, and find out what trains pull out of the Ninety-third Street Station between seven and nine thirty in the evening. Get me the information at once.”

“Very good, sir,” the spy said, vanishing in the direction of the soundproof closet in which the telephone was housed.

Five minutes later, he was back with the information. “A train leaving the central depot at seven twenty, sir, stops at Ninety-third Street at seven fifty, at Belting Junction at eight ten, at Robbinsdale at eight thirty, and at Beacon City at nine thirty. After that, it becomes a limited train and makes no stops until after midnight. Those other stops are merely for the purpose of taking on suburban passengers.”

Leith said: “Very well, Scuttle. Plug in the telephone extension, and put the desk phones over here.”

When the spy had done so, Lester Leith called the baggageman at Belting Junction, and said: “Hello, I’m trying to trace a suitcase which was checked through on the train which leaves Central Depot at seven twenty in the evening. This suitcase went forward on the evening of the thirteenth, and has not been claimed. I have reason to believe it was checked to your depot.”

“Who is this talking?” the baggageman asked.

“This is the claim adjuster’s office,” Leith said. “Shake a leg.”

“Just a minute,” the baggageman said. And then after a few moments, he reported,

“No, there’s no such suitcase here.”

“Thank you,” Leith said, and hung up.

He called the station agent at Robbinsdale, made the same statement, and secured the same answer. But at Beacon City, the situation was different. The baggageman said:

“Yeah, we’ve got a suitcase here. It came on that train, and has never been called for. I’ve been charging storage on it at the rate of ten cents for every twenty-four hours, after it was uncalled for forty-eight hours. What do you want me to do with it?”

“Describe the suitcase,” Leith said.

“Well, it’s cheap, split-leather suitcase,tan, with straps. It’s rather large.”

“Any initials on it?” Leith said.

“Yes, there are the initials A.B.C. in black on both ends of the suitcase.”

“Well,” Leith said, “a man will probably call for it tomorrow. He won’t have his claim check. Make him deposit a bond of fifty dollars and describe the contents, then give him the suitcase.”

“It’ll be all right to give it to him if he doesn’t have the check?” the baggage agent asked.

“Yes, if he describes the contents, and if he puts up a fifty-dollar bond. The check’s been lost, and this party claims the baggageman here put a wrong check on it. I don’t think he did, but anyhow we’ve located the suitcase, and that’s all that’s necessary. He’ll be out tomorrow. In the meantime you open the suitcase, familiarize yourself with the contents, and don’t let anyone who can’t describe those contents have the suitcase. That’s important.”

Lester Leith hung up the telephone, and nodded to the spy.

“I think, Scuttle,” he said, “that the situation is now greatly clarified.”

“What do you mean, sir?” the spy asked.

Leith said: “Has it ever occurred to you, Scuttle, that Mainwaring resorted to rather aclever trick? Before he landed, he opened the mouth of the monkey and forced those emeralds into the monkey’s stomach, probably intending to kill the monkey himself and remove the stones when he had reached his home. However some clever holdup man, who deduced what must have happened, swooped down on him, killed the monkey, cut the animal open, and took out the stones. Mainwaring naturally isn’t in a position to make a complete explanation to the police because then he’d be guilty of smuggling and subject to a fine. So he had to put the best face he could on the matter and make up this cock-and-bull story about the priests of Hanuman following the monkey and exacting his life as a sacrifice.”

“Good heavens, sir! You’re right!” the spy exclaimed.

“Of course I’m right,” Leith said, frowning slightly. “Don’t seem so surprised, Scuttle. I have shown what is, after all, only very ordinary intelligence.”

“But what happened to the gems, sir?”

Lester Leith stared thoughtfully into space for several seconds. At length he said: “In order to answer that question, Scuttle, I would require two specially constructed canes, four imitation emeralds, a package of cotton, and a gum-chewing secretary.”

“You’ve already asked me to get the secretary,” the spy suggested.

“So I have,” Leith said, “so I have.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, sir, what type of cane did you have in mind?”

“I would need two canes, identical in appearance,” Lester Leith said, “two very large canes with hollow handles; that is, there must be a receptacle hollowed out in the handle of each cane. This receptacle must be capable of concealing two of the imitation emeralds; and one cane must have a telescopic metal ferrule so it can be extended and locked into position, or telescoped back and locked into position. Aside from that, both canes must be exactly alike.”

The spy blinked his eyes. “I don’t see what that has to do with it, sir,” he said.

Leith smiled. “After all, Scuttle, the gumchewing secretary is of prime importance. However, Scuttle, I think I’ve exercised my wits enough for this afternoon. I believe I have a dinner engagement?”

“Yes, sir. That’s right, sir. But when do you want these canes, sir?”