Эрл Гарднер: The Vanishing Corpse

There was much distinctly feline about the ability of Sidney Zoom to prowl around in dark places. He had a catfooted silence of motion, and his eyes had that peculiar quality of adjustment which enabled him to see in the dark.

More — he loved the mysteries of dark side streets, of deserted wharves.

Micky O’Hara, the officer who had the waterfront beat that embraced Piers 44 to 59, had grown accustomed to the gaunt form that appeared mysteriously from the darkness, strode silently across lighted patches, and disappeared in gloomy blotches of shadow. Always that figure was accompanied by an alert police dog which padded faithfully at the side of his master, ears, eyes and nose keenly aware of the activities of the night.

For Sidney Zoom’s yacht was moored at the foot of Pier 47, and dog and master could never sleep without a midnight patrol of the dark places.

Long ago Officer O’Hara had given up trying to chat with the aloof figure. Zoom’s strange personality contained a grimness that was a wall of defense to friendly advances. Only his secretary, Vera Thurmond, with her woman’s instinct, had learned that back of this wall was a vast yearning, a loneliness of soul which craved companionships the personality repelled.

To the world Sidney Zoom was a mystery, a strange man who came and went, who aided misfortune, yet detested weakness.

On this summer night the darkness had a velvet texture, a warm lure of hinted adventure. Officer O’Hara patrolled his lonely beat with a sense of physical well-being, yet with an inner restlessness.

A hundred yards ahead of him, the darkness of an alley between wharves seemed to move with black life. The officer stopped stock-still. The darkness churned with silent motion.

The officer slipped well toward the walls of the dock buildings and started to walk rapidly, noiselessly.

When he had covered some thirty yards, he saw a stalking figure move out of the patch of darkness. Beside that figure, padding stride for stride, came the form of a tawny police dog, well-muscled, steel-tendoned.

Officer O’Hara’s hand came away from his hip. He sighed.

There was no use accosting Sidney Zoom, or giving him a greeting.

The police dog flung his head in a half circle of listening attention and growled. Then, as the warm night breeze carried the scent of Officer O’Hara to the dog’s nostrils, the throaty growl subsided, and the dog gave his tail a brief wag.

So much he gave by way of friendly greeting, and no more. The dog reflected the personality of his master.

Sidney Zoom did not even look around, but strode across the lighted sidewalk to the next alley which opened between the rambling buildings, the littered wharves, and vanished, swallowed in the shadows.

Sometimes Officer O’Hara patrolled those wharf alleys. Upon such occasions he took out his electric flashlight and sent the beam cutting through the thick darkness. For it was like the inside of a pocket in those gloomy passageways, at one end of which the lighted street showed as a golden oblong, at the other end of which the lap-lapping of waters gave forth a sound of ceaseless mystery.

But Sidney Zoom made his way through the darkness with sure-footed stealth, a shadow within shadows, a bit of moving darkness against the black blob of night.

Officer O’Hara had come almost even with the alley mouth into which Zoom and his dog had disappeared when he heard a sudden scream, the patter of swift-running feet.

He stepped back, flattened against the wall of one of the rambling structures, reached for his night stick and made sure that his revolver was loose in its holster.

From the mouth of the alley, plunging from the darkness into the light of the street, came a swift figure. It ran with the light agility of a startled deer.

Officer O’Hara jumped forward.

“Halt!” he yelled.

The running man gave one frightened glance, then burst into fresh speed.

O’Hara tried to give chase.

He sighed as he realized the futility of his efforts. Running with a flatfooted stride in which main strength and awkwardness predominated, he was no match for the slender figure that slipped along the pavement like a wild thing.

O’Hara pulled out his blue steel weapon and prepared to fire a shot in the air. If that wasn’t sufficient...

There was a swirl of motion behind him.

The night gave forth a soft tattoo of beating feet. The police dog went past him like a flash of light.

Officer O’Hara lowered his gun and slowed his speed.

He could hear the pad of cushioned feet on the pavement, claws scraping cement, and then the running figure gave one frantic glance of alarm, one more scream.

The police dog went into the air like a steel spring. The shoulder of the dog crashed against the back of the running figure, and the momentum of that impact sent the runner staggering, off balance.

A stumble, and the man was down.

The dog stood over him, fangs bared, a rumbling growl coming from the throat. Yet his ears were cocked, alert and interested.

There was another rush of motion.

For the second time a sprinting body hurtled past Officer O’Hara. This time it was Sidney Zoom, running easily.

“Watch out! He may have a gun!” panted the officer.

But Sidney Zoom gave the warning no heed.

He sprinted up to the sprawled figure and made a gesture with his hand. The dog, obedient to that gesture, drew back.

“Get up,” said Sidney Zoom.

At that moment Officer O’Hara arrived.

“What’s — it — all — about?” he asked, panting heroically after his sprint.

But the question was unanswered. The figure rolled to its side, pillowed a head in an arm and started to sob.

“A hell of a guy!” said O’Hara, staring scornfully at the slight form that was a huddle of black on the sidewalk, shaking with sobs. “Get up!”

And he reached a brawny hand to the collar of the coat.

The paunchy weight of the officer, which had hindered him as a runner, gave him the advantage here. As a steel derrick lifts a weight, the strong arm of the policeman hoisted the slender figure up to its feet and to the light.

“B’gosh!” exclaimed the officer as the cap fell off and a shock of coppery hair dropped to the shoulders. “It’s a woman — a slip of a girl!”

Sheer surprise held him speechless.

She was dressed in the clothes of a man, just a trifle too large for her. Her eyes were dark with terror. The lips were pale, the cheeks chalky. She was young, and yet there was an air of self-reliance about her, despite the white terror which gripped her.

Officer O’Hara had within him a paternal streak, but the years of pavement pounding as an officer had dulled his sympathies.

“Now then, young lady,” he growled, “out with it!”

But the girl shook her head. Despite her fear there was determination in that headshake.

“Who are you?”

Another shake of the head.

“What were you doing here?”

Silence.

“Why did you run?”

More silence.

Officer O’Hara produced his handcuffs. The streetlight glittered from the nickeled steel.

“I’ll be putting the bracelets on yez, and callin’ the wagon,” he said.

This threat had always before been more than sufficient to crash through the silence of any woman. But, in this case, the threat was in vain. The girl stood, slender, silent, uncomplaining. The fear was still in her eyes, but her lips were clamped with decision.

“Perhaps,” said Sidney Zoom, “we can go back to the wharf and see what she was doing.”

It was the first time he had spoken. His voice held a peculiar timbre, something of the same quality which makes the blood quiver at the sound of a tom-tom beating, or the booming of an African drum as it throbs out of the jungle darkness.