Erle Gardner - The Seven Sinister Sombreros

“And Wolganheimer’s young lady friend is the hula dancer, Scuttle?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Of course, Scuttle, spies from time immemorial have been recruited from the ranks of dancers and glamour girls.”

“Yes, sir, but this young woman is hardly a professional spy. She has a record back of her of several consecutive years in the theatrical world.”

Leith nodded absent-mindedly, sat in silent concentration for a matter of some fifteen minutes. Once or twice his head moved thoughtfully in an almost imperceptible nod. His pet parakeet, venturing through the open door of its cage, fluttered around the room and then settled to rest on Leith’s shoulder where it began preening the hair around the base of his neck.

Leith said: “Scuttle, it occurs to me that one might reach an academic solution of this crime if he had certain things.”

“Yes, sir,” the spy said eagerly.

“One of the first things he would want,” Leith declared, “would be a hula dancer, one of those girls whose form is as quiveringly tremulous as jelly on a plate. One would want a large-sized monkey wrench, a secondhand automobile, a ukulele, seven cowboy hats, and a ‘human-skeleton’ broncobuster. In addition, Scuttle, he’d want a small replica of a surfboard stamped from solid gold. The border would be embellished with several small diamonds. You know what I mean, Scuttle, a small replica of a surfboard such as is used on the beach at Waikiki. And I think that would about cover the situation. Oh, yes, one thing more. It would be necessary to organize the Hawaiian-American Aesthetic Art Association. It would be necessary for the association to have offices in a downtown office building, and the association would, of course, need a president. I would say offhand, Scuttle, that you’d make a very excellent president.”

The spy stared at Lester Leith with eyes in which there was a sudden hostility. “You’re making a joke of it,” he said with dignity. “You’re trying to ridicule the whole matter, make me feel like a fool for having tried to help you find an interesting crime.”

Lester Leith shook his head. “No, I’m not, Scuttle,” he said. “Given those things, I see no reason why the case shouldn’t be carried to a satisfactory conclusion — by a private investigator, of course. The police could never do it. The trouble with the police, Scuttle, as I have pointed out to you on so many occasions, is that they are completely lacking in imagination.”

“Yes, sir,” the spy said, regaining his assumed servility with an effort. “Of course, sir, I realize that you don’t expect to be taken seriously.”

Leith said: “The devil I don’t, Scuttle! Here, take a couple of ads for the newspaper, something like this: ‘Wanted — educated, talented, beautiful hula dancer of Hawaiian extraction. Must be slender, active, graceful and supple. Wanted — thin broncobuster who can ride them when they buck, should be between five foot seven and five foot eight and weigh under a hundred pounds, wear a seven-and-a-quarter hat and be experienced in riding broncos. Excellent pay for the right party.’

“And now, Scuttle, if you’ll see about getting me a very large monkey wrench, and seven cowboy hats, I’ll attend to the rest of it myself.”

“Seven cowboy hats, sir?”

“Yes, Scuttle. Now, there are several varieties of cowboy hat. There is what is known as the two-gallon hat, the five-gallon hat, and the ten-gallon hat. I want the ten-gallon hat, Scuttle, and it should be lined with silk.”

“Any particular size, sir?”

“Seven and a quarter.”

“Do I understand, sir,” the spy asked, his enthusiasm dampened by his incredulity, “that you’re planning to solve this case of the drugged watchman by any such a collection as this?”

“Good heavens, no, Scuttle! I’m merely getting these things together so I can convince you that by using them to advantage, a person could solve the crime, that’s all.”

The spy sighed patiently. “You really wish me to put these ads in the paper, sir?”

“Yes, Scuttle. Phone them in right away. No, never mind. I’ll attend to the ads myself. And now I’m going to have a fast set of tennis with an estimable young lady. You may get out my tennis things, and I’ll hop into them and get started.”

Sergeant Ackley sat in police headquarters, his feet elevated to the edge of a somewhat scarred and battered desk. Careless cigarettes had left charred, black marks until it looked as if the edges of the desk were festooned with caterpillars. Sergeant Ackley was reading the morning paper. As he read, his lips moved soundlessly, forming the words.

He turned to the classified ads and read them mechanically. Not that he expected to find anything startling, but since Lester Leith’s surreptitious activities so frequently found a manifestation in the classified ad columns, Sergeant Ackley made it a point to glance through the “Help Wanted,” on the off-chance that he might stumble onto something.

Suddenly his eye lighted on an ad which read:

Skinny broncobuster wanted. Employment for Western cowboy broncobuster, five feet seven or five feet eight, weighing under hundred pounds, and wearing a seven-and-a-quarter-size hat. Must be able to ride them when they buck. If you dig post holes with your head, don’t apply. Only first-class, top-notch rider wanted.

Sergeant Ackley spread the newspaper down on the table, marked the place of the ad with a heavy spadelike thumbnail. While he took a knife from his pocket and cut around the edges of the ad, he jabbed a call bell; and when an officer opened the door in response to his signal, he said:

“As soon as Beaver reports, I want to talk with him.”

The officer said, “Yes, sergeant; I’m expecting him any minute now,” and withdrew.

Sergeant Ackley, fishing a black cigar from his waistcoat pocket, clamped the end between his teeth, closed down his powerful jaw muscles, wrenched the cigar free, spat out the conical end tip of tobacco, wrapped his lips around the cigar, and groped for a match. While he was looking for the match, he read through the “Help Wanted Female” column.

Suddenly he stiffened to attention, pushed his extended forefinger against the paper, and moved it slowly back and forth along the lines of the ad which read:

Opening for hula dancer who can wiggle. Squirm your way to success. Wanted, a hula dancer of Hawaiian strain, beautiful figure and dusky eyes, who can go “around the island” like nobody’s business. Girls with stiff backbones and contortional inhibitions need not apply. This position is open for a professional, native, genuine, amiable Hawaiian hula dancer. First-class pay. No references other than those you carry with you.

Sergeant Ackley once more placed the paper flat on the table, imprisoned the ad with the spatulate end of his stubby thumb, and cut around it with the blade of his knife.

He had just finished pinning the two ads together, when the officer advised him that Beaver was in the outer office, and a moment later, the huge figure of the police undercover man insinuated itself through the doorway.

“Beaver,” Sergeant Ackley said, “he’s at it again.”

“At what, sergeant?” Beaver asked.

Sergeant Ackley handed him the two ads clipped together.

“Oh, I know all about these,” Beaver said.