Erle Gardner - The Seven Sinister Sombreros

Lester Leith interrupted to say: “I’m sorry if you misunderstood the ad. As a matter of fact, I am a representative of the Hawaiian-American Aesthetic Art Association with offices in the Moronia Building. It is the purpose of the organization to advance an artistic appreciation of the true aesthetic value of the Hawaiian hula dances. If you are employed, you will be doing field work for the association, and may rest assured that everything you do will advance an appreciation of the Hawaiian dances. Are you acquainted with Nano Kapiolani, the young woman who was just in here?”

“No, I have never seen her before.”

Leith gravely took from his pocket a hundred-dollar bill.

“You get the job,” he said, “but I don’t want you to tell the others.”

“But don’t you want to see me dance?” she asked. “Don’t you want—”

“It’s quite unnecessary. I can tell from the manner in which you carry yourself that you are quite proficient. This hundred dollars will cover your first week’s salary. The job may not last longer than that, but you will receive another hundred dollars in lieu of notice. And remember that you start working for me tonight, that you are to hold yourself in readiness to follow my instructions regardless of how peculiar and eccentric those instructions may seem.”

“Oh, thank you so much,” she said.

Leith nodded crisp dismissal, ushered her to the door, and nodded to the undercover man.

The next young woman was Mildred Wemomano.

“And what,” Lester Leith asked, “do you know about the hula?”

“Watch mamma,” she said.

She took off her shoes, stepped from the chair to the desk, fastened big, brown, laughing eyes on Lester Leith and began swaying in the rhythmic tempo of a South Sea Island dance.

Gradually the tempo grew more rapid.

“Here we go,” she said, “around the island. Watch.”

Folding her arms, she characterized the journey around the island in the age-old Hawaiian manner.

Lester Leith gravely took a hundred-dollar bill from his pocket.

“You’re hired,” he said. “But don’t tell the others.”

Within the next fifteen minutes, Leith had hired all the Hawaiian dancing girls, and had started interviewing cowpunchers.

Harry Lanten was the first applicant, a drawling, soft-spoken individual who walked into the room with shoes that would clump despite anything he could do, with legs that were bowed like a pair of calipers.

“What,” Leith asked, “do you know about riding mean bucking broncos?”

“I’ve ridden a few.”

“And you wear a seven-and-a-quarter size hat?”

“That’s right.”

“I see,” Lester Leith said, “that you’re exactly what I’ve been looking for. You’re hired. Here’s one hundred dollars to cover a week’s salary in advance.”

The blue, deep-set eyes, seemingly trying to crowd together past the barrier of a nose which was as protruding and businesslike as the beak of a mosquito, lighted with gratitude. “Say, buddy,” he said, “you don’t know what this means—”

“Could you,” Lester Leith interrupted his thanks, “teach me how to ride a bucking bronco?”

The thin cowpuncher surveyed him with appraising eyes. “Yes,” he said. “I know where there are a couple of horses, not downright mean uns, you know, but horses that’ll start to buck if you crowd ’em a bit.”

Leith said: “Tomorrow afternoon at three o’clock I want to take my first lesson. Have a bronco all ready for me.”

“O. K. Swell,” the man said.

Leith opened the door of his closet.

“Here,” he said, “is a little present for you. Take your pick.”

The man stared at the array of ten-gallon sombreros, grabbed one of them, felt the texture of the rim, looked in the band to be certain of the name of the maker, and then whistled.

“You mean you’re giving this to me?” he asked.

Leith nodded. “And remember,” he said, “to be on the job waiting for me to telephone. Don’t get drunk, and you hadn’t better wear cowboy togs. Just keep on your regular clothes, but you can wear this hat.”

Lanten thanked him and left, renewing his assurances of gratitude. Five minutes later, Lester Leith had hired Philip Wolsack of Arizona. Six minutes after that, Tex Sherwin of San Antonio had collected the job. Then Arthur Grebe was hired.

However, it wasn’t until shortly after noon that Beaver was able to call Sergeant Ackley.

“Hello, sergeant,” he said cautiously. “I just wanted to give you the lowdown. Apparently those ads are just run-arounds. He tried to keep anyone from knowing which one of the applicants he’d hired, but I was too smart for him. Whenever they would come out, I would take them to one side and ask them confidentially: ‘What time did Mr. Leith say you were to start work?’”

“Good work,” Sergeant Ackley said. “Whom did he hire?”

A slow grin twisted the spy’s thick lips. “He hired every damn one of them,” he said. “Remember, sergeant, you boys do the thinking. That puts it in your department. Now figure that out, and put it in your report to Captain Carmichael.” And the spy eased the receiver back on its hook.

Lester Leith, attired in leather jacket, vivid blue silk shirt with a wide, flaring collar open at the neck, leather gauntlets elaborately ornamented with hammered silver, black chaps, cowboy high-heeled boots, and ornamental belt with hammered silver conchs, came down the corridor which led to his apartment, his boot heels sounding with a rhythmic clump-clump-clump. He unlocked the door, entered the reception hallway, and started calling almost before he was through the door:

“Scuttle. Oh, Scuttle. Where the devil are you, Scuttle?”

The undercover man came running from the kitchenette.

“Yes, sir. What was it, sir? Oh, my heavens!”

“What’s the matter?” Leith asked.

The spy stared at him with wide, round eyes. “Nothing, sir, only— Pardon me, sir. A bit of a shock, sir. I’d hardly expected—”

“Tut, tut, Scuttle,” Lester Leith said. “You shouldn’t ever be surprised at anything I do. Tomorrow I’m taking lessons in riding a bucking bronco. I want to become proficient in the art, and I’ve noticed that one of the most difficult bits of cowboy technique is wearing the clothes. Tell me, Scuttle, how am I doing?”

“Yes, sir,” the spy said, gulping down his surprise. “You’re doing very well, sir. Very well, indeed, if I may say so, sir.”

“You may say so, Scuttle,” Lester Leith said. “But look at the hat.”

The valet studied the broad-brimmed sombrero.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “It’s a very becoming hat.”

“Becoming, my eye!” Lester Leith stormed. “It’s a puny, half-size, five-gallon hat. Scuttle, where the devil are those ten-gallon hats?”

“In the closet, sir.”

“Well, bring me one immediately, Scuttle. I started down to the garage to get my car before I realized that the Western outfitters who sold me this cowboy outfit had shortchanged me on the hat.”

“Yes, sir,” the undercover man said, and moved toward the closet, walking with cat-footed swiftness, despite his large frame.

When the undercover man had brought him the ten-gallon hat, Leith took off the sombrero he was wearing and put on the huge cowboy hat.

“That,” he said, surveying himself in the mirror, “is better, much better.”