Эрл Гарднер - The Amazing Adventures of Lester Leith

“Okay,” said Sergeant Ackley. “Give ’m the once-over.”

The bird was held under the X-ray. The result was the same as the rest of the search — negative.

“All right,” said Sergeant Ackley, “we’ve solved the Cogley murder. That’s a good night’s work. Let’s get home, boys, it’s getting along—”

He fished mechanical fingers in his watch pocket, then let his jaw sag, his voice trail into silence as those searching fingers encountered nothing.

“My watch!” he said.

The men stared at him.

His hand darted to his necktie.

“And my pin! Good heavens! What’ll my wife...”

He paused.

In the moment of tense silence which followed, Lester Leith’s drawling voice carried a cryptic comment.

“I’m glad the young lady has an alibi,” he said.

Sergeant Ackley’s face purpled. “Shut up!” he bellowed. “I remember now, I left my pin and my watch on my dresser at home. Let’s go, boys. Get out of here. Leave the damned slicker and his canary!” And Sergeant Ackley pushed his men out into the hall, showing a sudden haste to terminate the entire affair.

Edward H. Beaver, undercover operative of the police department, detailed to act as valet to Lester Leith, suspected hijacker of stolen jewels, held up a grayish feather between his thumb and forefinger, and stared reproachfully at Ackley.

“I told you, Sergeant, that he never did anything without a reason. That canary, now...”

Sergeant Ackley banged his feet down from the desk. His face was distorted with rage.

“Beaver, you’re detailed on that suspect. You live with him, hear everything he says, know everything he does, and yet the guy keeps pulling things right under your nose. It’s an evidence of criminal incompetency on your part.”

“But,” interpolated the spy, “I suggested this about the canary before, sir. I suggested that the solution of the whole affair might be...”

“You’re all wet, Beaver. I even X-rayed the blasted canary. He couldn’t have had a thing to do with it!”

“Yes, Sergeant,” said the spy, meekly, a little too meekly, perhaps; “but I found this feather in the bottom of the cage.”

“Well, what of it?”

“It’s not the color of the canary, sir. It’s not a canary feather.”

Sergeant Ackley stared, his eyes slowly widening.

“Well, what sort of feather is it?”

“I had it classified at the Zoo. It’s a feather from a pigeon, one of the sort known as a homing pigeon. It’s barely possible that covered cage contained half a dozen homing pigeons, besides the canary, trained to go to a certain particular spot immediately upon being released. And then Lester Leith could have picked out a dozen of the most valuable stones, slipped them into sacks that were already attached to the birds’ legs, tossed the birds out of the window, and then later on, gone to the place where they had flown and picked up the diamonds. After all, we have no assurance except what Leith said that the cage contained only a canary. The cage was always covered. It may have contained homing pigeons, and...”

Sergeant Ackley glowered, bellowed his comment.

“Well, that was your business! You’re a hell of a spy if you can’t tip us off to what’s going on!”

“I warned you, Sergeant, that the canary was the key to the crime. But you overlooked the bird in the hand to go chasing off after...”

Sergeant Ackley’s chair scraped back along the floor as the big bulk of the sergeant got to its feet, as the sergeant’s face glowered down upon his subordinate.

“That’ll do, Beaver! Your suspicions are absurd, your statements incorrect, and your deductions too late. This department is interested in getting results, not in diagnosing failures. Get out!”

“Yes, Sergeant,” said Edward H. Beaver.

“And keep your mouth shut, Beaver!” warned the sergeant as the spy’s hand was on the doorknob.

The retort was a grunt, inarticulate, but hardly respectful.

Then the door banged.

Sergeant Ackley raised a hand to his necktie. His fingers caressed the smooth expanse where his diamond stickpin had formerly glistened. That spot was now bare.

Sergeant Ackley’s face was twisted into an expression which was neither prepossessing nor pleasant.

Lester Leith stood before the mirror, adjusting the white tie of his evening clothes with the deft fingers of an expert craftsman. Behind him, the police undercover man, who posed as his valet, held the tailed coat with a characteristic air of obsequious servitude.

Having adjusted the tie to suit his fancy, Leith permitted the valet to assist him with his coat, and the big undercover man made a great show of whisking a brush over the shoulders in a last, deferential gesture.

“How is it, Scuttle?” Leith asked.

“Very good, sir.”

Leith yawned, consulted his wrist watch. “Well,” he said, “there’s a good half-hour before I need to leave.”

“Yes, sir. A cocktail, sir?”

“Oh, I think not, Scuttle. Just a cigarette and a book.”

The spy, moving his huge bulk upon self-effacing tiptoes, eased over to the library table, and surreptitiously folded the evening paper so that the photograph of a smiling young man, holding a white feather between his thumb and forefinger, would be visible to anyone standing near the table.

Leith strolled over to the bookcase, selected a book, and turned back toward his favorite reclining chair. He stopped to stare at the folded newspaper.

“What the devil’s this, Scuttle?” he asked.

“Oh, I beg your pardon, sir. Rather an interesting case, sir. A man who habitually carries in his wallet a white feather.”

“A white feather, Scuttle?”

“Yes, sir. He says it brings him luck because it teaches him prudence. Whenever he’s inclined to plunge in a poker game, he looks in his wallet, sees the white feather, and is convinced that it’s prudent to play a conservative game.”

Lester Leith frowned. “It sounds like a silly system to me, Scuttle.”

“Yes, sir.”

“A man never makes anything by being conservative, Scuttle. He makes his pile by plunging. After he’s made his pile, he becomes conservative.”

Lester Leith stared again at the photograph of the thin man with a sardonic smile whose thumb and forefinger held the fluffy white feather up against the dark background formed by the iron bars of a jail door. “Who is he, Scuttle?”

“Rodney Alcott, sir.”

“And what’s he done to get himself in jail and his picture in the newspaper?”

The spy’s eyes glittered as he saw that Leith was taking the bait. “The police don’t know, sir.”

“I see,” Leith said. “Typical police methods. They don’t know what the man’s done — therefore, they throw him in jail. That’s a jail door in the background of the photograph, is it not, Scuttle?”

“Yes, sir.”

Leith concentrated his attention on the white feather shown in the picture. “How long has he had this peculiar pocket piece, Scuttle?”

“He says for more than a year. It’s always in his wallet.”

Lester Leith put down his book, and walked across his apartment to stand smoking in front of the window. The big police spy watched him with glittering, anxious eyes.

“What do the police think he’s done?” Lester Leith asked at length, without taking his eyes from the view which was framed in the window — a vista of tall, lighted buildings in the foreground, a penthouse apartment, and, far below, a crawling stream of automobiles whose headlights made them seem like a procession of fireflies.

The spy said, “The police think that he changed twenty-five one-thousand-dollar bills into twenty-five one-dollar bills.”