Эрл Гарднер - The Amazing Adventures of Lester Leith

“But I don’t understand, sir. I—”

Leith silenced him with a gesture. “My time, Scuttle, is up,” he said.

Leith started for the door, and the valet rushed to hand him his topcoat, hat, and stick. In the doorway, Leith turned. “The imitation diamond rings, Scuttle,” he said, “are for a woman.”

“Yes, sir,” the spy said. “What sort of a woman, may I ask, sir?”

Lester Leith paused long enough to slit his eyes in thoughtful concentration. Then he said, almost dreamily, “A woman who knows the world, Scuttle, a woman of around sixty-five with gray hair and twinkling eyes that haven’t forgotten how to smile, a woman with a sense of humor, a broad mind, depleted fortunes, and a background of vaudeville or stock-company acting. I want an old trouper. No, no, Scuttle. Don’t bother. I’ll find her myself.”

And Leith stepped out to the elevator, slamming the door behind him.

Sergeant Ackley stared across the table at the undercover man. “That’s all of it, Beaver?” he asked.

“That’s all of it.”

“I don’t understand it,” Sergeant Ackley said. “There must be something more which you haven’t told me, Scuttle, something that you’ve overlooked, something—”

The undercover man scraped back his chair as he jumped to his feet. “Not from you,” he shouted. “I won’t take it!”

“Won’t take what?” Sergeant Ackley said, staring in bewilderment at the undercover man’s angry countenance.

“That damn name of Scuttle,” the spy roared. “Leith calls me Scuttle because he says I look like a reincarnated pirate. He Scuttles me this and Scuttles me that. I get so damn sick of it—”

“Sit down,” Sergeant Ackley said. “That’s an order.”

Slowly the undercover man sank back in the chair.

Sergeant Ackley said, “We have no time to waste with petty personalities in this department. You’re working on a big case. It’s a case that’s taken altogether too long. We want this man Leith behind bars. He’s outwitted you on a whole string of cases. He’s going to outwit you again unless you can give me a better idea of what happened.”

The undercover man sighed wearily . “I’m the one he’s outwitted,” he said sullenly.

“Yes, you,” Sergeant Ackley retorted. “Give me the facts, and I’ll put them together, work out a solution, and catch him red-handed, but you’re always overlooking something significant.”

“Well, I haven’t overlooked anything this time,” the spy said. “I’ve given you everything.”

Sergeant Ackley puckered his forehead into a frown. “Well,” he said slowly, “if you have, there’s something about those photographs — wait a minute! I have it!”

“What?” the spy asked.

“The way Alcott is holding that feather,” Sergeant Ackley said, his voice quivering with excitement. “Can’t you see it, Beaver? The whole thing lies in the way Alcott is holding that feather!”

“What do you mean?”

“Alcott got that dough,” Sergeant Ackley said, “and ditched it. He ditched it in some place of concealment where it could be picked up by a confederate. Probably he had a hole in his pocket. He put the money in his pocket and stood over a ventilator or in a dark corner of the room, and dropped it. He knew that he’d be searched and arrested, but he figured he could get the newspapers to give him a play if he had a white feather in his wallet, and claimed that it was a lucky talisman.

“Notice what happened. When he was taken to the jail and searched, they found this white feather in his wallet. He begged them to be permitted to keep that white feather with him. Well, the sergeant at the desk was too smart for that. He kept the feather, because it’s against the rules to let prisoners keep their personal property in the cells with them, but, of course, he told the newspapers about it, and, of course, the newspapers, wanting some unusual angle of human interest on Alcott, fell for the thing, lock, stock, and barrel.

“The property clerk dug out the feather, and Alcott had his picture taken. Notice the peculiar manner in which he’s holding the feather in his thumb and forefinger, with the ring finger bent down, and the middle finger and the little finger sticking up. That’s a signal, Beaver.”

Beaver bent over the newspaper photographs which Leith had seen, and which were now lying on Sergeant Ackley’s table. His manner fell considerably short of enthusiastic assent.

“Of course, that’s it,” Sergeant Ackley said, gloatingly. “You give me the facts, Beaver, and I’ll put them together!”

The undercover man said, “If it’s a signal, it’s a signal in code, and Leith wouldn’t know that code.”

“Don’t kid yourself,” Ackley retorted. “His mind is like greased lightning.”

“But I don’t think— Well, it didn’t look to me as though he’d — It was this other picture that got him interested.”

“What other one?”

“The one that was taken from a snapshot.”

“Oh, that ,” Sergeant Ackley said contemptuously. “That was before Alcott met Charles Betcher to complete arrangements for paying over the money. That picture doesn’t mean anything.”

The undercover man regarded it in thoughtful concentration.

Sergeant Ackley said, “You have to admit, Beaver, that it was something in the pictures, something Leith saw, something that the others wouldn’t see. Now this theory of mine—”

“Look!” Beaver exclaimed.

“What?” Sergeant Ackley asked.

“The bandage on the man’s head!” Beaver exclaimed.

“What about the bandage?” Sergeant Ackley asked. “He was injured in an automobile accident.”

Beaver said, “That bandage is the place where the money is concealed! Don’t you get it? He had the twenty-five one-dollar bills planted in his pocket. When they handed him the twenty-five one-thousand-dollar bills, he simply made an excuse to get his hand up near his head and slipped the bills up under the bandage. They searched him, but they didn’t think of pulling off that bandage!”

Sergeant Ackley’s piggy little eyes glittered with sudden interest. “They may not have searched that bandage at that,” he said. “But I don’t know what makes you think Leith had any clue to—”

“Don’t you see it?” Beaver shouted. “Look at the two photographs. Here’s the one that was taken after he was booked. See the bandages? Look at the strips of adhesive tape. See? There are four cross strips of adhesive on the bandage in the picture taken in the afternoon and only three in the one taken after he was booked.”

Sergeant Ackley stared at the photograph. His eyes became wide and fascinated. “Holy smoke!” he said.

“Get the sketch?” Beaver said excitedly. “Leith is planning on putting up bail and getting Alcott out of jail. He’s going to drug him or something, and while Alcott is unconscious, Leith will rip that bandage off. Then he’s going to put a new one in its place. Alcott won’t even know he’s been robbed. It will have that clever, artistic, baffling touch that characterizes all of Leith’s crimes.”

Sergeant Ackley picked up the telephone. “Get me Captain Carmichael,” he said, and a moment later, he said into the transmitter, “Captain, this is Ackley. I’ve been thinking about that Alcott case, and checking over the newspaper accounts. I noticed there were different photographs in the papers, and in studying those photographs, my eye hit upon a highly significant detail, one that I think has been overlooked... What’s that?... Yes, Captain... No, it’s apparent from the photographs... Yes, Captain. Right away.”

Sergeant Ackley hung up the telephone, and said to the undercover man, “Well, that’s all, Beaver. As I’ve told you, you get me the facts, and I’ll put them together. I’m going up to have a conference with Captain Carmichael.”