Эрл Гарднер - The Amazing Adventures of Lester Leith

“Of course they fit in,” Leith said.

“I’ll get busy right away, sir.”

Leith sat down on the edge of the bed. “I wonder,” he said, “if I could get along as a fat man.” He stripped off his pajamas, rolled them into a ball, and placed them against his stomach.

“Too lumpy, sir,” the spy said.

Leith nodded. He took a pillow from the bed, held it up against his front. “How’s that, Scuttle?”

“Better, sir.”

Leith said, “Is there more of that adhesive tape in the place, Scuttle?”

“Yes, sir.”

Leith said, “We’ll tape this pillow to my stomach. No, never mind, Scuttle. I’ll hold it in place with my hands. You can take my waist measurement and my chest measurement. Get a tape measure and measure me for that suit.”

The spy started for the door of the bedroom with alacrity. “You’re never going to regret this, sir,” he said.

Leith, still holding the pillow against his middle, said, “I’m quite sure I won’t, Scuttle. And don’t forget the cane, the crutch, the mustache, and the wig.”

Lester Leith, standing in front of the mirror, said, “How do I look, Scuttle?”

The spy surveyed the portly form which seemed so incongruous with the finely-chiseled features of Lester Leith. The walrus mustache and the dark-lensed glasses furnished an added touch of the bizarre. “Very nice, sir, and considering the manner in which we purchased the suit, it fits you very nicely, sir.”

Leith nodded. “Now,” he said, “if you’ll get a taxicab, I’ll join Mrs. Randerman in Betcher’s hotel, and we’ll see just how good a detective he is.”

“Yes, sir,” the spy said, and moved over to pick up the telephone.

A taxi took Lester Leith to the hotel where Mrs. Randerman had already registered. Leith was escorted by a bellboy to the suite which she had reserved for herself and husband.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Ready,” she said.

Leith took the cane which she handed him, sat down in an easy chair, adjusted his dark glasses and the false mustache. She said, “I think a little greasepaint would put some lines in your face. Permit me.”

With the deft skill of one who who has studied the art of makeup, she etched wrinkles in the contours of his face.

When she had finished, she stepped back and eyed her work with approval. “Not so bad,” she said. “You’ll get by in a darkened room.”

“Under those circumstances,” Leith observed, “let’s darken the room.”

She drew the heavy drapes across the windows and switched out the electric lights.

Leith said, “Now, go ahead and call him.”

She stepped to the telephone and said, “I’d like to communicate with Charles Betcher, please. This is Mrs. Randerman in 409.”

She hung up the telephone and waited. A few minutes later, when the bell shattered the silence, she picked up the receiver and said, “Yes?... Oh, Mr. Betcher, this is Mrs. Randerman. I’m in 409 in the hotel. I understood that you were staying here. In fact, that’s one of the reasons I picked this hotel. My husband is neurotic. He’s going blind. He’s crippled with arthritis, and is commencing to get complexes of persecution. Recently he’s become obsessed with the idea that someone is going to steal my jewelry. I’ve tried to assure him that it’s all foolishness, but... What’s that?... A doctor? Oh, but you don’t understand, Mr. Betcher. I’ve already seen the doctor, and the doctor suggested that I get in touch with you. The doctor says that we should humor him as much as possible... That’s very kind of you, Mr. Betcher. We’d be willing to pay a very substantial fee if you would just drop in for a consultation and assure us that you’ll put men on the job. You won’t need to do it, of course, just promise.

“You see, my husband is in rather a peculiar mental condition. His appearance is somewhat unusual, and whenever anyone turns to look at him, he thinks that it’s a gem thief shadowing us to find the best method of getting my jewels. Now, if you could assure him that you were going to protect us, then whenever anyone turned to look at him on the street, I could tell him that it was one of your operatives, a detective who was keeping us under surveillance so that no crook could get near us... That will be very kind of you... Could you come right away, please?... Thank you... I will be most generous.”

She hung up the phone and said to Lester Leith, “Okay, he’s coming.”

Leith said, “All right. Switch on the lights. I’ll go in the bedroom. Remember your lines.”

She turned to stare at him sharply. “Look here,” she said. “This isn’t illegal, is it?”

Leith smiled. “Not if you do exactly as I tell you,” he said, “and don’t ask any questions. In that way, the responsibility rests wholly on my shoulders.”

She said, “Okay, get in that bedroom.”

A few moments later Charles Betcher, a portly, dignified man who had cultivated an air of pompous infallibility, knocked on the door. Mrs. Randerman admitted him.

“Oh, I’m so glad you came personally, Mr. Betcher. You don’t know what it’s going to mean to me. My husband, of course, has heard of your reputation. He thinks that aside from Sherlock Holmes you’re the greatest detective who ever lived.”

Betcher cleared his throat. “Sherlock Holmes,” he said, “lacked many of the qualities of a great detective. However, we’ll let it pass, madam. It is a pleasure to me to be of service.”

“Come in and sit down,” she invited.

Betcher strutted pompously across the room and settled his bulk into the most comfortable chair. His eyes drifted to Mrs. Randerman’s fingers. “I see that you believe in wearing your jewelry,” he said.

“Oh yes,” she replied. Then she laughed and said, “I don’t care a thing in the world about the jewelry. It’s an ornament. Of course, it’s valuable, but I see no reason why a person should ruin her pleasure worrying over her valuables.”

“Very commendable,” Betcher said.

“I think you understand about my husband,” Mrs. Randerman said.

“I am familiar with that type of psychosis. My work as a detective involves a knowledge of medical jurisprudence.”

Mrs. Randerman said impulsively, “How interesting it must be — how exciting!”

Betcher nodded, slipped a cigar from his pocket, cut off the end, and crossed his legs.

“How much service,” he asked, “do you want?”

“I don’t want you to do a thing about the stones,” she said, “just allay my husband’s nervousness.”

Betcher said, “I take it you want to use my name?”

“Yes.”

Betcher cleared his throat. “Experience has shown that when crooks learn I am protecting a client, the possibility of theft is greatly decreased. We would, of course, have to take that into consideration in fixing the er... er... remuneration,”

“I should expect to,” Mrs. Randerman said.

Betcher regarded her in studious contemplation. “What,” he asked, “are your gems worth?”

Mrs. Randerman patted her hair with her fingers. The imitation stones glittered into dazzling streaks of blurred light. “Oh,” she said airily, “not a great deal — that is, it wouldn’t make a great deal of financial difference if we should lose them, but it’s what they stand for. They’ve become an obsession with Mr. Randerman.”

Betcher said, “Are there just your rings?”

“Oh, no,” she said. “I have quite a few other jewels. For instance, there’s this.”

She reached into the table drawer, took out a jewel case, and from it held up a long rope of pearls.

Betcher showed that he was properly impressed. He started forward to inspect the jewels.

Mrs. Randerman coughed.