Эрл Гарднер - The Amazing Adventures of Lester Leith

“But, my dear Mrs. Randerman,” Betcher said, “I have nothing whatever to discuss with your husband.”

“He’s coming down,” she said, “bringing you a check. Goodbye.”

Betcher considered that last remark. A check for one thousand dollars involving no outlay of time or energy on his part was well worthwhile. If Mrs. Randerman wanted to pay him a thousand dollars merely to ease the strain on her husband’s nerves, it was quite all right with Charles Betcher.

He moved swiftly about the room, pulling drapes into position, lowering shades, switching out lights, making the room as dark as possible.

He heard the hobbledy-bang, hobbledy-bang of Leith’s crutch and cane in the corridor, and then there was a tap on the door.

Betcher put on his most affable smile. He opened the door, bowed suavely to Mrs. Randerman, and stood deferentially to one side as she piloted the bent figure into the room.

Mrs. Randerman said, “We’ve decided to accept your prop—”

“Not so fast! Not so fast!” Leith stormed in his high-pitched, cracked voice. “There are some questions I want to ask first.”

Mrs. Randerman said, “Can’t you understand, dear? Mr. Betcher is a busy man. All you need to do is give him the check, and he’ll give us the protection. You won’t be bothered any more seeing thieves who shadow us. Instead you’ll see Mr. Betcher’s operatives who will be constantly on the job. Won’t they, Mr. Betcher?”

She closed her eye in a quick wink, and Charles Betcher said with dignity, “When I undertake a job, I do it to the best of my ability. I have a wide, far-flung organization, Mr. Randerman. I—”

“No need to go into that,” Leith said. “If you weren’t the best detective since Sherlock Holmes, we wouldn’t consider employing you.”

Betcher said, with dignity, “Sherlock Holmes was a fictional character, Mr. Randerman. While his creator kindly allowed him to bring his fictional cases to a satisfactory solution, Sherlock Holmes would never have been able to handle the problems which confront me — almost as a matter of daily routine.”

Leith chuckled, and the chuckle was sardonic. “Bet he wouldn’t have got taken in on that Click-Fast Shutter deal,” he said.

Betcher gave an exclamation of annoyance.

Mrs. Randerman said, “Now, now, dear. Just hand him the check and—”

Leith said to her, “What are you doing here? I thought you’d gone back.”

“No, dear. I’m waiting to take you back.”

Leith pounded with his crutch. “Didn’t you leave the door of the room open and unlocked?”

Mrs. Randerman gave a gasp of dismay. “My heavens!” she said.

She jumped to her feet and raced down the corridor.

Leith turned his head in the general direction of Charles Betcher. “Where are you?” he asked. “I can’t see you.”

“Here,” Betcher said.

Leith said, “I wanted to get rid of her. I have a business proposition to make.”

“What is it?”

Leith said, “She controls the purse strings. She won’t let me have money for whiskey — claims drinking isn’t good for me. I have to chisel a little bit. I’m not a fool. I know that she’s giving you this dough, and that it’s all gravy for you. You won’t do anything except put a little glass sign on the door stating that the premises are protected by the Charles Betcher Detective Agency, Inc. Now then, how about a kickback?”

“Why, what do you mean?” Betcher asked.

“You know what I mean,” Leith said. “Here’s a check for a thousand dollars, signed by the wife. It’s payable to you. I give it to you. It’s gravy. You slip me five hundred bucks on the q.t. Everybody’s satisfied.”

Betcher said indignantly, “I’ll be a party to no such contemptible proceedings.”

“Well,” Leith said, “we might make a different division. I’ll be fair. You give me two hundred and fifty, and you keep seven fifty.” Betcher said, “Mr. Randerman, I am going to repeat this conversation to your wife.”

“No, you aren’t,” Leith cackled, in his high, shrill voice. “I’ll call you a liar. She wouldn’t believe it.”

Betcher said, “If she has given you a check for me, Mr. Randerman, pass it over. I’ll give you a receipt and take over the responsibility of your jewels. You can—”

He was interrupted by the sound of running steps in the corridor. Mrs. Randerman flung herself against the door, beating on the panels with her fists. “Quick! Come quick!” she cried. “We’ve been robbed.”

Betcher crossed the room in four swift strides, jerked open the door.

“Come quick!” Mrs. Randerman said. “They must have gone in through the door. They can’t have got far. Oh, my jewels! Come!”

She turned and ran back down the corridor. For a moment Betcher hesitated then started to run after her.

Leith called out in his high, shrill voice, “Don’t be a fool—”

The banging of the door cut off the rest of the sentence.

Betcher followed Mrs. Randerman down to her suite. The door was still ajar.

“Where were the gems?” he asked.

“Right here in this jewel box.”

“In the table drawer?”

“Yes.”

“Did you leave the door open and unlocked?”

“I’m afraid I did.”

“Who else knew that you kept them there?”

“No one,” she said, “except my husband — and perhaps the maid.”

Betcher said, “We’ll check up on the maid right away.”

He stepped to the telephone and asked the operator to connect him with the manager’s office. Then he said, in a gravely professional tone, “This is Betcher, the detective. One of my clients has suffered a loss here in the hotel. I’m very anxious to handle the matter quickly, efficiently, and without undue publicity so far as the hotel is concerned. Find the maid and the housekeeper who have this room on their list, and bring them to 409 at once. Don’t bring the house detective in on it. I don’t like house detectives. I can’t work with them.”

He hung up and turned to Mrs. Randerman.

“Now, then,” he said, “we want to keep that jewel box in a safe place. It probably contains fingerprints. I’ll have one of my fingerprint experts check them. Then we’ll get the fingerprints of the maid and the housekeeper, and— What’s this? It must be your husband.”

Mrs. Randerman said, “Oh, the poor man. The light will hurt his eyes.”

She rushed to the light switch, clicked off the lights, and said to the detective, “Pull down the curtain and draw the drapes. I’ll guide him in here.”

She ran down the corridor, and a moment later Leith stood in the doorway.

He hobbled into the room, muttering in an angry undertone. He walked across to the jewel case, shifted his cane from his left hand to his right hand, and fished in the side pocket of his coat. Abruptly he brought out a long string of pearls which he dropped into the jewel case.

“There they are,” he said.

Mrs. Randerman stared at him, speechless with surprise.

Betcher said, “What the devil’s the meaning of this?”

Leith raised his voice until it was a shrill scream of cackling accusation. “It means that you’re a fool,” he said. “You’re a poor excuse for a detective. I wouldn’t employ you to guard anything. I took those pearls with me because I wanted you to look them over. Personally, I don’t think they’re genuine. I wasn’t going to pay a thousand dollars to protect a lot of phony jewelry. My own idea is, my wife has pawned the originals and has taken advantage of my poor eyesight to substitute imitations. I won’t stand for it. I kept yelling at you that I had the necklace, but you wouldn’t listen. You were in too much of a hurry to go banging down the corridor. Now I suppose you’ve accused the maid and the chambermaid and will get me in a damage suit.”