“Was it an ordinary solicitation, Quiribus?”

  “No, by gosh, it wasn’t, Captain Spelvin. ’Twas any­thing but! It was a pick-up, Captain, absolutely different than any you’d led me to expect. The—the darndest thing—at times I got downright puzzled as to whether it was a pick-up, or—or was on the level. The only real clue I had—for a long time—that it wasn’t—couldn’t—be on the level, is that—well that women of ordinary size, just don’t warm up, the way she did, to huge—well—behemoths like me. For to such women, Captain, people like me are as—as alien as one of those old hairy Neanderthal men were to those properly formed—well—Cro-Magnon women, if you get me; and—”

  “Whoa, Quiribus! And you told me—you had no education!”

  “I haven’t. But I—but you asked me about her approach. Her—her solicitation of me. Well, it’s been, all through, an innocuous affair—starting with her being taken faint on the street, right where she could grab out for me—and calculated to get me up into a hotel room with her—her trying, you see, to get a newspaper story, and—”

  “Probably trying—since that was the peculiar mode of attack—to lead you to seduce her—and then weep a huge pay-off out of you. Because, perhaps, of your name being on that register, and because, also, you’d know you’d be easily pickable up, by the police, on a general police call, in 30 minutes. And—”

  “You think—that’s what’s really back of her method?”

  “Well, it’s my guess, anyway. Since she didn’t use the time-honoured method her sisterhood uses with—ah—lumber­jacks! But whether or not, or isn’t, she’s no fool, Quiribus. A born actress, if not a professional one. And but here!—if she hasn’t taken money from you, then she hasn’t gone through the standard time-honoured operation of raising her skirts and jamming your bills down into her woman’s First National Bank, where she couldn’t be strong-armed out of it. And thus revealing, willy-nilly, that huge and unmistakeable blemish. So—how on earth did you ever get to see it? For good heavens, Quiribus, don’t tell me you’ve exceeded instructions—on this assignment? Not that I’ll take you to task on it—hardly—since you’ve brought home the bacon. But I—we-ell—how did you get to see that blemish?”

  “Oh, I—I just used an old and simple psychological trick, Captain Spelvin. I challenged her absolute knowledge of something, with a—dogmatic statement to the contrary. Like—well you know, Captain, if you told a mathematician that the moon was made of green cheese, he’d almost cer­tainly say that maybe it was; but if you told him that the square root of -16 was -4, he’d go straight through the ceiling; and, if it was the last thing he’d ever do, he’d correct you and prove you incorrect. So-o-o—I just chal­lenged her definite knowledge about birthmarks—her own—by a contradictory, dogmatic statement thereto—and she—well, she riz right to it!”

  “Daintily and modestly drew up her skirts a short distance—and proved you wrong?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how much, perhaps, did that alone cost you?”

  “Cost me? Why Captain Spelvin, I haven’t even touched the initial $25 cash expenses you’ve given me yet. They’re still in my rear trousers pocket, under my handker­chief. Thus far, I’ve operated solely on my own silver change—less than a dollar and a half!”

  “So help me, man, your honesty will ruin you yet!” Now the man on the other end was reflectively silent. Then resumed. “Well, I hardly dared to even dream you’d land her this quickly: I thought, even if you were successful, that it might take a number of days, at the very least. So I’m sorry for you because, as I warned you—”

  “Don’t be, Captain. For to tell you the truth, I’m glad the case is at an end. For I’m just not fitted to play out a part. The words I have to say just choke up—in my throat. For, playing with mathematics all my life the way I have, I—mathematics, you know, is something where everything is on the table—nothing hidden—nothing—I mean, Captain, that everything in a situation is expressed, if and when you set it forth mathematically—every aspect of it is presented—every—so what I’m trying to say is that I’m used only to playing in situations where the cards are on the table. Mine included! I have to be on the up-and-up—or feel like a dog. And if it hadn’t been that all this was in a good cause, I’m afraid I’d have tossed up the sponge—before I even went on very much further.”

  “Quiribus Brown’s Last Case, eh?” laughed the other.

  “Well, you know the only reason I ever even took on the case. It was to be with you folks—for a while, anyway—just in case—”

  “Yes, I know, poor chap. But those kind of cases just don’t happen. And now you’ve wound up your own pro­fessional detective career. By being too pickable-uppable—at least in this case—and by being too honest to keep it under your hat for a couple of weeks. Well, Quiribus, that was one reason of the two reasons I hired you—a fact. You know the one reason. The other was—that you looked 100 per cent honest. And—but all right, old man—we’ll get down to business now. Where is she now?”

  “We’re talking—and that’s all—in a room in—well, here is the set-up—as best I can give it. For you cautioned me about noting landmarks at all times. Well, there was a tavern right where I was solicited—but it had no name. But there’s a hotel door right next it, that I did note well—and we’re in that hotel. The hotel’s in about the north quarter of the block. And–”

  “One of those places, Quiribus, where the stairway runs all the way from the front street to the back—and you can see up it many, many flights?”

  “Why yes! Do you know this particular—”

  “Typical World’s Columbian Exposition Era building, Quiribus. Tossed up along that whole stretch, in the late ’80’s, to take care of the visitors to Chicago. And always built like that, for some reason. Oh, there’s a dozen exactly like that. And—but you have the name—or number?”

  “There was no number on the doorway. But the word ‘Palace’ was above the word ‘Hotel.’”

  “Oh, it’s in the bag then. We’ll find it easily. Go ahead?”

  “Well, we’re in a room on the top story—and at the top of that long stairway. It has a crude 49 painted on the door, but you can’t see that till the door’s opened, and gets the light from the window. But the door faces the stairway post. That’s how you can’t miss it. So—is all clear?”

  “Fully so. I get the layout perfectly. Palace Hotel. Room 49, but facing the stairway top. I’ll send over two men at once. Now you get back up there, Quiribus, and keep your back towards that door—in case she gets suspicious. For if she does—and gets away from you—well, she’ll be a flown birdie, so far as Chicago’s concerned, and—”

  “She won’t,” countered Quiribus. “I guarantee it. She just couldn’t.”

  “Well, hold the fort then.”

  They hung up together.

  Quiribus left the booth, and ascended the stairs thought­fully. Tapped a single tap on the door, out of pure courtesy, then opened it.

  The girl still sat back on the bed where she had been when he had left her, loaning back against the pillows. Her cigar­ette was smoked out, its lipstick-tinged butt snuffed out in the glass tray, now shoved some distance off across the bed. But she had, he saw, while he had been gone, risen, and poured two more glasses of ginger-ale. For the empty bottle now stood on the floor at the side of the bed, showing itself glaringly to have been divested of its contents to the very last drop. Her glass, half emptied, stood in a little firm indentation she’d made for it upon the bed. His, with the identifying nick in the edge, stood, brimming, atop his chair. Not a drop spilled!

  “I poured your glass of champagne, dear new-found friend,” she greeted him cheerfully.

  He shot the bolt of the door. Came over. Took the waiting glass in his hand. Sat down.

  “Did you get your man?” she asked languidly.

  “Oh yes—yes. Had to hold the wire though—till he came on.” Quiribus did not say his wait on the wire had been only 5 seconds. He dismissed the ticklish subject hastily. Raised his glass. She grabbed hers, and raised it.

  “Well,” he said, “here’s to your devilish—but by the way, how is all that devilishness—you felt a little while back?”

  She did not answer, but waited for him to drink. And only when he appeared to be waiting solely on her reply did she answer him.

  “Well, Big Man, it—it sort of flickered out—for the time being—because you—you left me. But now that you’re back—” She smiled at him. “So drink your champagne—to my devilishness—such as ’tis.” And putting her half glass to her lips, she drained it, perhaps to show him.

  He had again raised his glass to his lips, but again held off.

  “I reckon,” he said appraisingly, “that I better hold on to this a few minutes—till I’ve the thirst that’ll make me appreciate it. Yes, I will.” And he lowered it to his knee.

  She looked irritated. And it even showed slightly in her response.

  “Wish,” she said, almost sarcastically, “I could send you a—a sort of hot breeze off the Sahara Desert—or some­ thing—that would make you thirsty. But unfortunately I—”

  “Oh—you want to help out—on that?” he said jovially. “Well—just tell me that story I said I was going to make you tell me—the story of your life. I guess it’s a bug of mine—life stories—but they—” He looked downright apologetic. “Fact is, the minute I get really wrapped up in a story by anybody of their life, I start reaching out for anything wet! That’s—that’s my hot breeze—off the desert.”

  “Is it?” she returned, now cheerfully pleasant again, downright charmingly agreeable once more. “Okay—it’s a dea—that is, Quiribus, it’s yours—for the asking.”

  And with the faintest of ironic smiles on her lips, she began:

  “Well, Quiribus, to begin with, I was—even as they say in the novels!—born in London, of poor but honest parents. Yes, an English gal—me. But we came over to America early, my people and I; so, to all intents and purposes, I’m an American just like you. Well, we settled in Binghampton New York; and then—”

  It was a truly amazing story she told. The most checkeredly fantastic Quiribus had ever heard. From what he knew about this girl’s life, he knew full well that the story was made up of countless episodes, related to her—probably fabricated to her—by countless other girls like herself, inmates of disorderly houses, street women, whatnot—all run together into a weird fanfare of incidents for his delecta­tion.

  A number of times Quiribus raised his glass to his lips. Each time he did, she stopped—half-way, anyway. To give him time to drink. But each time he fascinatedly postponed that operation. Returning the glass to his knee with just the words: “Go on, Gertrude—do go on.”

  And she was still narrating, though biting her lips a bit during certain interims, even looking downright desperately angry once or twice, and was up to the point where her uncle after marrying a girl 40 years his junior, was killed by a dyna­mite bomb somebody had mailed him, when two sharp knocks sounded on the door of the room.

  She stopped dead. In the very middle of a sentence. Looked with momentarily narrowed, questioning eyes at Quiribus. Her face had grown suddenly hard.

  “Now what—do you suppose—” she queried.

  Then, in the direction of the door, and very businesslike, she called out:

  “Who’s there?”

  “Detectives,” came a man’s voice. “Open up!”

  “Detec—” She had sat quickly up on the side of the bed. Now turned to Quiribus.

  “Damn you, you big ox—you’re a stooge for the dicks, aren’t you? You’ve rung up the cops, and—”

  “I’m—I’m not a detective,” said Quiribus—knowing well he wasn’t!—with this case at an end. He had set his un-tasted glass hastily down on the floor. Had stood up, too. She, also, was now standing up.

  “Oh yes you are,” she bit out. Gone were all her smiles, all her pleasantness of a few minutes back. “That phone call you made—your trying to catch the story of my life—but which you didn’t catch, you—you big lug—for there wasn’t a word of truth in it—that all places you as a cops’ stooge or else a–”

  “But—but see here, Gertrude,” Quiribus managed troubledly to put in, “try to remember, won’t you, that only a few minutes back you and I—”

  “Oh, don’t Gertrude me, you big hulk of man flesh! Did you think—for a minute—that a woman would really be hot and bothered—about a monster like you? You’re just a big dull stupid oaf—a—a—tree-chopping machine—like all your brother tree-choppers. And—”

  Another knock came.

  And it electrified the girl into sudden unexpected action. For, lightning like, she stepped forward, and deliberately kicked over the glass of ginger-ale Quiribus had set down on the floor. Its contents poured forth from the overturned glass—became, in a trice, nothing more than a great damp area on the carpet. Her gaze, flashing appraisingly to the window for a moment, held in itself supreme satisfaction—feline triumph. And Quiribus, automatically following it, saw even from where he stood, that the lock of the window which, when they had entered the room, had been locked, was now unlocked, showing that the window had been raised a few inches anyway while he was out; something perhaps thrown out; something—But she was speaking in his direction, contemptuously triumphant.

  “Well, what you standing there for, you big Hippo? Why don’t you open up—for those cop superiors of yours?” Quiribus, with a sigh, stepped to the door. Drew the bolt. And threw it open.

  Two men stood there. One with close-cropped grey moustache and steel-grey eyes. One thin of face, blue-eyed, thoughtful, even intelligent. Not precisely the faces of policemen. The grey-moustached man took in the girl gravely, unsmilingly, from head to foot. A half-nod eman­ated from him as though something tallied with something, in his mind’s eye.

  And she, black eyes flashing, spoke to them. “Well, coppers—what do you think you’re going to charge me with, heh? Why—this man hasn’t even got his necktie off. And me—you don’t see me all in readiness to do any striptease, do you? I’m all clothed. Why, you damned—” She turned to Quiribus, and then and there did something that only a woman—with a woman’s perfect gauging of a man’s inward character—would have dared to have done. “Quiribus,” she said, neither entreatingly, nor beggingly, “please forgive me—for—for blowing my top a minute ago—I had the heebie-jeebies—so skip it will you?—but you’ll swear in court, won’t you, Quiribus, that we were just as we are now—when your cop superiors came in on us?”

  “Gladly,” he said. “If that is, you’ll want me to.” Relief spread over her face. She turned back to the two newcomers. Who, meanwhile, had stepped inside the room and shoved the door quietly but firmly to.

  “All right, coppers! You’ve got an honest square-shooting stooge anyway. And he’ll never play in—with any phoney charges. And if you think to find anything on me—like knockout drops—then search me—while he watches!” And she thrust out her arms from her sides triumphantly.

  “We’re not coppers,” said the grey-moustached man. “So we’ll not even bother to search you.”

  “Not coppers, heh?” she retorted, almost jeeringly. “Well what the hell, and who the hell, are you then?”

  “We’re operatives—from the Spelvin National Private Detective Agency—owned by former Army Captain Frank Spelvin—with home office here in Chicago.”

  “Detective—agency? Well, what the hell of it? You’re here—to arrest me—so why—”

  “No, Isabelle,” said the grey-moustached man, “we’re not here—to arrest you. We’re here—to send you back home to Stockton, California. After one of the toughest secret searches ever made over the U.S.A. You’ve come, Isabelle, into a million dollars. So put on your things now—and let’s go!”

  CHAPTER IV

  Paid Off!

  Quiribus Brown, seated in the private office of Captain Frank Spelvin, of the Spelvin National Detective Agency, ruefully fingered the $10 bill which con­stituted the fee that abruptly terminated his first profes­sional connection in Chicago.

  Gone from his huge person was the specially and hastily made lumberman’s plaid jacket which he had worn on South State Street a while earlier; also the blue and orange striped knitted cap. And both of which now lay, almost forlornly, across an empty chair. And Quiribus again wore his own black coat, tailored likewise specially for his own form; his own outsized grey felt hat lay nearby.

  Captain Frank Spelvin, a slender grey-clad man of no more than 50 years of age, with kindly face and with the very premature silver in his closely-cut hair that his voice bespoke, and seated at a huge hand-carved mahogany desk provided with three telephones and a loud desk-speaker, was himself now speaking.

  “Really amazing, Quiribus,” Captain Spelvin was saying, shaking his head, “that after my leaving Chicago for the very last searching point, Chicago should be—where we’d find her. And find her—great heavens!—on the very first shot out of the box—with the first operative tried—your­self! You certainly earned that $10 one-day’s fee there, man—but here—” He drew open a noiselessly sliding drawer in the desk, took from it a flat black japanned tin box, and from the box—from some money it contained—extracted a crisp bill which he slid down the desk. “Don’t forget,” he said smilingly, as he replaced the box, and closed the drawer, “that there was also—a little matter of a $100 bonus—if you landed her. And there ’tis!”

  “Oh,” said Quiribus wearily, not even attempting to take the money,” I don’t want the bonus, Captain Spelvin. Money wasn’t my problem when I happened in here—just as I explained at the time; and it isn’t now. I—I only wish it was, that’s all. For then I could—” He sighed.

  “No,” he repeated, “money’s not my problem, Captain Spelvin, at all. And I only took this job, which you seemed to think was a ‘natural’ for me, in order to be around here for a few weeks—or maybe even months!—while maybe the requisite—well, puzzle—such as my training could be used on—would break—and thus at last give me a chance to solve the rotten problem that really does confront—”

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26