Double or Quits

by Erle Stanley Gardner

  “Then I misunderstood you, I thought things were going satisfactorily.”

  “Not on the money end,” Mrs. Croy said, and then sucked in her breath as though she wished to recall the words. Timkan scowled.

  I said, “I’m not trying to pry into your business. I was just making a suggestion, that’s all. Can I do anything else?” She looked at him, and I could see there was relief in his eyes at getting rid of me without having to make some excuse. She turned to me with her sweetest smile. “No, Donald, you’ve been splendid—wonderful. If you have something to do, run right along.” I stopped in the outer office for my hat. The secretary quit typing to look up at me speculatively. Then she glanced impatiently at the closed door to Timkan’s private office.

  Faraday Foster, the consulting criminologist, had offices in the building across the street. I made certain no one was taking an undue interest in what I was doing, and then crossed the street and went up to his office.

  Foster was a good example of the modern, scientific detective. He looked like a college professor.

  I gave him my card, and said, “I want to find out something about these hairs.” He took the hairs from the small envelope I handed him, looked them over, said, “All right, come with me.” His laboratory was an elaborate affair. I saw a comparison microscope, a device for impregnating paper with vapours for testing invisible ink, an ultra-violet ray photographic outfit, microphotographie equipment, and a binocular microscope.

  “Want to sit over here and smoke?” he asked. “Or check on things as I go along?”

  “I’d prefer to check as you go along.”

  “Then come on over here.” He took the hairs, one at a time, spread them on a sheet of glass, then put a drop of cement at two points along the hair to hold it rigid. He slid the glass slide under a microscope, and for several seconds twisted a focusing knob back and forth. Then he began handing out comments. “These hairs weren’t cut. They were pulled out. The bulbs show a slight atrophy at the roots. There’s a complete absence of sheath. I’d say this hair I’m looking at now came from a woman about forty to forty-five—well, make it thirty-five to fifty to be on the safe side. The hair probably came out with very little pressure. I would say it might have been found on a comb or on a brush.”

  “Are they all the same?” I asked.

  He studied the slide through his microscope. “No.”

  “Well, what can you tell me about the others?” He said, “Just a minute. I want to check on this.” He snipped off bits from the ends of the hairs, put them in a machine, and gradually turned a wheel. Bits of hair so fine it was almost impossible to see them dropped to a glass slide. He put a cover glass over this slide, and inserted it in another microscope. He studied these pieces for a while, then went back to the binocular microscope. “Want to take a look, Lam?” he asked.

  I moved over to the big binocular microscope, placed my eyes up to the eyepieces, and seemed to be staring at a piece of manila rope about a half-inch in diameter.

  Foster asked, “Do you get the effect of seeing certain distinctive bits of structure in that hair through a peculiar reddish haze?”

  “Well ”

  “Here, take a look at this. It will show you what I mean.” He moved the slide a little, and the reddish hemp rope gave way to a jet-black wire cable. “Take a look at this.

  There’s a peculiar structure on the outside of the hair, a scale structure like rough bark on a tree. Do you see it?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. Now take a look at the same structure on this hair. Get it?” Once more the manila-rope-like hair was in my field of vision.

  “I get it.”

  “See that reddish haze? It’s like looking through a sheet of orange glass.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “A dye,” he said. “Probably a henna rinse.”

  “Then you have hairs from at least two persons here.”

  “More than two. You have given me five hair specimens. I would say they came from at least three different women.”

  “Can you tell me any more about them?”

  “Not definitely, and not now. I’m making only a superficial examination at present. If you really want a detailed report, I’ll wash the hairs in equal parts of ether and rectified spirit. Then I’ll dry them, treat them with oil of turpentine, mount them on slides, and make a really detailed examination. I can tell you more at that time. How much more, I don’t know.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “About forty-eight hours to get the complete report.”

  “That’s too long.”

  “Does what I have given you help you any?”

  “Quite a bit, yes.”

  “Do you want me to go ahead with the tests?” I said, `Mount the hairs on slides so you can identify them as hairs you received from me, and number them as specimens one, two, three, four, and five. We may have use for them later on. I’ll let you know.” I drove to headquarters. Lieutenant Lisman was glad to see me. He pumped my hand up and down, clapped me on the back, puffed smoke from a Perfecto in my face, and said, “it’s a real pleasure to work with an intelligent private detective. So damn many chaps in the business don’t know which side of the bread has the butter. You can’t depend on them to give you a damn thing except a bum steer.”

  “You got results on the tip-off?” I asked him.

  “Did I!”

  “You didn’t let her know where it came from?”

  “Of course not. We always protect our sources of information. Look here, Lam, you and I can do business. It’s a pleasure to encourage private detectives who want to cooperate.”

  “That’s swell. What did the Starr woman have to say?”

  “Not very much. That’s the interesting part. She says she left the way she did because Dr. Devarest tried to take advantage of her position.”

  “Oh-oh.”

  “What’s more, she sticks with it.”

  “Any of the sordid details?” I asked.

  “Lots of them. A whole series of advances, getting up to the point where he had courage enough to make passes at her, then putting on the pressure.”

  “It’s a story that would sound well in front of a jury,” I said.

  “Yes,” he admitted, “a jury would be a pushover for that sort of stuff. The widow naturally wouldn’t want it made public.”

  “Think that’s an accident?”

  “What is?”

  “When she shows up, she has such a nice tear-jerker alibi.”

  “Well,” he said thoughtfully, “of course ”

  “I see you’ve already given consideration to that theory,” I said.

  “What theory?”

  “That a smart lawyer thought it up for her.” He twisted his cigar around in his lips, thought it over for a while, and said, “It’s a tailor-made story. It fits her and the situation like a glove, and yet I don’t believe it. I can’t find a weak place in it, but I’m satisfied it’s there. Dammit, Lam, a lawyer did think up that story.”

  “Going to hold her?”

  “Just long enough for one of the deputy D.A.s to get a statement. We’ve nothing against her so far. The skip-out was the thing that made us look for her.”

  “She didn’t tell Mrs. Devarest anything about it?”

  “No. When he started pawing, she stood it as long as she could, and then walked out.”

  “And never even went back for her toothbrush?” Lisman frowned and said, “It is fishy as hell, isn’t it, Lam?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “The more you think of it the more phoney it sounds. The idea of the old guy finding out his jewels were gone, and then stopping to make a pass at his wife’s secretary.”

  “This one, I take it, was passier than the others?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Evidently, the lost gems didn’t concern him very much.”

  “No. Somehow, you can’t feature Devarest discovering the theft, and then taking time out
for a little dalliance. You’d think he’d have been hot-footing it to get the police on the ‘phone.” I nodded.

  “But if that’s the case, why didn’t he call himself? Why expect this Nollie Starr to handle it?” I said, “There are two answers to that. Both of them are deep.”

  “How deep?”

  “Under six feet of earth.” He thought that over, then moved his head up and down with a slowly thoughtful motion of assent. Apparently he was entirely oblivious of my presence for the moment. It was only after I coughed that he seemed to remember I was there.

  “How would you like to tell me something?” I asked. “Fine.”

  “How about your systems of identification?”

  “Fingerprint classifications? You get them in the form of fractions, and ”

  “That isn’t what I want. I want the other classifications.”

  “We have modus operandi, signs, and physical peculiarities.”

  “Would you have a file of physical peculiarities?” I asked.

  “Well, not exactly that, but, for instance, if a man had one thumb missing, we’d have a file of crooks with missing thumbs. It’s a mean piece of card indexing, and I’m not certain that it’s worth what it cost. But occasionally it’s a veritable gold mind.”

  “For instance then, if a man had a scar on his chin—say a scar which might have been made by a knife wound—you’d have him listed?”

  “ Uh huh.” I said, “I think it’d be a swell idea for me to take a look at that file. I’d like to browse around in it a little while.”

  “Why, are you on the track of something?”

  “No. I’m trying to familiarize myself with police methods of investigation. Do I find everyone who has the same physical peculiarities listed under a file, whether they’re housebreakers, stick-up men, or confidence men?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Would it be too much of a job for you to let me take a look at that file?”

  “What are you looking for specifically?”

  “Men with deep scars in the middle of the chin.” He said, “Okay, come this way.” He led me down a corridor, through a steel door into a room which bristled with filing cases. He said, “We’re way ahead of any department in the country on this sort of stuff, but we don’t get enough credit for it. It’s hard to get funds to keep it up.”

  “It must take a lot of work.”

  “It does.” He stopped in front of a steel file that was marked, “Scars on Head.” He pulled out a drawer. There were subdivisions.“Scars on left side of face.”

  “Scars on right side of face.”

  “Scars on nose.”

  “Scars on chin.”

  “Scars on forehead.” He pulled out a section of cards. “Don’t mix these up,” he said.

  “I won’t,” I promised.

  He looked at his watch. “I’ve got to be on my way. If anybody asks any questions, tell them Lieutenant Lisman brought you in here.”

  “Okay, Lieutenant, thanks.” After he’d gone I shoved back the cards and pulled out the section I wanted. There weren’t a great number of cards in it. I picked out four names and identifying file card numbers.

  A couple of other officers were in the place. Lieutenant Lisman’s name and the file numbers of the cards brought me the information on how to find what I wanted. The first two cards didn’t mean anything. The third card had the face of Rufus Bayley looking up at me. “Paul Rufus, alias Rufus Paul, alias Rufus Cutting. Works exclusively on safes and gems. At one time worked a confidence racket. Plays a lone hand. Has a few accomplices, confederates, or confidants. Has a way with women, and frequently uses an affair with a servant to get him the information he wants and the opportunity to use it. Age twenty-nine. Criminal record consists of one term in Sing Sing when caught red-handed working on a safe. Had used a maid to act as look-out. She became irritated over other philanderings and tipped off police. Prisoner suspected treachery, although never had any confirmation from police. Arrested half a dozen times, but keeps a close mouth when interrogated, and because he has no confidants, police have been unable to make any other case against him stick.

  “Fingerprint classifications, Bertillon measurements, and detailed record on reverse side.” I turned over to the back of the card and made a series of notes covering the high lights of the somewhat meagre information and data assembled there.

  I figured my next stop might well be the Devarest house.

  Chapter XI

  RUFUS BAYLEY came in after I’d been waiting about half an hour. He grinned me his toothy grin.

  I strolled over to the garage.

  “Suppose you could get those sparklers for me?”

  “Sparklers!”

  “That’s right.”

  “What would I be doing getting any sparklers for you?”

  “Oh, I thought you might accommodate a friend.”

  “Buddy, you’re talking a language I don’t know anything about.” I looked up at the room over the garage and said, “Those Venetian blinds certainly are nice.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Let in the wind and ventilation, and you can have sunlight when you want.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “And by putting them at the right angle, it’s absolutely impossible for anyone to see what’s going on in the room above.”

  “Well now, ain’t you the smart boy?”

  “And a new bed gets moved in about the time the Venetian blinds were put on.”

  “You’re saying a lot of words.”

  “Makes the place very nice and comfortable up there. Must be a lot different from Sing Sing.” The smile came off his face. For a moment there was a hot glitter in his eyes; then the grin was back once more, and he said easily, “Oh, so you know that too, do you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Been reading my mail?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “What do you want?”

  “The sparklers.”

  “Buddy, I’m going to tell you something. I laid off the racket, see? I was pretty good at it, but what does it get you? In the first place, you’re just working for a bunch of fences. You can’t move the swag without having a hook-up with some fence. You get ten thousand dollars’ worth of ice; the victim squawks it’s a fifty-thousand-dollar job; the fence pays you about a grand for the whole works. You work your head off to make eight or ten grand a year for yourself, and get as hot as a baked potato doing it. Even then the government can pull a Capone on you, and send you to the big rock for failing to pay your income taxes. After I took that jolt I did a lot of thinking. I like lots of things you can’t get in jail. I don’t like jails. I want food that ain’t all doped up with saltpetre. I want elbow room. I like driving cars. I like lots of things they don’t give you in jails.” I said, “Yes. Your room gives evidence of that. I took a sample of hairs from the brush on the dressing-table. You’d be surprised at what a good criminologist can tell about human hair.” He looked at me for nearly ten seconds before he said, “I try to get along with people, but I’m not so certain you and I are going to be real buddies.”

  “I’m after just one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The sparklers.”

  “I tell you I ain’t got them.”

  “That’s right.”

  “What is?”

  “That you’ve told me you haven’t got them.”

  “Okay, I’ve told you I haven’t got them, and I haven’t got them. Now what?”

  “How about getting them?”

  “I wouldn’t know where to look.”

  “Think it over, and you might.” He turned around to study me carefully. “You sing a funny song,” he said. “Who’s writing the lyrics?”

  “I am.”

  “I don’t like ‘em.”

  “It has different verses,” I told him.

  “But the chorus is always the same.” I said, “Jim Timley was calling at Nollie Starr’s apartment when I dropped in. Nollie Sta
rr has a room-mate, girl by the name of Dorothy Grail. Jim Timley was supposed to be calling on the Grail girl, supposed to be a steady of hers.”

  “Keep talking,” Bayley said. “You’re beginning to say something besides just words now.” I said, “Timley kissed Dorothy Grail good-night. He didn’t act as though he’d ever kissed her before.”

  “How so?”

  “He got a surprise.” I saw Bayley’s eyes light up. “High voltage?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What was the idea?”

  “Oh, I think she’d seen him several times before, but he hadn’t seen her. She thought she’d let him know she wasn’t inanimate. I think maybe she gets a kick out of teasing the animals. When you’re good at something, and you know you’re good, you like to keep your hand in.” He thought that over. “What kind is this Dorothy Grail?”

  “Class. Not too old, not too young, not too fat, not too skinny. To put it mildly, she’s all right and when she kisses you good-night, she gives a little wiggle.”

  “Hot dog!” Bayley said.

  “When Timley started home, Nollie Starr handed him a package.”

  “What kind of a package?”

  “Done up in brown paper. It was supposed to be books.”

  “Where does this Starr girl hang out?”

  “Six-eighty-one East Bendon Street. The apartment’s in the name of Dorothy Grail.”

  “What is this Grail girl, blonde or brunette?”

  “Brunette.”

  “How’s her face, pretty?”

  “She isn’t a doll. She has character.”

  “She sounds interesting. When would you be wanting those sparklers?”

  “As soon as I could get them.”

  “No questions asked?”

  “By me, yes.” He said, “I’ll think things over.”

  “Don’t think too long.”

  “You put me on a spot. I’m getting along pretty well here. There’s a chance I might fall into something real soft.”

  “Not if the bulls should tell her about your record. As far as they’re concerned, your record plus the missing jewels might just happen to add up to the answer in the back of the book.”