The Mammoth Book of Roaring Twenties Whodunnits

by Mike Ashley

  “Well,” said the inspector, smiling and firm in the defense of his beloved department, “we must try everything.”

  Colter spoke up, a young man quick in his movements, with an eager, warm-colored face: “If you’re sure to get him in the end, why bother to advertise?”

  “It was Mr Larned, here, who persuaded the commissioner to use those cards,” said Rumsey.

  “Anything can be accomplished by intelligent publicity,” said Larned.

  He went on to sing the praises of the wonderful new science, of which he was one of the most brilliant professors. A handsome man in his forties, with the full, beaming eye of the enthusiast, we were all sensible of his charm. He was of that type not uncommon in our country, the artist turned business man.

  They said his private life was rather scandalous, but I know nothing about that. His new wife was among the ladies present, a pretty woman, but negligible as far as conversation went.

  “That’s all true,” said Harry Colter, when he could get an opening, “but publicity is a two-edged sword which is apt to cut in unexpected directions.”

  “Take these subway cards,” went on Larned. “The idea was that the bandit lives in a world of his own, supported and encouraged by those of his kind, and cut off from all others. It was thought that it would be a good thing to remind him in this unexpected fashion of the existence of the real world which would not tolerate his actions. I appeal to Mme Storey to tell us if this is not sound psychology.”

  My mistress smiled in a way that told me what her opinion was, but refused to commit herself.

  “Harry has something more to say on the subject,” she remarked.

  “It’s a confession of weakness on the part of the police,” said Colter energetically. “Mr Durward, with his fresh point of view, instantly perceived that. Irrespective of the effect on an occasional bandit, it certainly lowers the morale of the whole public that rides in the subway. For the public relies on the stern and secret measures of the police in dealing with crooks, and to have them come out in the open like this and beg the bandits to be good cannot help but be demoralizing.”

  Inspector Rumsey agreed with Colter, though nothing could induce him to admit that the department could be in the wrong.

  “It is true,” he said, “the stick-up boys have the public scared. And every story of a successful hold-up that the newspapers print is just that much additional publicity for the bandits.”

  “You can’t blame the newspapers for that,” said Larned.

  “I don’t. It’s their job to purvey the news. But it’s too bad they’ve got to feature it the way they do.”

  “That just proves my point,” said Larned. “You’ve got to have a counter-publicity to deal with it.”

  I felt impelled to put in my oar at this point. Though I’m only a humble secretary, Mme Storey expects me to keep my end up. There must be no dummies at her table.

  “But a true counter-publicity would be directed toward boosting the public morale instead of further depressing it,” I suggested.

  Mr Larned gave me a cold look, as much as to say: Who is this red-haired female? His eyes quickly passed on to my mistress.

  “Perhaps Mme Storey will tell us how she would handle the situation,” he said.

  My mistress held up her hands in mock dismay.

  “Thank Heaven, I’m not obliged to answer that,” she said laughing. “My job is quite difficult enough. Bandits are a little out of my line.”

  II

  Some days or weeks after the dinner party, when all recollection of this conversation had passed out of my mind, I was working in the outer office of our suite on Gramercy Park one morning, when a good-looking young man came in. He was a mere lad of nineteen or so, but his face wore that unnatural look of experience and assurance that suggests a childhood spent on the streets.

  Yet my eyes dwelt on him with pleasure. Though short of stature, he was beautifully made; he moved with a lithe grace that suggested the perfect coordination of every muscle.

  His round head was set low between his strong shoulders; the black hair was crisp with health, the black eyes sparkling. I suspected Italian blood. He was well dressed in a somewhat common style, and he addressed me with an ingratiating smile.

  “Is this Mme Storey’s office?” Like the wolf in the old story, he was trying to sweeten his harsh voice.

  “Yes,” said I.

  “Are you her?”

  “No; her secretary.” I could see that the little wretch was only trying to flatter me.

  “Well, is she in?”

  “Mme Storey can only receive visitors by appointment,” I said. “Will you tell me your business?”

  “Sure,” he said, with an appearance of the utmost good humor, plumping himself into a chair without waiting for an invitation. His bright eyes traveled around the room, taking everything in. “You sure got a swell joint here,” he remarked sociably.

  I ignored this. “What can I do for you?” I asked coldly.

  I could see from the beginning that he was just stringing me along; but it never occurred to me to suspect he might have a sinister motive. All kinds of people come into the office, and waste my time, particularly when we have been engaged on a big case, with all its attendant publicity.

  “I just wanted to apply for a job,” he answered.

  “A job?” I said, surprised. “What sort of job?”

  “Anything at all,” he said, grinning. “I read in the papers how Mme Storey employed a whole raft of operatives, private detectives like, in the Harker case.”

  “It is only occasionally that she is engaged on a criminal case,” said I. “And then any operatives that we may require are secured temporarily from a list that we keep.”

  “Well, put me down on your list,” he said. “John Casey, 123 East Broadway.”

  He was no Casey! However, as the quickest way of getting rid of him, I wrote the address on a pad.

  “You got a swell job here, secretary to Mme Storey and all,” he said while I was writing. “Somepin’ doin’ alla time, I guess.”

  I made no answer.

  “Don’t she employ no clerk nor office boy nor nothin’?” he asked.

  “No,” I told him.

  “There’d be the job for me,” he said.

  “Well, let me have a sample of your handwriting,” I suggested, pushing the pad toward him. I thought I had him there.

  He drew back. “I got a cramp in me hand today,” he said without batting an eye. “But say, I could make myself useful here, receivin’ callers and runnin’ errands and all. And when you needed an outside man I’d be on the spot.”

  I shook my head.

  “And say, when she was out I’d be company for you,” he said with a sidelong grin.

  The good-looking little wretch was actually trying to vamp me. I was highly amused. His sharp eyes perceived my amusement, and it encouraged him to go further.

  “Say, what’s your name?” he asked.

  “I don’t see that that matters,” I said.

  “Just in case I wanted to write you later to see if there was an openin’.”

  “I will write to you if there is an opening,” I said dryly.

  He affected to laugh heartily. “Gee, you’re wise, all right! You’re there with the comeback!”

  He came close to me and smiled insinuatingly. I suppose with a certain type of girl he had found himself irresistible. “Me and you’d get along fine, eh?”

  “I dare say,” I said coldly. “But you will have to excuse me. I’m busy.”

  “Is that the door to her room?” he asked, pointing.

  I did not answer. He knew that it was the door to her room, because there was no other except that by which he had entered.

  “Let me take a look in,” he said cajolingly. “I bet it’s a swell room!”

  “Certainly not!” I said, rising to forestall any move to open the door. “Mme Storey must not be disturbed.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know s
he was in there,” he remarked with an innocent air. “Well, so long, kid,” with a final grin over his shoulder. “You know where to find me.” And went out.

  It did not occur to me to be angry. Indeed, after he had gone, I sat down at my desk, smiling. Such is the power of youth and good looks. I merely put him down in my mind as another fresh kid.

  Immediately afterward Mme Storey called me in to take dictation. We were still suffering from the publicity attendant upon the famous Harker case, and there was a pile of letters six inches high on her desk.

  My mistress as a matter of courtesy insists on writing once to everybody who writes to her. Of course if they continue to send in trifling letters they go into the wastebasket. Had we been less busy, I would no doubt have related the incident of my caller just for her amusement, and the whole course of subsequent events might have been changed; but as it was, I did not mention him.

  I have on several former occasions described the arrangements of my mistress’s beautiful room. There is nothing about it to connote the word office.

  Once the front drawing-room of a great house on Gramercy Park, it is now furnished with priceless Italian antiques, and forms a fit setting for Mme Storey, who is herself like a vivid figure out of the Renaissance – but not antique. In spite of all pressure from the outside, she preserves her individuality.

  She refuses to organize her genius, nor will she work herself to death either. She accepts the few cases that most appeal to her; all the others are turned down. I constitute her entire office force; and when we feel like it we close up the office altogether, and go for a jaunt.

  Mme Storey sits at an immense oak table, black with age, her back to the row of casement windows which look out on the square. At her right hand is the door into my room, and in the same wall near the back of the long room, another door leading directly into the hall.

  This door, which is closed with a spring lock, permits her to escape from anybody waiting in my room, whom she may not want to bother with. In the middle of the back wall is a door giving on what we call the middle room, which is used for the multitudinous requirements of our peculiar business – dressing-room, hiding place, temporary jail, and what not. The three rooms constitute our suite.

  In taking dictation I sit at my mistress’s right hand, with my back to the door from my room. We were in the middle of our work without a thought in our minds except the desire to get to the bottom of that pile of silly letters, when the buzzer sounded that announced the opening of the outer door into my room.

  I finished the sentence I was putting down, and rose to my feet. I got no farther, for at that moment the door from my room burst open, and two men ran in, each grasping an ugly automatic.

  One was my visitor of half an hour before; the other was a few years older.

  What a moment that was! Death itself could not have been worse than what I suffered. My heart turned to water in my breast; I seemed to lose all strength, all control of my body.

  How I longed to shrivel up to nothing before those guns! I dared not look at my mistress, who was alongside, and a little behind me. My eyes were glued to those hideous weapons.

  “Stick ’em up!” barked the older man.

  My hands went over my head like a shot. They strained away from me, as if desirous of flying up under the ceiling on their own account. I heard Mme Storey drawl:

  “I’ll put mine on the table if you don’t mind. The other attitude is so ungraceful.”

  I stole a look at her. Good Heavens! What a woman! She was actually smiling. The sight of her smile did not put any heart into me, though.

  It gave me a dreadful pang to realize that those worthless youths, the sweepings of the streets, held the life of such a glorious woman in their hands.

  “None of your tricks!” growled the leader.

  “Bless your heart, I wouldn’t think of it!” drawled Mme Storey. “I have a gun in the drawer of this table, but I’m not going to try to get it out. I value my skin too highly.”

  “Look through those two doors,” the leader said to his companion. “I’ll keep the women covered.”

  As silently as a shadow, the younger man ran to the two doors. “This door goes out into the hall,” he said at the first; and at the other: “Nobody in this room.”

  “Do you mind if I smoke?” said Mme Storey, moving her hand toward the big silver box that stood on her table.

  “Keep your hands in front of you!” barked the leader.

  Taking a step forward, he threw back the cover of the box. Seeing that it contained only cigarettes, he shrugged, and allowed my mistress to take one.

  “Won’t you join me?” she drawled mockingly.

  He helped himself, tossing the cigarette up to his mouth without taking his eyes from Mme Storey’s face. She nonchalantly lighted up, and offered him the burning match. He put the cigarette to it, with his eyes fixed on hers.

  What a picture! While the first one was merely a good looking boy, this one was infernally handsome. Mme Storey’s face still wore the mocking half smile; his was like a mask.

  It was perfectly inhuman in its immobility; not a muscle quivered; his very eyes appeared to be glazed. It made a cold shiver run down my spine.

  “Hand over your pearls,” he said.

  Putting down the cigarette for a moment, Mme Storey unfastened the string about her neck.

  “I’m sorry they’re not my best ones,” she said. “Still, they’re pretty good.” She tossed them over.

  “Your watch, your rings,” he went on, dropping the pearls in his pockets.

  She unfastened her watch with calm deliberation, holding her head on one side to keep the cigarette smoke out of her eyes, and drew off her lovely emerald, and the three diamonds. They followed the pearls into his pocket.

  Meanwhile the other man commanded me to hand over my pearls.

  “A-ah!” snarled his leader out of the side of his mouth. “They’re only fish-skin. Don’t yeh know the difference?”

  The young man refused my beads then, with an abashed look like a schoolboy. But I had to hand over the watch that Mme Storey gave me, and the little diamond I bought with my own savings.

  My heart burned with helpless anger. My little stone had not a fraction of the value of Mme Storey’s, but she could replace hers the next day, whereas mine represented years of self-denial. What kind of a world was it, I thought, where such wrongs were permitted.

  “Your money!” said the leader harshly to my mistress.

  “It’s in the same drawer with my gun,” she told him pleasantly.

  He put a hand on the table, and leaned over, bringing his mask-like face close to hers.

  “Get it out,” he said curtly, “and let me see you touch the gun, that’s all.”

  “By no means!” said Mme Storey, smiling. “I just wanted to warn you, so you wouldn’t shoot at the sight of it.”

  Pulling the drawer toward her, she picked up her gold mesh bag, and tossed it on the table in front of him.

  “Now the gun,” he added. “Pick it up by the muzzle.”

  She obeyed. “I’d be glad if you’d let me have my hanky out of the bag,” she said. “I may need it.”

  “Ah, cut the comedy,” he told her with his indifferent air. “Where’s your safe?”

  “In the outer office. There’s nothing in it but business papers. My secretary will open it for you.”

  “You go with her,” said the leader to his man.

  I leave you to imagine what my feelings were when I had to turn my back on the gun, and walk out of the room with it following me. I nearly died out of sheer terror. I felt a hundred bullets tearing through my body.

  But I got the safe open somehow, and satisfied the young bandit that it contained nothing of value to him.

  We returned to the other room. My mistress was smiling still. The young bandit was sitting now, with his chair tipped back in a parade of indifference.

  No muscle of his waxen face had changed, but there was a glint
in his eyes as he watched Mme Storey. He contemptuously permitted her to see that he approved of her as a woman.

  When his man reported that there was nothing in the safe, he stood up.

  “Then back out,” he said, with a jerk of his head toward the door into the hall.

  “Why hurry?” drawled my mistress. “Let’s have in tea.”

  The leader stopped. An open, scornful admiration leaped up in his eyes. The insolence of it was simply indescribable.

  “You’re a pretty game chicken, ain’t yeh?” he drawled, putting a hand on his hip in a swaggering fashion. “You look good to me.”

  He dropped his gun in his pocket – he knew he had her disarmed – and returned a step or two toward the table. He drew a ring off his finger and tossed it toward her.

  “Wear that,” he said. In a flash he was gone.

  When the door closed after them I collapsed. I could hear myself bawling like a child, without any power to stop it. The next thing I knew I was pulling frantically at one of the casements, so that I might alarm the street.

  Mme Storey drew me away before I got it open.

  “No good,” she said. “They’ll have a car waiting. You’ll only start a panic among the kiddies in the park.”

  I could still hear myself crying and carrying on like somebody else. “Why didn’t you send for the engineer? The button is there under the edge of your table for just such an emergency.”

  “What!” she said, smiling at me. “And bring John in here empty-handed to get shot?”

  “It’s outrageous!” I cried. “Coming in here like that! And you take it so calmly. The way that man looked at you was intolerable.”

  Mme Storey smilingly quoted the childish couplet, slightly amended:

  “Sticks and stones will break my bones,

  But looks will never hurt me.”

  “Such insolence!” I cried. “I cannot bear it!”

  “Oh, a shot of heroin will do wonders to buck up a man’s self-esteem,” she said calmly.

  She was sitting there smiling, and examining the fellow’s ring with the eye of a connoisseur. It was a handsome carnelian in a wonderful antique setting. Heaven knows from whom it had been stolen.