Sarah Watson adjusted her ancient black headgear more firmly upon her hard knob of gray hair. She said: “You put your bank book back in your pants, young man.
“We’re going to see the president of the bank.”
“Good Lord! You don’t think the president of this mausoleum is going to take pity on my plight?”
“From what I know of him, he never took pity on anything,” said Sarah, grasping the young man’s arm firmly, “but we’re going to see him, because he telephoned and asked us to see him. After we’ve seen him, maybe you won’t need your piddling nine dollars. Come on.”
Two minutes later, Sarah Watson and Ben Todd were behind the door which said, in gold letters, “Adolph A. Hecker, President,” and Sarah was being bowed into a chair by Mr. Adolph A. Hecker himself.
“Mr. Hecker,” said Sarah, leaning forward stiffly from the waist, “meet Mr. Todd, my assistant. We came as soon as possible. Of course we have a great press of work at the office …”
“Quite,” said Mr. Hecker, nodding grudg-
ingly at Ben Todd and settling himself behind his large mahogany desk. Mr. Hecker had some difficulty settling himself, because the distance between the edge of the desk and the edge of Mr. Hecker’s pot belly had to be nicely judged.
Mr. Hecker made a steeple of his thin white hands and turned his bleak eyes upon Mrs. Watson. He said: “Quite! Mrs. Watson, I will state the case frankly and concisely. I find myself in need of an agent upon whose discretion I may rely. I make it a practice, as you know, to be informed regarding each and every depositor in my bank …”
“The case, please,” said Sarah.
“And so,” said Mr. Hecker, “knowing you, Mrs. Watson, and your excellent reputation, I— ah—that is to say—Mrs. Watson, what would your fee be for recovering a stolen diamond necklace belonging to my wife?”
“Ten per cent of the value of the necklace,” said Sarah promptly.
“Ten per cent? I had no idea! Does that not seem excessive, my dear lady?”
“Ten per cent,” said Sarah, firmly.
“Ten per cent. Well—ah—perhaps in that case, you would not care to undertake my—ah— job. The necklace I wish recovered is, you see, only paste. A very clever imitation, but paste. The value is relatively small—not more than two thousand dollars.”
“Ten per cent,” said Sarah, “and expenses, of course.”
“Ah? The expense would be slight in this case. I happen to know the—ah—young person who stole the necklace. I happen to know where—ah—she will be at a certain time this evening.”
Sarah Watson got to her feet, stood looking down at the square toes of her black shoes. She said: “A case for the police, Mr. Hecker. Too simple for us.”
“Sit down, Mrs. Watson, pray. It is not simple at all. I—ah—wish it were. Let me explain. I will be frank. This is confidential, of course. Quite! The necklace—the paste necklace, Mrs. Watson—was taken under peculiar circumstances. The young lady who took it was calling on me at the time at my apartment.
“My wife—ah—happened to be travelling abroad.”
“Quite,” said Sarah.
“What? Oh! Yes, yes. Well, Mrs. Watson, I was showing the young lady my wife’s collection of jewels, among them the imitation diamond necklace which my wife keeps for most functions. The real one, which is the famous Gautier necklace, remains in our safe deposit box practically all the time. Now, the—ah—young lady managed to abstract the necklace—the imitation necklace, Mrs. Watson, and shortly afterward, she departed with it, believing that I would be in no position to accuse her of theft …”
“Was she right?” said Sarah.
Mr. Hecker’s pale eyes wandered away from Sarah’s. After a moment, he said: “She was.”
“Quite,” said Sarah. “Well now, Mr. Hecker, while I never object to picking up a bit of small change even so small a bit as I would pick up on this job, it doesn’t seem to me that it’s worth it to you to hire us. If the necklace the young lady removed was simply an imitation, it would be simpler and easier for you to have another imitation made, and—”
“Ah, Mrs. Watson, there you have me. I cannot have an imitation made, for this reason. It was yesterday morning that I discovered the theft of the paste necklace and it was yesterday morning that my wife returned from abroad. I had just time to go to our safe deposit box, remove the real necklace and place it in my wife’s safe at home, where the imitation had been. It is there now, and there isn’t a chance in the world of my extracting it again in order to have an imitation made without my wife’s knowing, so …”
“I see,” said Sarah, staring intently at Mr. Hecker, “and of course, there’s the fact, too, Mr. Hecker, that if we steal back this necklace for you—”
“Mrs. Watson! I beg you—not steal— recover!”
“Steal,” said Sarah, firmly. “If we steal back this necklace for you, Mr. Hecker, it will cost you only two hundred dollars, plus expenses, whereas, if you were to have an imitation made, it would cost you two thousand dollars. Eh, Mr. Hecker?”
“Quite,” said Mr. Hecker. “I have considered that angle, naturally. A banker always considers …”
“Let’s get down to brass tacks,” said Sarah. “What’s the young lady’s name? What’s she look like? Where is this place that you know she’ll be this evening? How have you any guarantee that she’ll have the necklace with her?”
“She will be on the eight o’clock train to Chicago tonight. She has lower berth number 3, car Number 654,” said Mr. Hecker. “I am sure she will have the necklace with her, because I have information that she has quit the theatrical production with which she was connected and has—ah— closed her books definitely in this city.”
“Mr. Hecker,” said Sarah, “did you get all that data yourself?”
“I did.”
“You’d make a good detective,” said Sarah. “What’s the young female’s name?”
Mr. Hecker’s thin lips writhed a trifle as though he were about to swallow a dose of astringent. He said: “Her name is Dolores Flores.”
“That describes her,” said Sarah. “Now, if you’ll advance some expense money, Mr. Hecker, about two hundred dollars to start with, we’ll get ready to steal your necklace.”
Sarah Watson and Ben Todd stepped out of the bank and into the sunshine. Sarah said: “You’ve got two hundred dollars in your pants, Bennie, and all afternoon. You might get the tickets. Be sure to get in Car 654, and be sure you get me a lower, young feller. You might drop my ticket at the office. Then you might check up on this Dolores Flores female and make sure she is taking that train. You might get a look at her, if you can, but not too long a look, Bennie. I know men! Then you might interview somebody that knows jewels and find out what the Gautier necklace looks like and how much the real one is worth, and then you might …”
“Listen, slave driver,” said Ben Todd, “after I do all that, there won’t be any then. What are you doing in the way of work yourself this afternoon, old girl?”
“Bennie,” said Sarah solemnly, “I’m going to a tea—a Republican tea.”
“Republican? I thought you were a Democrat?”
“What if I am? It ain’t branded on my forehead, is it? I’m going to a Republican tea, Bennie, because Mrs. Adolph A. Hecker is giving the tea, in her own apartment.
“Listen, you old wench! You’re not beginning your double-crossing tricks already?”
“Fiddlesticks! I’m merely interested to see the woman who could bear Adolph as a husband. Bennie, do ladies wear diamond necklaces at tea parties?”
“Not ladies,” said Ben Todd. “Sarah, you’re up to something. Now listen, you stalking tigress, Adolph may only be going to pay us a coupla hundred—”
“And expenses …”
“But a coupla hundred would pay my salary for four weeks, Sarah, so for hell’s sake, stick to Adolph.”
“Bennie, you know me. I have yet to betray the confidence of a client. Good-by. I’ll see you on the
train.”
II
Sarah Watson stalked down the ramp beside which the Chicago train waited. She was dressed as she had been dressed that morning. She held firmly a large yellow suitcase of the cardboard variety and ignored, as she stalked, the three pestiferous red caps who pursued her.
Halfway down the long train, her steps slackened. There was a young man lounging there, with one foot on the lowest step of a car. He was a red-headed young man and he was deep in converse with a slinky young person who was aggressively female from the black velvet hat perched on her platinum curls to the black velvet bows on her spike heeled slippers.
Sarah took longer strides. She stopped abruptly beside the conversing couple. She said:
“Young man, is this car 654?”
The young man stared blankly at her a moment, then his wide mouth grew wider. He said: “Well, if it ain’t Aunt Sarah! Auntie, you’re early. I want you to meet my friend, Miss Dolores Flores.”
Miss Flores extended a drooping hand which dripped ruby red at the fingernails. She said: “Charmed!”
Sarah Watson grunted. She gave a nod which set her ancient headgear to quivering. She turned her back and mounted the steps. At the top of the steps, she paused. Ben Todd’s red head was close to the platinum blonde curls. Ben Todd was whispering and the young lady was giggling. Sarah peered down at them and made a horrible face.
The conductor was bawling his last warning when Miss Dolores Flores made her entrance into car 654, followed by Ben Todd. The young lady’s progress down the aisle was marked by a small flurry among the seated passengers, particularly the males. Only the woman in Section 4 remained oblivious, and she kept her rugged countenance bent over a printed circular until the pair passed. The circular said: “Twenty Reasons why American Ladies Should Vote Republican.” One sheet of the circular was devoted to the photograph of a lady whose nose and bosom were both prominent. The photograph was inscribed in flowing ink, “With regards to Mrs. Sarah Watson, from Mrs. Adolph A. Hecker.”
Ben Todd slid into seat 4, beside Sarah. Sarah lifted her eyes from the circular and fixed them on the elaborate curls which covered the back of Miss Flores’ head. Sarah said: “If you’ve got the necklace, Bennie, we’ve still time to get off?”
“Got the—! Whatya think I am, woman, a professional dip?”
“I think you’re a damn fool,” said Sarah. “If you ain’t got the necklace, what was the idea of all the billing and cooing?”
“Listen, horse-face,” whispered Ben Todd, leaning closer, “I—er—happened to scrape an acquaintance with the charmer in the course of my investigations this afternoon and …”
“I’ll bet you didn’t have to scrape very hard!”
“No. She likes auburn hair. Now listen, and no more cracks, old lady. This is biz. The charmer’s afraid. She’s asked me to protect her. There’s a naughty, bad man with dark hair and slimey eyes and a wart on his chin …”
“And two hairs growing out of the wart,” said Sarah. “I know. I saw him on the observation platform as I came by. And I’ve seen him somewhere before, but I can’t think where. He looks like a bad ‘un. Now, I wonder who sicked him on Dolores?”
“Hell knows. You say he was on the observation … ?”
“He was, but he ain’t now. Look!”
Ben Todd followed the lift of Sarah’s gray eyes. A dark individual was sliding into the seat directly opposite theirs.
“Bennie,” said Sarah, “I’ve got a premonition we have competition. We’ve got to look spry. It might not be a bad idea for you to go and bill and coo some more with Dolores. Buy her new magazines and things and charge ‘em to Mr. Hecker. Stick with her—No! Wait—”
Sarah had risen abruptly. The young lady with the platinum tresses was making her way forward toward the door marked “Ladies.” Sarah stepped over Ben Todd’s long legs and into the aisle. The train began to move. Sarah lurched forward toward the door marked “Ladies.”
Five minutes later, Miss Flores was back in her seat and Sarah was back in hers.
“Ben,” whispered Sarah, “when that girl bleached her hair, she bleached out all her brains. She’s got that necklace in her handbag, crammed in with all the face paint and lip paint and the cigarettes and the rest of it. I saw it—the Gautier necklace!”
“The imitation of the Gautier necklace.”
“I was forgetting,” said Sarah. “Well, the imitation’s worth two thousand, ain’t it? The girl’s an imbecile. Go on up, now, Bennie, and sparkle for her. Keep your eye on her purse but don’t put your hand in it. When the time comes for snitching, I’ll snitch.”
“Well, when is the time coming for snitching? That’s a little detail we ain’t worked out, yet, old girl.”
“We ain’t but / have. It won’t be until after dinner anyway, Bennie. I never steal except on a full stomach.”
The train sped on. Sarah sat with her head back against the green plush, her hands folded over her prominent abdomen. Two hours passed. A black man with a white smile and a white coat came down the aisle, beating a musical gong. Sarah stirred. Ben Todd came down the aisle, behind him, Miss Dolores Flores. They stopped at Sarah’s seat.
“If you don’t object, Auntie,” said Ben Todd, “Miss Flores and I are going to dine togeth—”
“Delighted,” said Sarah, rising. “Love to eat on trains. Lead the way, nephew.”
After dinner was over, Ben Todd squired Dolores into the club car at the end of the train for a cigarette. Sarah returned to car 654, and was occupying the seat opposite her own, while the porter made up her lower and the upper above it—reserved for Ben Todd. Sarah wore the complacent and reminiscent look of one who has relished good food.
A long-legged young man charged suddenly into the almost empty car and gripped Sarah by the shoulder. He said: “Listen. There’s a stop in five minutes. I saw you fingering the girl’s purse. If you’ve got the goods, let’s hop off and …”
Sarah shook his fingers off. She half rose from the seat and pushed her face close to his. She said: “You go back and stick with the fool girl, Ben Todd. She’s in danger as long as she’s got that thing in her bag. I’ve just remembered where I saw the gent with the wart last—Go!”
Ben Todd waited a moment, staring. Then he wheeled and charged back down the aisle. In the doorway he collided with a gentleman who also seemed in haste. The gentleman had a wart on his chin.
Sarah settled back in her seat and closed her eyes. A few moments passed. Someone again laid a hand on her shoulder. She started, looked up into a pair of slimey, dark eyes. She said: “Mercy! I’m afraid I’m sitting in your place, mister. The porter’s making up my bed. If you don’t mind, I’ll just—” She slid over to make room for the owner of the seat.
The gentleman with the wart sat down.
Sarah said: “You know, I’ve seen you some place before, mister.”
The gentleman with the wart looked her over. He said:
“Old stuff! You ain’t.”
“Maybe it was a picture of you I saw,” said Sarah thoughtfully. “I see a lot of pictures of people—”
The porter said: “All ready, Madam.”
Sarah rose. She glanced down at the face with the wart. She crossed the aisle and disappeared between the green curtains of her berth.
For five minutes thereafter, Sarah’s hoarse voice grunted and groaned behind her curtains. Then, she emerged, swathed in a purple crepe robe, and lurched up the aisle toward the Ladies’ Room. When she returned, the gentleman with the wart had vanished. There was no one in the car to notice that Sarah was still thoroughly corseted and shod under her kimono.
An hour passed—two hours—three hours. The berths were all made up and the car dark, except for the dim lights at either end. Someone fell against the curtains of Sarah’s berth. She opened them with a gun in her hand. She saw a ladder and a pair of long legs ascending the ladder, and she lay back. She kept the curtains slightly parted with one hand, and her eye fixed to the opening.
/>
More hours passed, hours filled with the hooting of the train’s whistle and the rattling of the train’s wheels. Sarah opened her curtains wide and surveyed the empty aisle. She drew back into her cubicle and tapped smartly on the ceiling above her.
“Huh?” said a sleepy voice. Sarah tapped again. She put her feet into the aisle and stood up. She was still wrapped in her purple kimono.
The curtains of the upper berth parted. A rumpled red-head appeared in the opening. Sarah said, very softly:
“Time! Ring for the porter. Keep him busy this end.”
The red-head nodded. Its eyes blinked. Sarah strode up the aisle. At the other end of the car, the porter’s bell began to ring, insistently. It was then three a.m.
Two minutes later, Sarah thrust her head out of the Ladies’ Room door and peered down the car. Deserted. Not a sound but the faint wailing of the train.
Sarah began to walk down the aisle toward her own section. She paused before she got there, her hand gripping the curtains of the lower occupied by Miss Dolores Flores.
III
In the men’s washroom, Ben Todd took his head out of his hands and looked up into the anxious face of the porter. Ben Todd said:
“I feel better now, George. What time is it?”
“Three fifteen, suh.”
“Um. So we been in here ten minutes, huh? Well, George, that was sure nifty liquor you gave me. It did the trick. Here!”
Ben Todd thrust a bill into the porter’s ready fingers and stood up.
He said: “Don’t bother any more about me, now, George. Just stay and finish up that bottle.”
Ben Todd swayed down the aisle toward section 4. The car was dark, silent. The ladder was still in place in front of his berth.
Ben Todd climbed up. Someone had switched the light on over his bed. Someone had left a slip of paper stuck into his pillow with a large safety pin. The determined script on the paper was Sarah Watson’s. It said: “Next stop 3:25. Get ready. The girl is dead.”
The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps Page 171
