The First Mystery Novel

by Howard Mason

  “Shouldn’t have done that, Carmine,” the hides-dealer criticized. But then, suddenly realizing the facts of the matter, added: “However, it doesn’t matter, at that. Except that now—but where are you, my dear?”

  “Oh, I’m calling you from uptown, Uncle. The Renoir-Carlton, in fact, where I’ve come for a hair-do. I have the book with me, however; so I was wondering whether you’d be there, if I dropped in with it much, much later this afternoon. For unless you would—” She stopped.

  “Just a minute, Carmine. And I’ll let you—you’re at the Renoir-Carlton, you say? Just a minute.”

  Hutchcock McDolphus turned half around.

  “It’s my niece, Carmine Jeleffe, who has the book with her. She’s at the Renoir-Carlton. Would you want to go ’way up and get it, or have her bring it to your shop, or what?”

  “Neither,” replied the bookdealer hurriedly. “Ask her, if you will, if she will be willing to deliver it upstairs to a Miss Muriel Ordway, the famous opera singer, who’s—who’s waiting for it, to turn it over to a customer of mine who—oh, it’s a complicated sort of deal; so I won’t go into it. But ask your niece, if you will, if she would deliver it to this party. And take a receipt for it. And then—say—mail the receipt to me?”

  “Okay. Hold ever’thing.” Hutchcock McDolphus turned slightly, returned the phone to his lips. “Carmine, would you deliver that book upstairs to a Miss Muriel Ordway—yes, Ordway—the warbler. She’s to receive it for and on behalf of another party—oh, it’s a complicated deal, Carmine, with a—my bookdealer. Anyway, will you take a receipt, and then—ah—mail the receipt to Ochiltree Jark—O—C—H—on the ‘Och’ part—at 222½ West 22nd Street.”

  “Am I dreaming, Uncle Hutchcock?”

  “Dreaming? Why?”

  “All my life I—I wanted to meet this wonderful woman personally—all my life I—and now you put my meeting her right in my lap. Indeed yes!—I’ll deliver the book and mail the receipt—” And the girl repeated the information given her. Even to the “½.”

  “That’s right,” Hutchcock McDolphus nodded. “All correct.” Paused, while she too paused. “Anything else, then? If not, I’ll hang—”

  “We-ell, nothing else, Uncle, maybe, except that—”

  “Yes, that what?”

  “That you might be interested to know that you can, within a few nights from now, sit in on a first run of what you love so much—a screen comedy—and what you also love so much—a fight picture—at one and the same time. For I saw in the paper a notice about them both, and—”

  “What is the comedy? For maybe it’s one I already know about?”

  “Oh, something called ‘Die, You Dog!’ or ‘Die, You Cur!’ Or something like that. But—”

  “A C-picture, of course,” snorted McDolphus disgruntledly. “I never even crack a smile on these C-comedies. I—”

  “On the contrary, Uncle, it’s an A-picture. A burlesque! A burlesque on Hollywood and the very making of C-pictures. With a finale that’s said to be more screamingly funny than that John Barrymore one where he burlesqued himself? Remember? When he wound up flying around in the air in tights? You thought that one to be a— Anyway, in this one there’s a new English comic named Broome Sherwood, a—”

  “Oh yes—yes. Well, dear girl, this is a show, then, I’ve already made notes on. My various good friends seem to—ah—help me out. But thank you just the same. For—but wait. Just to check up on other information. Parradine Moderne, isn’t it? And the fight in question is the one between one Casey O’Kelly, and one Napoleoni, or The Kid? Or whatever he will call himself when he enters the ring?”

  “That’s right, Uncle. I noted the latter carefully only because of your interest. Casey—O’Kelly—that’s the name. Well, this is all I can do, I guess—which is nothing. For your friends take better care of you, I fear, than I do.”

  “Well, thanks a lot, my dear, just the same. I’ve it all down in my book. And keep your eye out, as before, for other pictures I’d like. Now—ah—anything else? If not, I’ll sign off. And come down when you can.”

  They hung up, practically together.

  And Hutchcock McDolphus turned back to the waiting bookdealer.

  “All settled,” he said. “About the book, I mean. It’ll be delivered to your party within probably 60 seconds, or less. And from what I know of my niece’s proclivyties t’wards not letting undischarged duties lie around, that receipt’ll be in your hands on the morning mail delivery, tomorrow.”

  The bookdealer’s face shone with supreme gratification. “We-ell,” he exclaimed, “but that certainly all worked out very beau—nicely, didn’t it? Smooth as a—a whistle.” He rose. Stood looking down, almost thankfully, at the hides-dealer. “Well—I’ll be going on, then. So’s I can start immediately getting you that copy of Oliver Out’s work.”

  He saluted, in a half-jocular but quite airy-fairy manner, then turned and went across the room and out the door.

  Chapter XXIV

  RANSOM $100,000.

  Gilbert Parradine, pacing the floor of the strange hideout where he had now been held for 3 days and 4 hours, wondered desperately what was the latest news in the matter of his ransom negotiations. The little radio in the corner of the limited space, vouchsafed him by Rocco, but tuned permanently down by the latter, was now silent. Not that it had been over the intervening days—no!—for on it Parradine had heard much about his successful kidnapping in Chicago! But now tonight—close onto 8 o’clock, according to the slender gold watch he had been permitted to retain—he dared not turn that radio on and listen to the news, for fear the dread tidings that the ransom money had passed—or even was about to pass—would fall on his ears. For that news, as he well knew, spelt his doom!

  Now he stopped for a moment in his pacing to survey, by the bright generous 500-watt bulb in the ceiling of the hideout, the newspaper picture, full 3 columns wide, taken from some New York paper of the last 2 days which had dealt voluminously with the “Chicago” kidnapping, and which had been sardonically passed to him, for his delectation, by Rocco himself. And pinned by Parradine to one wall—to look at, now and again. Himself! Gilbert Parradine! A dignified, almost aristocratic-looking man of 44 faced him, with kindly brown eyes and a touch of grey around the ears, and with a richly tailored vest, carrying a heavy gold watch chain peeping from between Bond-Street-made coat lapels. But tonight—what? And Parradine, passing one hand over the bristly stubble of beard on his face, feeling higher yet with the other his unkempt uncombed hair, his unwashed face with doubtlessly red-rimmed eyes from lack of decent sleep, and noting with his downward glance the dust and wrinkles in the unpressed grey suit that was not his own, the soft and now soiled shirt that was not his either, his tielessness to boot, wondered whether he even were Gilbert Parradine at all!

  And now, resuming his pacing, he glanced troubledly downward, not far from his feet, to the radio on the floor, alongside the two thin blankets that served as a bed. Stood still. Shook his head. Turned again, and resumed his pacing.

  A curious hideout this, where Parradine was being held. A square uncarpeted room, minus any furniture whatsoever, with fireproof cement floor, and with one entire wall, including the space for several feet in front of that wall, cut off from ceiling to floor by a grating of powerful, beam-braced heavy iron webbing, to prevent contact between anyone in the room and the dangerous bit of electrical paraphernalia in back of it. A place by no means unknown to Parradine, since he owned it, and all that was in it! For it was the room, no less, which constituted the very topmost one—indeed, so far as that went, the very topmost story—of that slender tower which reared itself 8 full stories above the roof of the small 7-story office building called Parradine Tower. Only one window did this strange room contain, and that a small and extremely high-up one, its sill almost beyond handgrasp, its unbreakable plate glass thickly painted over with jet black pain
t, and the whole heavily barred, from the inside, with stout iron webbing, to prevent its use, for all time to come, by any would-be suicide. Though had it not been rendered thus opaque by black paint, it would, as Parradine knew, have but given out to a sky against which not a single other skyscraper impinged. Or else looked dizzily down and along the 1-block-long stucco cornice that marked the Broadway edge of the Parradine Apartments and shops.

  A cheerless place, by any measure. In view of its utter lack of furniture and furnishings. In one corner, off and away from the iron-web partition, was the duo of thin dirty blankets on which Parradine slept. Nearby the top blanket’s outer edge, with flexible connecting wire trailing across the room to wall socket beyond the webbing, the tiny flat-topped metal radio, now silent. In back of the radio, up-ended against it, the crimson-bound book—the single bit of reading that had ever reached Parradine in response to his frantic pleas for such—and that but late this afternoon. And over in the corner of the room diagonally opposite to where the blankets were laid out—but again, safely beyond and behind the iron webbing—and just clearing the end of the electrical device occupying most of the space back of that protective partition, the one and only entrance to the room: the snugly-fitting, airtight and smoke-proof trapdoor, locking within its floor socket by a Yale key, by which Rocco, ascending an iron ladder from the electrical materials room below, came and went as he wished, without ever having to enter the pen-like space which held Parradine. Without ever, indeed, even once unlocking the padlocked meshwork door lying in line with, and but a few feet off, from that trapdoor. Since that meshwork portal, clearing the cement floor by a full 2½ inches, had given just enough space through which, twice a day, a certain three narrow flat pans could be shoved, and later withdrawn—one, a round tin one, containing food—one, an oblong tin one, containing water—one, a square white-enameled one, always shoved in empty—three pans, by which a human being, penned like a wild animal, could carry on his valuable function of living. Without ever once gaining even momentary opportunity to essay some desperate, futile thing, such as trying to overcome his captor the while the latter handed over food. Or, even more, performed those certain tasks that Rocco must do—in this room.

  And which were, of course—Louis Rocco being electrician for Parradine Tower and Parradine Moderne Motion Picture Theatre at the other end of the block—to make certain and occasional adjustments of the Schürdein, lying back of that powerful ceiling-to-floor, wall-to-wall guard-web. Or, in more technical language, the Schürdein Automatic Light-Flashing Board, made in Berne, Switzerland, designed to close and open electric circuits in any combinations or sequences whatever—and which, being set here for the simplest of all—the “spell-out”—kept those lights on the marquee of the Parradine Moderne Theatre far down below, and down the street as well, ever spelling out the film attractions for the night.

  Now Parradine stood for a moment, about midway between the points corresponding to where the long switchboard-like structure within commenced and ended, his nose pressed in one of the interstices of the webbing, his lean hands clenching the ironwork mesh, as indeed, he had stood so often, for hours on end, watching the endless plays of those long copper contact tips lying a full 8 inches back inside—those literal pairs of copper fingers, the upper ones of which, tripped in succession by the automatic system of relays in back of the board, dropped heavily down—made contact, each with its corresponding and rigid finger below it—flashed forth the particular letter on the marquee sign to which it was wired—and lay passively where it was, so that the next letter could add itself. Till, all were spelled out, and the whole stood, foronefull minute, for uptown New York to read. After which—when the automatic revolving timer closed the master-relay, and it in turn closed, simultaneously, a circuit through every one of the electro-magnets attached to each and all of those movable fingers—all of the latter were drawn instantly from their fixed companions, to the tune of a sizzling, dazzling greenish arc of flame between each pair of receding fingertips, to commence the whole operation all over again!

  Perhaps it was the weird effect of those greenish arcs of flame, at this very second blazing forth over the entire board, that made it seem to Parradine, all of a sudden, that it had been but yesterday when, in Switzerland, while recovering from that desperate illness which had almost cost him his life, he had gratefully permitted this complicated yet amazing device to be constructed for him by the young Swiss inventor, August Schürdein, who had given him quarts and quarts of vital blood for transfusion, during that rare blood infection of Parradine’s in which both men had been victims of the same disease. Schürdein had thus gotten his big chance to have his bulky but efficient device actually installed in at least one New York City theatre, then in the very process of construction.

  But here Parradine jerked himself, by a powerful mental effort, back from out the past—the past of several years now hopelessly gone—and into the present again. A present marked by copper fingers—ever moving—greenish arcs—clicking relays—

  And now, heartsick at the even fuller realization of this “Now” in which he must shortly die, attained by that brief contemplating of a “Then” which had been happy and free from danger, Parradine, still watching the ever-dropping upper copper fingers, found himself wishing that just one single one would, by some supreme miracle, stick—fail to come down—fail to make its contact; and its failure to flash its specific letter be noted by the ever-observant Rocco, strolling continuously in and out of the theatre, sending him hurtling up here to adjust the device—in which case, he, Parradine, might beg the Sicilian to make his own death as easy as possible.

  Or, instead, that by an equally supreme miracle, the current supply from board to marquee would be interrupted—making the latter go dark, and continue so—which would again bring Rocco up. Or even that, by the sheerest supreme miracle of all supreme miracles, that single master-relay, in back of the board, whose single operation closed the circuits through all of the electro-magnets, and brought everything back to beginning again, would fail to come together. In which case—what? The sign would remain permanently lighted up—would fail to re-spell its message—would again bring Rocco up. But no! So well encased, in powerful metal conduit, were those wires that ran down inside the tower wall, and across those roofs, beneath the block-long cornice, to the theatre, that current failure there could be none; and so mechanically and electrically perfect was that device which had been created by the young Swiss electrical engineer, that the thing never missed. Tick—tick—tick, the hidden relay-system of trips in back of the board operated ceaselessly. To the tune of a low purr made by the revolution of the encased motor that operated the timing device. Click—click—click—the copper fingers in front of the board made contact inexorably with those below. Never missing by the thousandth of a second!

  With a sigh, Parradine left the iron-web-guarded sign-flasher, and resumed his pacing. He paused long enough, as this time he rounded his spread-out blankets, to pick up the crimson-bound book which stood up-ended against the radio. And gazed at it as a man from Mars would gaze at an egg on Venus.

  The Way Out. A compilation of Chinese wisdom!

  Which work, as now Parradine realized dully, had successfully, after all, passed from the hides-dealer on South Street to the Lower New York bookdealer; from the bookdealer, in turn, to Muriel Ordway; and from Muriel—exactly in line with Parradine’s own instructions to her—to Rocco, before she had flown to London. And Rocco, ever frantically asked by Parradine for something—anything—to read, had finally brought it up from those garish quarters 2 full floors below, and with a grunted oath kicked it under the mesh work door; the very book, no less, that Parradine himself now owned. Owned at a cost of $250.

  $250!

  How unimportant was $250—now.

  As unimportant, indeed, as was the book itself. At least now. For what was the book, after all? Just aphorisms and sayings of Ancient China—for Parrad
ine had riffled fiercely through it once, after receiving it—aphorisms and sayings of Ancient China collated together into curious alleged ‘systems’ to be applied to modern-day problems. Ridiculous concept! Despite even the fanatical belief in such wisdom by John Hoi, the half-Chinaman who had talked to him, Parradine, eons, eras, millenniums back, so it seemed. Ridiculous concept—ancient wisdom applied to modern times! Right now Parradine realized the complete irony of the book. If only in its mocking title, The Way Out. Realized it far, far more so indeed than he had done that first night he had spent here in darkness when the ceiling bulb, operated from the other side of the iron-web partition, had been cruelly turned out on him.

  Without even bothering to stoop over, he tossed the book down upon the blankets, where, falling on one corner, near the radio, it opened halfway out and came to rest, grotesquely astraddle its two half-opened out sections. The curious though now struck him that he was going to have to die without ever having seen, on the screen, the very film star that he himself was showing first in New York: Broome Sherwood, British comedian, who, no doubt, right now was packing the customers in far down below in that super-burlesque which—if the Motion Picture Exhibitors’ Review was correct—was the “screaming burlesque” to end all “screaming burlesques” of Hollywood: “Die, You Whelp.” Curiously, it even struck Gilbert Parradine at this strange moment that the entire show his theatre would be giving tonight was a show that he himself would have liked to have seen. For the exclusive fight films for which he’d paid $2000 cash in advance—that undoubtedly bloody fight between the Irish Terror, Casey O’Kelly, and the unknown Italian who in previous fights had called himself by such various flamboyant title as “The Little Corp,” “The Kid,” “Napoleoni the Great,” and what-not else—was due tonight for its first public showing.

  And now Parradine, for the dozenth time that evening, took from his watch pocket the slender gold watch he had been allowed to retain. Pressed its winder, and its cover flew up. Showing not only the time: 8:23—but, inside that cover, the face of a beautiful blonde woman of 32, with silver eardrops and a Russian hat on her head. The miniature, no less—of that great picture that stood on Parradine’s desk, floors below! And he groaned. Muriel! Whose own name was to have graced that marquee soon, on her last public appearance before she became Mrs. Gilbert Parradine. And now? He wondered dully what she was doing tonight, in far-off London. Did such mere American events as the kidnapping of a New York theatre owner get over there, as news? And if it had, was she crushed because of it? Or was she resting in supreme, confident belief of his being safely ransomed? Or was she—