If the chief would pretend to land on the show about noon with an attachment, and jail Whipple until the show paid up, it would look legitimate enough and insure them against a squawk. All the chief had to do was see that Whipple could secretly come and go as he pleased.
Whipple had done some high-pressure talking at that point. After all giving a man the use of the jail as base of operations for a con-game was a tough one.
Butterfield had had to think that one over a bit, but the ten-grand bait finally hooked him. It wasn’t until after the murders began happening too thick and fast and a swarm of New York dicks had descended on Lakewego like a plague of locusts that the Chief realized that what Doc Whipple had really been buying was Butterfield’s services as an accessory to murder.
“And even then,” Diavolo commented after the Chief had been locked in one of his own cells, “Whipple had the man in a cleft stick. Doc could prove that the attachment on the show was a phony and that the posting of the bond was only a cover for the paying of a bribe. If Butterfield had let on that Whipple wasn’t really in his jail during the crucial times, he’d only have found himself under fire on bribery charges.”
Inspector Church finished his count of the bulky packet of bills the narcotic mobsmen had given Whipple on delivery of the shipment and which had just been found in a search of Whipple’s car. He placed them in a large envelope and marked it Exhibit B.
“The price of narcotics being what they are,” he said, “Whipple certainly wasn’t playing the game for marbles. That ten grand Butterfield was to get wasn’t a drop in the bucket.”
The Inspector looked at Exhibit A which had been found with the money. It was a glove — a left-handed one — whose finger ends had been fitted with sharp, curved steel points and then dipped in a solution of alcohol and the poison scraped from Schneider’s arrows.9
“I wonder why he used that dingus instead of something nice and simple like a gun or our old friend the ‘blunt instrument’? Was it just a play to throw suspicion on the leopard man?”
“No,” Don said, “I don’t think so. Whipple was the smart type of murderer — the type that are so often so smart they fool themselves. He’d fooled himself into thinking he could commit murder without laying himself open to suspicion at all. That glove suggests that he intended originally to kill Hagenbaugh off on the circus lot and leave his body near the cat cages so that, together with the scratches, it would look like accident — not murder at all.
“It was a pretty sweet scheme, all right. From Whipple’s point of view there was no chance in the world that it could miss. All he had to do was wait for the proper moment, and not get stampeded.
“But something went wrong — he didn’t get the right opportunity perhaps and Hagenbaugh left the show and made a trip to his office in town before Whipple got at him. R.J. probably had to arrange the transfer of the dope with the narcotic mob.
“But Doc had his own ideas about selling that dope and Hagenbaugh had to be finished off before the dope changed hands, an event scheduled for tonight since this was the closest approach of the show to New York. He couldn’t fake an accident in Hagenbaugh’s New York office — at least not a wild animal death — so he changed his plan of action and cooked up the jail alibi for his out. He used the poisoned claws just the same for the simple reason that they had the important advantage of killing fast and quietly.”
Lieutenant Brophy who had gone with the car that took the badly wounded Whipple to a hospital returned while Diavolo was speaking. Now he said, “Whipple had another reason for going after Hagenbaugh just when he did. They had to pump some morphine into him and I got an earful of some talking he did in his sleep. Some of it makes sense.
“Maybe what I heard wouldn’t be accepted in court, but it clinches the motive-angle, and you’ve got so much straight evidence against Whipple, that it doesn’t matter so very much.
“He and Hagenbaugh had gotten a tipoff that one of their clowns was a Federal dick. Like most grifters Hagenbaugh never worried about the law because he always saw to it that the fix was in before he went to work. But he knew that fixing a Fed ain’t so easy these days and he got the wind up.
“He got the jitters so bad, in fact, that Doc Whipple who didn’t trust the old man any further than half as far as he could see him, began to suspect that there was a doublecross coming. He had a hunch that Hagenbaugh was going to get out from under and let Whipple take the rap.
“He’d known Hagenbaugh long enough to be sure that that was just the sort of sweet-smelling trick Hagenbaugh would likely pull. The more he thought about it, I guess, the surer he got. He was due for the rap, and he knew it.
“That gave him a jolt. The Doc did a stretch in stir about ten years back on account of a little sideline he had of writing narcotic prescriptions for addicts. It was him that got Hagenbaugh into the dope racket to start with. But when he figured that Hagenbaugh was going to turn him in and he might go on another trip up the river, he got the willies — and doublecrossed Hagenbaugh first. One of the doctors said that he had a touch of claws-something or other and …”
“Claustrophobia?” Don asked.
“Yeah, that’s it. It means he had a horror of small closed rooms — like cells for instance.”
Later that day, on a train that sped back toward New York, The Horseshoe Kid dealt four playing cards from a shuffled pack face down on the magazine that lay across his knees. He turned them face up and then scowled heavily. Three of them were aces all right, but the fourth was a measly two spot.
“You see,” he protested, turning to Don who sat across the aisle with Pat and Mickey, “that’s what a night in the lockup will give a guy —jitters. Me, I’ve got claustrophobia too.”
Woody Haines, grinning slyly because he had successfully crossed Horseshoe up by removing the fourth ace from the deck, said, “So have I. And you don’t catch me stooging for the Great Diavolo again unless I’m outfitted in advance with a complete set of picklocks and a course of Six Easy Lessons in Jailbreaking.”
Woody stared pensively down at his interlaced knuckles. Then slowly and very carefully he began cracking them one by one. “Yes, sir. That’s what I want. A course in crashing out of cans.”
“Not necessary,” the magician grinned. “Simplest way to escape is by The Famous Leopard Method.”
“Leopard method?” Pat asked, swallowing the bait, hook, line, and sinker. “What’s that?”
“Claw your way out.” Don replied, and then ducked as two magazines, a box of candy, and Horseshoe’s deck of cards were all thrown with deadly aim at his head.
He managed to dodge the candy box and it sailed past into the seat beyond. A second later the tired head of an awakened and annoyed Inspector Church came up into view.
He blinked at them furiously, sharp eyes snapping.
“Why is it,” he demanded irascibly, “that I never seem to be able to get any sleep when you folks are around?”
7 Don Diavolo, as he later explained, had regained consciousness a few minutes before they reached the bridge. Effecting a release from a hastily tied rope around his wrists had been, for him, no more difficult than vanishing a birdcage or sawing a woman in half. After getting some slack in the ropes around his ankles, he had lettered the swastika on the rear window and then, because he knew that both men were professional killers, had feigned unconsciousness until he hit the river. After completing his escape from the ropes, he swam ashore and thumbed a ride.
8 The reason for this change of policy — something Whipple didn’t confide in Butterfield—was that Hagenbaugh, engaged now in the more lucrative racket of smuggling narcotics, wanted nothing on the show that might make for arguments with the authorities. Hagenbaugh was one of the last circus owners to allow grift joints on his lot. Though they are still to be found on some carnivals, most circus owners now agree that in the long run the lucky boys are a liability since their scores burn up the territory.
9 Doc Whipple was wearing his glove when he
came into Hagenbaugh’s office. That was why he kept his left hand in his pocket while talking to Miss Skinner and why he had to write the “Snow Leopard” note with his right.
The hand is quicker than the eye, they say; and here the subtle, flashing hand of murder is matched against the trained and skillful eye of Don Diavolo. Even the Scarlet Wizard finds himself in a blind alley of suspicion when the hand that holds the knife of murder is one that no man can see. A baffling complete novel.
CHAPTER I
The Man from India
THE afternoon sun gleamed silver on the great airliner that roared down out of the west in a long slant toward La Guardia Field. Below, Manhattan Island loomed larger, then tilted and turned in a slow majestic swing as the plane made a wide half-circle above the shining towers and deep-shadowed canyons of New York City.
It was thus that to this most modern capital of the New World came a secret more than two thousand years old — knowledge of a thing that had all but vanished from the minds of men, lost in the desert wastes of a land older than history.
The plane’s passengers craned their necks and gazed from the windows with excited anticipation at the panorama that moved below them. All, that is, but one — the slim, sun-tanned young man in seat number six who lay back in apparent un-interest, his eyes half closed.
A close observer might have noticed that his relaxed attitude didn’t ring quite true. There was something in the set of his shoulders and the alert quick movements of his fingers that hinted at an underlying nervousness— a tension that was as taut as coiled steel springs. Beneath their lowered lids, his dark eyes moved carefully from one to another of his fellow travelers, resting for a moment on each with a hard calculating stare.
He had suspected that he was being followed ever since his baggage had been searched the night before he left Bombay via Imperial Airways. He had been certain of it after the attempted holdup in the Hong Kong hotel.
And across six thousand miles of the Pacific he had been dimly conscious of the eyes upon his back — of eyes that were never there when he turned.
That was why, when they had landed, he made arrangements to have his baggage sent as usual to the Explorers’ Club on Seventy-second Street and then, using three different taxis that all turned, twisted, backtracked and circled, himself went to a small hotel in Thirty-fifth Street.
He was certain, when he paid off his last driver, that the cab which had followed him when he left the airport had long been lost.
On the Winfield Hotel’s register he wrote in a neat, precisely flowing script the words, T.G. Alexander, Chicago, Illinois. Then, as soon as the bellboy who showed him into Room 713 had gone, he locked the door and picked up the phone.
He made two calls. When the first connection had been made he asked for Judith Allison. The voice that answered said that she was not in at the moment but was expected shortly and asked if he would care to leave a message.
He said, “Yes. Tell her Ted called and ask her to phone Mr. Alexander at Bryant 3-3824.”
He had no better luck with his second call. Again the person he asked for was out. He talked for a few moments in the rapid cryptic phrases of an East Indian dialect to someone he addressed as Chan, and finished by directing him to tell the Jadhoo-wallah to phone back as soon as he arrived.
Then he rang for a bellhop and sent him out after shirts, socks, underwear, a toothbrush and shaving supplies. He locked the door again and started to undress.
Against the flesh of his right leg, between knee and thigh, there was a long, narrow, flat package held there by two straps. He unbuckled these, glanced once around the room without seeing any adequate hiding place for the parcel, and then took it with him to the bathroom. He placed it on the washstand within easy reach while he showered.
After the bellboy had returned, Mr. Alexander shaved. He called Room Service and ordered lunch sent up. Then he dressed, strapping the curious package once more around his leg. He had just finished eating when the phone call came.
He lifted the receiver and said. “Hello.”
He expected this to be one of the two calls he waited for. It was neither. Instead a voice he did not know said, “Mr. Johnson, please.”
He said, “You have the wrong number,” and hung up.
Then, on second thought, he scowled darkly at the phone, turned and looked toward the locked door. That was, he realized, one way of finding out if he was in. Quickly he took the phone again, jiggled the hook impatiently and then asked, “Operator. This is Room 713. You just rang me. Was that call from a house phone or from the outside?”
Operator’s answer was not reassuring. “House phone,” she said.
Mr. Alexander hung up. Then he took an automatic from his pocket, flipped over the safety catch, and waited, watching the door. His eyes were narrowed and there was a puzzled frown on his forehead.
It wasn’t possible that they had tracked him here so soon— not unless they were clairvoyant. He was positive no one had followed all the turnings he had taken between the airport and the hotel. The cab which had followed him at first must have, after losing him, gone on to the Explorers’ Club to wait. That would be where he might be expected to turn up. But he’d picked this hotel out of a hat and there was no way.…
A knock sounded on the door.
The young man’s hand tightened on his gun. He was right, then. He couldn’t understand how they’d found him so soon, but the phone call had been a trick. “Well, he knew a trick or two — with firearms.
He smiled grimly. Now for some action. “Yes,” he said. “Who is it?”
But the voice that answered was quite matter of fact and anything but sinister. “Room service,” it said.
Alexander blinked, hesitated, then glanced at the uncleared luncheon dishes.
“I am getting the jitters,” he muttered.
He crossed the room, unlocked the door and then stepped aside so that he was behind the door as it opened. It was as well that he did so.
Mr. Alexander had never seen a waiter quite like the one that came in — not East of Suez at any rate. He was a man of medium height dressed in quite ordinary clothes — dark suit, brown shoes, a neat pin-striped tie. But on his head he wore a large white dress-turban, and his face was the dark chocolate brown of the Hindu.
This was all interesting enough, but the really important fact was that he, too, had a gun in his hand.
He had, however, no chance to use it. As he turned he found the round muzzle of Mr. Alexander’s gun ready, and waiting, held by a steady, nerveless hand.
Alexander kicked the door shut with his foot, “Okay,” he said. “Drop it!” His voice was cold and hard and efficient.
The turbaned man hesitated a bare fraction of a second, then his fingers opened and his gun dropped to the floor.
Mr. Alexander said, “If it’s Mr. Johnson you are still looking for, he’s not in.”
“Johnson?” The other man frowned. There was no trace of accent in his voice. “I don’t think I understand.”
“I don’t understand so well myself,” his opponent replied. “Why did you pretend you were Room Service? And why the gun, if I’m not being too inquisitive?”
“I— Someone was following me. Your door was locked. I thought that was the quickest way in. I had to get out of that corridor.”
“Oh yeah?” Mr. Alexander was skeptical. “I doubt that like hell.” He moved to the door and turned the key in the lock. “But we won’t take any chances. Let’s hear more. Who are you?”
The other man hesitated. His eyes sought the gun on the floor, then shifted to the one Alexander held. Then he said, “My name is not important. Yours is. Alexander was a very appropriate choice. I want to talk about him.”
The man behind the gun spoke coldly. “I thought so. Okay. Go on and talk. I’m listening.” He watched his visitor intently and he thought that there was something very wrong about this, something so haywire that …
The gentleman in the turban bowed sligh
tly. “India,” he said, “is a strange country. You know that. It hides many strange secrets. You know one of them. I know some others.
“I know for instance that a few weeks ago, on May 20th to be exact, you were in Derawar. I know that you spent a week in the desert along the east bank of the Indus near the border of Bahawalpur. You were alone. You had with you a certain radio-induction device which finally, on the evening of June 3rd, led you to.…”
Alexander interrupted. “If I was alone, how do you know what happened to me? If I did spend any time in a desert near wherever it was I wouldn’t have talked about it.”
This was true enough. He hadn’t talked. How this man could possibly know these dates — how anyone could possibly know …?
The dark-faced intruder spoke again. “It is not always necessary to depend on the eyes to see and the ears to hear. India is a strange land and there are more senses than five. I can tell you other things that you might suppose no one could possibly know. I might tell you about the very remarkable discovery you made before that in Lahore on ninth day of the month of Ramadan. I might tell you …”
What other secrets the man who knew too much had to offer Mr. Alexander never discovered.
His opponent, noting that these disclosures were having their effect, had edged gradually backward, until now his right hand behind him touched the water carafe on the table. His brown fingers took a firm hold.
Then, in mid-sentence, with a long and lightning quick under-arm swing, he sent it hurtling up at Alexander’s face. The latter ducked automatically as the water, splashing from it, blinded him for half an instant.
His finger tightened on the trigger and he felt the kick of the gun as it spurted flame across the room.
As his vision cleared he saw the Hindu, who had already lunged forward toward him in a low horizontal dive, fall and come sliding across the floor toward his feet. The man lay there motionless.
Death from Nowhere Page 10
