Target Practice (Stout, Rex)

by Rex Stout

  “Besides,” argued the youth, “the first time Cummings saw the reward posted he would fly to cover, if he isn’t there already. Public rewards are never any good, except to stimulate the police. And, besides that, I have a reason of my own.”

  Dan was the busiest of all. He spent a whole day going inch by inch through the basement where Cummings had lived, though he had previously searched it; he interviewed the Scotchman next door several times; he found and talked with everyone in the neighborhood who had ever seen the missing man; he pursued vainly a thousand avenues of information. It seemed that Patrick Cummings had come from nowhere and gone back to the same place.

  His first appearance in the discoverable world had been the day when, nearly three years back, he had called at the office of Levis & Levis to ask for a job as janitor; his last, the evening of the murder. It got so that one thing, one name, one person, occupied Dan’s mind like a mania; he thought, ate, slept, and breathed Patrick Cummings.

  He forgot to open Miss Venner’s desk for her of mornings; he forgot to comb his hair; he forgot to look when he crossed the street.

  He came near having cause to regret this latter neglect when one afternoon, hearing a warning honk, he jumped in the wrong direction and was knocked flat on his back by a touring car as it whizzed by. He scrambled to his feet in time to see the well-dressed figure of Judge Fraser Manton in the tonneau.

  Finally, when there appeared to be nothing else to do, Dan would walk the streets for hours at a time, cudgeling his brain for a scheme to find a man that evidently didn’t want to be found, and meanwhile watching the passersby. He had followed many a gray-haired man with a scraggly mustache in the past three weeks; once he had found one named Cummings, but not Patrick.

  The number of suspects rounded up by the detectives mounted into the hundreds, so eager were they, for Mr. Leg had let it be known that the successful man would get a good-sized check.

  Late one afternoon, a week before the date set for Mount’s trial, Dan was walking down Eighth Avenue, tired, dejected, and ready to give up, but, nevertheless, with his eyes open. As he passed the tawdry front of a motion picture theater he stopped to glance over a group of men standing near, and then half unconsciously began to glance over the flaring posters displayed at the entrance to the theater. “The Scotchman said Cummings was a movie fan,” he was thinking. Suddenly he gave a start, stopped still, as if transfixed by a sudden thought, and uttered an ejaculation of discovery.

  “I never thought of that!” he exclaimed aloud, so that the girl in the ticket booth looked over at him with an amused grin. He stood for several minutes, lost in consideration of the scheme that had entered his mind. Suddenly he pulled himself together, dashed into the avenue, and hopped on a downtown trolley car.

  Fifteen minutes later he was in the office, explaining his plan to Mr. Leg with eager tongue. His enthusiasm was somewhat dampened by his employer’s lack of it.

  “All right,” said the lawyer indifferently; “try it if you want to, though I don’t think much of it. I’ll foot the bill and stand for the reward if you find him. Write the letter yourself.”

  Dan went into the other room to ask Miss Venner for permission to use her machine. She granted it politely; she had had very little to say to Dan lately, since he had begun to neglect the thousand little attentions he had always paid her. He sat down with a frown and began to click.

  Half an hour later he submitted the following letter to his employer:

  MANAGER OF THE EMPIRE MOTION PICTURE THEATER,

  2168 Eighth Avenue, New York.

  Dear Sir:

  I am trying to find a man whom I need as witness in an important case. I make you the following proposition:

  You are to flash on your screen at every performance the words: “Patrick Cummings, formerly of 714 West 157th Street, is wanted on the telephone.” If Cummings appears in response, tell him that the party rang off after asking that he wait till they call again. Then telephone at once to my office, 11902 Rector, and report that Cummings is there; and you are to hold Cummings, if possible, until someone from my office arrives. If it is impossible to hold him, have him followed by one of your employees when he leaves.

  In case I find Cummings with this assistance from you, I will pay you five thousand dollars cash. As to my reliability and integrity, as well as ability to pay that amount, I refer you to the Murray National Bank of New York.

  I am enclosing a detailed description of Cummings. This offer is good for only ten days from the date of this letter.

  Yours truly,

  “It’s a pretty good idea,” admitted Mr. Leg when he had finished reading it; “but what makes you think that Cummings will be fool enough to walk into the trap, provided he sees the bait?”

  “That’s just it,” explained Dan. “I’m counting on his being somewhat of a fool. Put yourself in his place, sir. Here he is, sitting in the movies, when suddenly he sees his own name thrown on the screen, and, so that there may be no mistake about it, even the address where he lived. It won’t occur to him that it is merely an attempt to find him; he will immediately conclude that whoever is asking for him must already know where he is, and the chances are that he’ll be mighty anxious to find out who the call is from. At any rate, it’s worth trying. It won’t cost much unless we find him, and you won’t care then.”

  “I certainly won’t,” agreed the lawyer grimly. “I didn’t tell you, Dan, that I went to see Hammel again yesterday. Nothing doing.”

  “Of course not, sir.” Dan took back the letter. “I’m going to take this right downstairs and have them run off ten thousand copies on the multigraph. Then I’ll telephone to the Trow people for a list of motion picture theaters, and to an agency for ten or twelve girls to come and help us send them out. I think it would be best, sir, if you would sign the letters. If the signature were multigraphed perhaps they wouldn’t feel so sure of the reward.”

  “By Jove, you’ve got it all down,” observed Mr. Leg. “Yes, the letters ought to be signed, but you can do it as well as I. They won’t know the difference.” He glanced at his watch. “I have to be uptown for dinner.”

  Thus was Dan’s scheme set to work. Somewhat to his surprise, Miss Venner volunteered to stay and help; and, with the assistance of some dozen girls sent in by an agency, they had the ten thousand letters signed, addressed, sealed, and stamped by midnight. Dan carried them to the main post office, after which he escorted Miss Venner home.

  Meanwhile, Mr. Leg was acquiring a fresh stock of indignation. His dinner engagement uptown was only half social; it was an informal meeting of a special committee of one of the most exclusive clubs of the city to arrange for a dinner to be given in honor of one of their members on the occasion of his return from a high diplomatic position abroad. The membership of the committee included James Reynolds, the banker; Alfred Sinnott and Corkran Updegraff, capitalists; Judge Fraser Manton, and two or three others.

  Although Mr. Leg had met Judge Manton several years before, and had of course seen him many times since, they had never got beyond a bowing acquaintance. So when, after dinner was over and they retired to the club library, Mr. Leg approached the judge with a view to conversation, there was a slight tinge of formality in his manner. They talked a little on a topic that had been discussed earlier in the evening, on which they had disagreed.

  “By the way, Judge,” observed Mr. Leg when a chance offered itself, “I want to thank you for assigning me to that Mount case—the murder case, you know—though I certainly can’t guess why I was selected.”

  “Ah!” Judge Manton’s brows lifted. “Is it a matter for thanks?”

  “It certainly is. Most interesting three weeks I’ve ever had. I’ve worked day and night. Spent ten thousand dollars, and there’s a chance I’ll win it.”

  “M-m-m! Of course you know I can’t discuss the case out of court.”

  “Oh, no! I understand that,” agreed Mr. Leg hastily. “Only I just thought I’d let you know that I�
�ll probably be in court tomorrow with a request for postponement.”

  “Ah!” Again Judge Manton’s brows were lifted. “I suppose you have a good reason.”

  “No, I haven’t. That is, no particular reason. But I haven’t been able to get hold of my most important witness, and I believe there is usually no difficulty in getting a postponement when a man’s life depends on it. I believe the district attorney will make no objection.”

  For a moment there was no reply. Judge Manton took from his pocket a silk case embroidered with gold, extracted a cigarette, and lit it. He blew a long column of smoke slowly into the air, and another. Then he turned with startling suddenness and spoke rapidly in a low voice, looking straight into Mr. Leg’s eyes:

  “I don’t know if the district attorney will object, Mr. Leg. But I do know that I will. The calendar is too far behind already to permit of further postponements, except for the most cogent reasons. You’ve had a month to prepare your case and find your witnesses. Of course you may come to court and enter your petition for a postponement if you wish. But, my dear Leg, speaking merely as a private citizen, I wouldn’t advise you to bank much on it.”

  Judge Manton stopped abruptly, blew a third column of smoke into the air, turned on his heel, and walked away.

  “Well!” ejaculated Mr. Leg to himself in astonishment. “I’ll be damned if they haven’t got to Manton the same as they did Dick Hammel! Lord, how I’d love to show ’em all up!”

  And he walked all the way home from downtown, a distance of over two miles, in order to inspect the faces of the passersby in search of Patrick Cummings. He was deadly in earnest, was Mr. Simon Leg. Think of walking over two miles when a mere uplifting of a finger would have brought a spirited taxi dashing to the curb!

  The following morning at the office Mr. Leg lost no time in telling Dan of his conversation with Judge Manton. His indignation had increased during the night; he denounced the entire police force and judiciary of the city.

  “Think of it!” he exclaimed. “They are willing to throw away an innocent man’s life merely to save the good name of a friend! Or there may be politics in it. Whatever it is, it’s rotten! I didn’t think it of Dick Hammel, and now the judge himself—”

  “I’m not surprised, sir,” observed Dan. “I’ve half a mind to tell you—but it would do no good. Our only hope now is the movies. We’ve got ten thousand of them working for us. We’ve covered everything within five hundred miles of New York; the only trouble is, he’s nearly as apt to be in San Francisco.”

  “Or dead.”

  “Yes, sir. For Mount’s sake I hope not.”

  “Well, we’ve got just six days left. I’m going to call up Dickinson and tell him to send out more men. I don’t know, Dan; I’m about ready to give up.”

  A little later telephone calls began to come in from the motion picture theaters. They asked every conceivable question under the sun, from the number of hairs on Patrick Cummings’s head to the color of his shoestrings. Dan finally gave up all thought of leaving the office, and all day long he sat at his desk with the telephone receiver at his ear. Toward the middle of the afternoon he made two calls on his own account: one to his mother to tell her that he would not be home that night, and the other to a furniture dealer on Fourteenth Street. An hour later Mr. Leg, hearing a most unusual noise in the outer office, stepped to his door to see a man setting up a cot with mattress, covers, and pillows.

  “I sent for it,” explained Dan to his astonished employer. “I’m going to sleep here, sir, to answer the telephone.”

  After that he refused to leave the office; he had his meals sent in from a nearby restaurant. The truth was, Dan’s conscience was troubling him; he had begun to fear that he had done wrong not to tell his suspicions and his reasons for them to his employer, though he tried to console himself by reflecting that he would only have been laughed at.

  But the poor boy felt that his desire for glory had jeopardized the life of an innocent man, and he was miserable. His whole hope now lay in the telephone. Would the word come? Everytime the bell rang his nerves quivered.

  The next day Mr. Leg went to court and requested a postponement of two weeks, having first gained the acquiescence of the district attorney’s office. Judge Manton denied the petition, and the lawyer left in a rage.

  Only five days were left before the trial.

  Several false alarms came in from the motion picture theaters. Most of them were obviously mistakes, but one sent Dan flying for a train to Stamford. When he got there he found the manager of the theater seated in his office, chatting with a little, redhaired Irishman, whose name indeed proved to be Patrick Cummings, but who was certainly not the one wanted.

  “Didn’t you read the description of him?” Dan demanded.

  “Sure,” replied the manager, “but I wasn’t taking any chances.”

  “You’re a fool!” retorted the boy shortly as he started at a run to catch the next train back to New York.

  That was Monday afternoon, and the trial was set for Wednesday.

  Later that same afternoon Mr. Leg, wandering into the outer office, approached Dan’s desk. The boy was seated there with the telephone at his elbow, apparently buried deep in contemplation of some object spread out before him on the desk. Mr. Leg, going closer and looking over his shoulder, saw a white slip of paper with the words, “Bonneau et Mouet—Sec,” written on it in ink, and beside it a large reproduction of a man’s photograph.

  “What in the name of goodness are you doing with that?” demanded Mr. Leg, pointing to the photograph.

  Dan jumped with surprise.

  “Oh, I—I didn’t know you were there, sir!” He flushed. “Why, I—er—I was just looking at it.” He managed a smile. “Studying human nature, sir.”

  The lawyer grunted. “If you ask me, Dan, I think you’re getting kind of queer.”

  “Yes, sir.” The boy folded the photograph with the slip of paper inside and placed it in his pocket. The lawyer regarded him sharply for a moment, then returned to the other room.

  Tuesday morning came, the day before the trial. Dan did not move from his desk all day and evening. The telephone rang over and over, and each time he took up the receiver it was with a hand that trembled so it could scarcely hold the receiver to his ear. The fact was, he had persuaded himself, or, rather, he felt that the little wire was certain to bring him the word he wanted. But it did not come.

  The following morning at ten o’clock William Mount was called before the bar to stand trial for the murder of his wife.

  The courtroom was not crowded, for the case was not a celebrated one; but there was a good-sized gathering of those people who may always be counted on to turn up at a murder trial, and there was much twisting of curious necks when the prisoner was led in. There was little change in Mount’s appearance since the day a month previous, when he had been called before Judge Manton to plead.

  His face was slightly paler and his cheeks more sunken; but he wore the same air of heavy, stolid indifference, and his eyes were sullen and devoid of hope.

  Mr. Leg started proceedings by asking again for a postponement, declaring that he had been unable to locate his most important witness. Assistant District Attorney Thornton, for the prosecution, refrained from argument. Judge Manton denied the request, saying that counsel for the defense had had ample time to prepare his case.

  There was little difficulty in selecting the jury, as neither side appeared to be particular, and the box was filled by noon. The addresses to the jury were short, and by the time court reconvened after lunch they were ready for the witnesses.

  The prosecution opened with the young man who had been called to the scene of the murder by Mount’s scream, and had found him standing over the body with the knife in his hand. His testimony, with that of three other tenants and as many policemen, consumed the afternoon.

  When court adjourned a little before six Mr. Leg returned to his office to find Dan seated at his desk, staring moodil
y at the telephone.

  “Nothing doing, Dan?” said Mr. Leg grimly.

  “No, sir.”

  “Been here all day?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It’s funny you can’t see,” put in Miss Venner with sudden sharpness, “that he’s getting sick over it. He sits and stares at that telephone like a crazy man. He hasn’t eaten a bite all day. Of course, not that I care, only I—I—”

  She flushed and stopped.

  “Can’t help it,” remarked Mr. Leg gloomily. “Come on in the other room, Dan, and I’ll tell you how it went in court. Or wait, I’ll sit here.”

  The following day at noon the prosecution finished. They had presented evidence that the murdered woman was the wife of the prisoner, and had left him, furnishing—as the assistant district attorney had said in his opening address—the strongest possible combination of motives—jealousy and revenge. When the prosecution’s last witness left the stand it was easy to see from the expression of the jurors’ faces as they stole glances at the prisoner that they regarded the case as already proven. Mr. Leg, following Dan’s instructions, had attempted to gain time by prolonging the cross-examinations; but he was anything but an adept at the game, and several times he had been prodded by Judge Manton.

  The first witness called by the defense was the prisoner himself. Aided—and sometimes retarded—by questions from Mr. Leg, he merely repeated the story he had previously told to the police, the coroner, and his lawyer. Again Mr. Leg attempted to drag out the proceedings by prolonging the examination; but at length his invention ran out and he was forced to let the witness go, reflecting, however, that the cross-examination would occupy another hour or two.

  Therefore, was he struck with consternation when he heard the prosecuting attorney say calmly:

  “I will not cross-examine, your honor.”