by Rex Stout
Mr. Notter reached out again for Simmons’s hair; Simmons, anticipating the maneuver, closed his fingers firmly around the other’s nose; Mr. Notter jerked violently backward to free himself, his head struck against the trunk of the tree, and he rolled over limp and unconscious.
For a moment Simmons didn’t know what had happened. But as he saw his opponent lying there beside him still and motionless, comprehension came, and he was seized with a sudden, terrible fright. He scrambled frantically to his feet. Mr. Notter was dead! He had killed him! Good heavens! He stood looking at the prostrate form in speechless horror, scarcely able to keep on his feet from fatigue and the exhaustion of rage—
“Here they are!” came a sudden shout from behind.
Simmons jumped half out of his skin, whirled around and saw a man pushing his way through the shrubbery into the clearing. It was Peter Boley.
“Here they are!” Boley shouted again, and Simmons heard answering calls from the wood in all directions.
The grocer entered the clearing, and his glance fell on the form of Mr. Notter on the ground; as he looked it stirred a little.
“Here they are!” he shouted a third time. “Come quick! Quick! Jonas has knocked him out!”
Toward noon of the following day Peter Boley and Jone Simmons were seated talking in the back room of the hardware store. Simmons looked considerably the worse for wear. His nose was swollen to twice its usual size, there was a bandage over one eye and innumerable scratches made his face look something like a railroad map.
Still his expression, as far as it could be ascertained underneath these disfigurements, was not exactly unhappy.
“It’s not that I blame you for, Jonas,” Peter Boley was saying. “If you and Mr. Notter decided to go off in the woods together and fight it out because there was too many women and children around, I don’t blame you a bit. When you found out you was mad at each other, that was the only thing to do. But what I say is, you might have let some of us come along—at least Slim Pearl and Harry Vawter and me. You might have told us. By jumpers, Jonas, I tell you I wouldn’t of missed that fight for twenty dollars! It must of been an awful blow when you knocked him out. He didn’t come to for five minutes. A swing on the jaw, eh?”
Simmons nodded negligently. “He put up an awful good fight,” he admitted magnanimously. “He’s no slouch, Peter, I tell you that. I guess it was the hardest fight I ever had. He’s stronger than I am.
“But,” he added, producing a plug of tobacco, “you see how much good it did him. It’s science that counts!”
The Rope Dance
IT WAS ON A BRIGHT October afternoon that Rick Duggett got off at Grand Central Station, New York, with eight hundred dollars in the pocket of his brand-new suit of clothes. But first of all it is necessary to explain how he got there and where the money came from.
He was one of those men who never do anything by halves. He ate prodigiously or fasted, he slept eleven hours or not at all, he sat in a poker game only when it was expressly understood that the roof was the limit and you might blow that off if you had enough powder.
Whatever he did he went just a little farther than anyone else, so it was only natural that he should reach the top of his profession. He was the best roper in Eastern Arizona, which is no mean title even in these days when good ropers are as scarce as water holes in a desert.
When a prize of one thousand dollars cash was hung up in the great roping contest held at Honeville last October everybody expected Rick Duggett to win it, and he did not disappoint them. He roped and tied ten steers in fourteen minutes and twenty-eight seconds, seven full minutes better than the nearest competitor.
There had been considerable speculation as to what Rick would do with the money. Of course he would entertain the crowd at Ogilvy’s, but even a gang of thirsty ranchmen can’t drink a thousand dollars’ worth of whisky. The rest would probably find its way into a poker game; but then Rick Duggett was a surprising sort of fellow and you couldn’t tell. He might get married, or even take a trip to Denver.
As a matter of fact, Rick bought one round of drinks at Ogilvy’s, made arrangements for his horse to be returned to the ranch, and entrusted a comrade with the following note to the foreman:
Dear Fraser:
I won the big prize all right. I’m going to take a month off for a little trip to New York. I’ve never been there.
Yours truly, R. Duggett
Even from Rick, that was amazing. Denver or K. C. yes. People did go to those places, and sometimes even to St. Louis. Indeed, it was understandable that a man might conceivably undertake, for pleasure, a journey to Chicago.
But New York!
Absurd.
You might as well say Constantinople and be done with it. However, it was just like Rick Duggett. Having decided to visit a big city, you might know he would choose the biggest. He never did anything by halves.
Thus it was that Rick arrived in New York, with a roll of bills amounting to eight hundred and eighteen dollars in his pocket, about two o’clock of a sunny October afternoon.
Having stopped off in Chicago to buy a suit of clothes, his outward appearance, as he emerged from the Grand Central Station onto Forty-second Street, was not as startling as you might have expected of the champion roper of Arizona. But he had not thought of discarding the floppy broad-brimmed Stetson, and the raggedness of his brown countenance and the flashing clearness of his eye were patently not of Broadway.
So it was that before he had even reached Times Square, threading his way through the throng westward on Forty-second Street, he was accosted by a dapper white-faced person in a blue serge suit who murmured something, without preamble, concerning “the third race at Latonia,” and a “sure thing,” and “just around the corner.”
“Listen, sonny,” said Rick, not unkindly. “I don’t bet on horses unless I can see ’em. Besides, if I’d wanted to gamble I’d of stayed in Honeville. I came to New York to see the sights, and I guess you’re one of ’em. Much obliged. Here’s two bits.”
And he thrust a quarter into the hand of the astonished “runner.”
After he had tramped around for a couple of hours and got his eyes full he took a taxicab to the Hotel Croyville, which had been recommended to him by someone on the train.
It is too bad that I can’t describe his timidity on entering the cab and his novel sensations as the engine started and the thing shot forward. The trouble is that the owner of the ranch on which he worked was also the owner of two automobiles, and Rick was a pretty good hand at driving a car himself. Yet he was indeed impressed by the cab driver’s marvellous dexterity in threading his way through the maze of whirling traffic down Fifth Avenue.
Rick ate dinner, or supper, as he called it, at the Croyville, and a little later sallied forth for a look at the town by electric light. He had a sort of an idea that he might go to a show, but, having perused the amusement columns of an evening newspaper, found himself embarrassed by the superabundance of material. His final decision rested between a performance of Macbeth and a Broadway dancing revue, and about half-past seven he dropped into a café to consider the matter over a little of something wet.
It was there that he met a person named Henderson. One thing Rick must admit, it was he himself who addressed the first words to the stranger. But then it is also a fact that the stranger, who was standing next to Rick at the bar, started things by observing to the bartender and whoever else might care to hear:
“We don’t use those nonrefillable bottles out West, where I come from. We don’t have to. We know the men that sell us our drinks, and by——, they know us. But that’s the way it is in New York. You got to watch everybody, or you’ll get your insides all filled up with water.”
Rick turned and asked the stranger—a ruddy-faced, middle-aged man in a gray sack suit and soft hat—what part of the West he came from. That was enough. Ten minutes later they were having their second drink together.
Mr. Henderson, it appeared
, was from Kansas, where he owned an immense wheat farm. He was much interested in what Rick had to say about Arizona. They discussed the metropolis, and Rick, by way of comment on Mr. Henderson’s observation that “you got to watch everybody in New York,” told of his encounter with the poolroom runner on Forty-second Street. Then, as it was nearing eight o’clock, he remarked that he was intending to see the revue up at the Stuyvesant Theater, and guessed he would have to trot along.
“That’s a bum show,” declared Mr. Henderson. “I saw it the other night. Lord, I’ve seen better than that out in Wichita. Why don’t you come with me up to the Century? A fellow at the hotel told me it’s the real thing.”
So after Mr. Henderson had paid for the drinks—despite Rick’s protest—they left the café and took a taxi to Sixty-second Street, where Henderson allowed Rick to settle with the cab driver while he entered the theater lobby to get the tickets.
Rick liked the man from Kansas. He appeared to be an outspoken, blunt sort of fellow who liked to have a good time and knew where to go for it. Lucky thing to have met up with him. Mighty pleasant to have for a companion a chap from the right side of the Mississippi.
The show was in fact a good one, and Rick enjoyed it hugely. Pretty girls, catchy music, funny lines, clever dancing. Rick applauded with gusto and laughed himself weak. The only drawback was that Mr. Henderson appeared to have an unconquerable aversion to going out between the acts. It was incomprehensible. The man actually seemed to prefer sitting in the stuffy, crowded theater to stepping out for a little air. But then he was a most amusing talker and the intermissions were not so very long.
After the final curtain they pushed out with the crowd to the sidewalk. Rick felt exhilarated and a little bewildered in the whirlpool of smiling faces and the noise of a thousand chattering tongues.
“This is certainly New York,” he was saying to himself, when his thoughts were interrupted by his companion’s voice:
“What do you say we go downtown for a little supper? I know a good place. Unless you’d rather turn in—”
“I should say not,” declared Rick. “I had my supper at six o’clock, but I’m always ready for more. Lead me to it. This is on me, you know.”
So they found a taxi at the curb and got in, after Mr. Henderson had given the driver the name of a cabaret and supper room downtown. A little delay, and they were out of the crush in front of the theater; a minute later the cab turned into Broadway, with its glaring lights and throngs of vehicles and pedestrians, and headed south.
Suddenly Mr. Henderson pulled himself forward, thrust his hand into his hip pocket and brought it forth again holding something that glistened like bright silver as the rays of light through the cab window reflected on it. Rick’s curious glance showed him that it was a nickel-plated whisky flask. He watched with a speculative eye as the other unscrewed the top, turned it over and poured it full of liquid.
“Some stuff I brought with me from Kansas,” explained Mr. Henderson. “The real thing, this is. I always keep it in the sideboard. If you’d care to join me, sir—”
Rick hesitated. Then he blushed for the base thought that had entered his mind. It was all right to be cautious and all that, but it was carrying it a little too far to be suspicious of a man like Henderson. Still—
“Sure,” said Rick. “After you. I’d like to sample it.”
The other proffered the tiny nickel-plated cup.
“After you,” Rick repeated with a polite gesture.
“Here’s how, then,” replied Henderson, and emptied the cup at a gulp. “Nothing to rinse with, you know,” he observed as he filled it again from the flask. “The stuff’s too good to waste it washing dishes.”
“That’s all right.” Rick took the cup, brimful, in his fingers. “Here’s looking at you.”
And, following the other’s example, he swallowed it with one draught.
About three hours later, a Little after three o’clock in the morning, the lieutenant at the desk of the Murray Hill Police Station was conducting an investigation. The chief witness was a taxicab driver, whose face was flushed with indignation at the iniquity of a wicked world, and whose tone was filled with injured protest.
“I was in front of the Century,” said the driver to the police lieutenant, “when two guys took me. One of ’em, a short, red-faced guy, told me to hit it up for Shoney’s cabaret. I got ’em there as quick as I could, of course bein’ careful, but when I pulled up in front of Shoney’s the red-faced guy leaned out of the window and said they’d changed their minds and guessed they’d drive around a little. ‘Maybe an hour,’ he said, and told me to go up the Avenue to the Park. So I beat it for the Park.
“I drove around till I got dizzy, nearly two hours, and it seemed funny I wasn’t hearing sounds of voices inside. They had the front curtains pulled down. Finally I slowed down and took a peep around the corner through the side window. I couldn’t see no one. I stopped and jumped down and opened the door. The red-faced guy was gone and the other guy was sprawled out half on the seat and half on the floor. I yelled at him and shook him around, but he was dead to the world. So I brought him—”
“All right, that’ll do,” the lieutenant interrupted. “You’ve got a license, I suppose?”
“Sure I have. I’ve been three years with the M. B. Company—”
“And you don’t know when the red-faced man left the cab?”
“No. Unless it was at Sixth Avenue and Forty-second Street. They was a jam there and we was held up a long time; He might of ducked then—”
“All right.” The lieutenant turned to a policeman. “See if that man is able to talk yet.”
As the policeman turned to obey, a door leading into an inner room opened and Rick Duggett, champion roper of Eastern Arizona, appeared on the threshold. His face was pale and his eyes were swollen and dull, like those of a man roused from a long sleep; his necktie was on one side and his hair was rumpled into a tangled mass.
“Here he is now,” said the policeman.
“Oh, so you’ve come to.” The lieutenant looked the newcomer over. “What’s the matter with you? What kind of a game is this?”
Rick Duggett approached the desk.
“Listen here,” he said, gazing at the lieutenant with a melancholy eye. His voice was slow and labored, but he made it distinct. “Listen here,” he repeated. “I see by the clock yonder that it’s after three. So I’ve been knocked out for three hours. I came to in there fifteen minutes ago, and they told me where I was. I guess I’m straightened out now. A gazabo named Henderson gave me a drink of something from Kansas, and when I closed my eyes because I enjoyed it so much he lifted a roll of eight hundred dollars and a return ticket to Arizona from my pants pocket. You got to watch everybody in New York. It was Henderson said that. Perhaps he meant—”
“Wait a minute.” The lieutenant arranged the blotter and dipped his pen in the ink. “What’s your name?”
Rick achieved a weary smile. “My name is Billy Boob. Write it down and let me see how it looks. That’s all you’ll get, because I’m not exactly anxious to get myself in the papers in this connection. My name is Billy Boob, and I come from Ginkville on Sucker Creek. If that’s all I guess I’ll trot along.”
“I guess you won’t,” said the lieutenant sharply. “How do you expect us to get your money back for you if you don’t tell us anything? What kind of a looking man was this Henderson? Where did you meet him?”
“Nothing doing.” Again Rick smiled wearily. “Strange to say, I forgot to brand him. He wore a gray suit of clothes, and he had a red face and white teeth, and I met him somewhere talking about nonrefillable bottles. No use writing anything down, because I’m not making any holler. I’ve always had a theory that if a man can’t take care of himself he’s not fit to have anyone else do the job. The boys would run me off the ranch if they heard of this. I guess I’ll trot along.”
The policeman grinned. The lieutenant expostulated and argued. But Rick was firm.
“No, Cap, nothing doing on the complaint. You wouldn’t catch him, anyway. I’m going home and get some sleep. So long and much obliged.”
He made for the door. But on the threshold he hesitated, then turned.
“There’s one thing I’d like to know,” he said slowly. “Henderson took a drink just before I did, and it didn’t seem to make him sleepy. Is it a general practice around here to carry two kinds of booze in one horn?”
At that the lieutenant grinned, too. “Oh, that’s one of our eastern refinements,” he explained. “You see, the flask is divided in the middle. If you press the button on the right side you get Scotch and if you press the one on the left you get something else. Men like Mr. Henderson have them made to order.”
“I see,” said Rick. “Much obliged.”
And with a farewell nod he turned again and disappeared into the street.
It was noon when he awoke the next day in his room at the hotel. He first felt a vague sense of depression, then suddenly everything came back to him. He jumped out of bed, filled the washbowl with cold water and ducked his head in it, then washed and dressed. That done, he descended to the dining room and ate six eggs and two square feet of ham. After he had paid the breakfast check he went into the lobby and sank into a big leather chair.
“Let’s see,” he said to himself, “that leaves me fourteen dollars and twenty cents. Thank heaven Henderson didn’t look in my vest pocket, though he did take my watch out of the other one. That watch would have got me back to Honeville. The fare is fifty-eight dollars. I’ll starve before I’ll telegraph Fraser. Well, let’s see.”
He spent the entire afternoon loitering about the hotel, trying to get his mind to work. How to make some money? The thing appeared impossible. They don’t hold roping contests in New York. He considered everything from sweeping streets to chauffeuring. Could he drive a car around New York? No money in it, anyway, probably. But surely a man could do something.
