Fince shook his head despairingly. “Would you mind going over that again? Who played a stupid trick on who?”
“It was in the commissary. I took Mr. Furness there for a drink to pick him up, but he doesn’t drink, so I did and he had iced tea. Your brother was at a table near us, Lieutenant, and Rita La Marr was with him. Now you’d never think it to look at him, but Drew Furness has a crush on Our Rita. He kept sneaking a glance at her and hoping I wouldn’t see him. Then a fat man with a big black beard stopped at the Jackson-La Marr table and came over to us. He said he was Doktor Friedrich Vronnagel of the University of Jena and was a great admirer of Mr. Furness’ work on the Ireland problem, whatever that is. Oh, he buttered Drew up one side and down the other, and you should have seen him glow. Finally he said that Miss La Marr, too, was a great Furness admirer. That was too much for me, but Drew swallowed even that. So the Herr Doktor produced a beautiful red rose and said Miss La Marr sent this as a tribute. He held out the rose and pfssh! Right out of the middle of it shot a stream of smelly stuff—hydrogen sulphide, I guess—all over Mr. Furness’ good blue suit. Vronnagel vanished right away, but I knew then who he was. It was Vernon Crews.”
“And who is this Crews?”
“It’s funny, nobody seems to know about Crews outside of the industry. He’s a bit actor, a very good one too sometimes, but mostly he’s the colony’s official ribber. He’s terribly good at make-up and he can use all sorts of accents and voices. I remember once we hired a man who said he was a British major to be technical advisor on a picture from the Mulvaney stories. Somebody—I think, Lieutenant, it was your brother—had an idea he was a phony and hired Crews to be a maharaja. He came on the set and began to talk to the major in a funny gibberish until finally the major broke down and confessed that he didn’t know a word of Hindustani, had been in India one week on a round-the-world cruise, and had never worn a British uniform except as a movie extra. The nice part was that Crews doesn’t know any Hindustani either, but it sounded so convincing that it worked.”
“Quite a guy,” said Finch drily.
“Oh, Vernon Crews can do anything and be anybody. You simply can’t recognize him. The same people have been had two or three times. In fact—” She stopped suddenly.
“Yes, Miss O’Breen?”
“A funny idea. I don’t know. I’ll tell you later where it fits in. But I think that’s all about Drew Furness. I really wasn’t trying to hide anything; it just didn’t seem very important.”
“I hope it isn’t. Now if you’ll tell us what happened today—”
Maureen took a fresh cigarette and thought back. “It seems so awfully long ago. I got here around three. Everything was in an awful mess because Mrs. Hudson hadn’t come. I was run ragged for a while—but that hasn’t anything to do with you. What you want to know is the things about Worth. Let’s see. … There were five—you could call them Worth manifestations. And there was so much else going on. I just can’t tell you what order they came in. Worth phoned himself—Drew Furness took that call.”
“Furness was here that early?”
“Yes, damn him. It was just a mix-up about time.”
“What did Worth have to say?”
“Drew wouldn’t tell me most of it. I think it was pretty vile, in good Worth style; but the main point was that he was coming to the reception even though he wasn’t invited. I think he was already drunk then.”
“Did you or Furness tell the others about this?”
“I told F. X. I suppose he or Furness could have told the rest.”
Jackson put in a word. “I overheard Dr. Bottomley mentioning the possibility to one of the others—maybe Ridgly.”
“Then any one of you could have been expecting Worth to show up here tonight?”
“If you want to put it that way—yes, I guess so.”
“And what were the other ‘manifestations’?”
“There was another phone call—a funny foreign voice that wanted to speak to Mr. Worth. There wasn’t any message—just to tell him it was about Miss Amy Gray.”
“Amy Gray?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know anyone of that name?”
“Never heard it before. Then right after there was a tall man with a beard. I couldn’t see his face well; he had a soft felt pulled down over it. And it was a hot day, but he had on a heavy fur-trimmed coat. All he did was hand me a visiting card and say, ‘For Mr. Worth.’ It had funny squiggles on it.”
“Is this the card?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know anything about a man named Talipes Ricoletti?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I hesitated a little while back. The idea just hit me that this man with the beard might have been Vernon Crews. I couldn’t swear to it; it’s just a possibility. That’d mean that somebody else had hired him for a rib on Worth.”
“That will be easy to check.” Finch made a note.
“I’m not so sure,” Maureen objected. “A ribber has his own quaint kind of professional ethics—he wouldn’t ever tell who hired him for a job.”
“He would,” Finch said flatly, “if he was mixed up in a murder. Now would any of these people, aside from you and Weinberg, know about Crews and his profession?”
“Drew Furness would,” Maureen admitted. “I explained to him after he was ribbed.”
“I’m not so sure, Miss O’Breen, that this appearance of Talipes Ricoletti, even if it was your Crews, is only a rib. Did you know that Federhut and Lieutenant Jackson managed to decipher that message in, as you say, squiggles?”
“No! How? And what does it say?”
“It was written in a cipher alphabet taken from one of the Holmes stories—”
“And it says,” Jackson broke in, “‘Stephen Worth: Death cancels all contracts.’”
Maureen thought a minute. “But that’s silly. If you’re going to kill a man, you don’t tell him about it beforehand. And if you do want to tell him you don’t use squiggles.”
“Murderers do funny things,” Finch observed drily. “Any other manifestations?”
“He sent me a present, a foolish gag present, and there was a note for him by messenger. At least, it looked like a note; but it rattled and I don’t think there was any paper in it.”
“There wasn’t. Do you want to see what was in it?”
“Indeed I do.”
Lieutenant Finch picked up the white envelope and shook its rattling contents out on the table. There they lay in meaningless innocence—five dried orange seeds.
Chapter 8
In a way the orange seeds helped. They were the final touch of unreality. No one could feel the actual tragedy of death in a world where people drew dancing men for murder threats and sent dried orange seeds by special messenger. Maureen could now recite to the Lieutenants the whole terror of her experience as calmly as though she were telling an odd dream she’d had the other night.
The story was much as she had first told it on coming back to consciousness. Finch’s most dexterous questioning could not produce any significant new details. At last she was released and returned under a sergeant’s guidance to the living room, where she sat patiently until after three o’clock.
Those two hours were hell. The presence of the Sergeant—that solid, Lifesaver-munching symbol of the suspicion which hung over them all—was a painful restrainer of conversation. One by one the Irregulars, Mr. Weinberg, and even Mrs. Hudson were led off to Finch. One by one they returned—Mrs. Hudson in tears, Mr. Weinberg emitting racial groans, Harrison Ridgly in a state of jitters like a hangover setting in prematurely, Drew Furness somewhat shaken, and the three older Irregulars imperturbable and evincing only a certain abstracted interest in the crime qua crime.
Jonadab Evans was the only one to comment on his interview. “I like our Lieutenant Finch,” he announced. “It may be simply that the pipe reminds me of a good friend in Missouri, but I swear that man is salt of the earth. I think we’re in good hands.”
At last, around ten after three, Finch himself came into the room with Jackson. “We’re calling it a night,” he said. “I’ve got to sleep on this before I begin to get anyplace. You all realize, of course, that you’re sticking around.”
“Here?” cried Mr. Weinberg.
“Why not?”
“Why not? he asks me! Why not? One day without me, and where is Metropolis Pictures? Kaput!”
“He’s right, Lieutenant,” Maureen put in. “We’ve got to be back at the studio tomorrow, though Lord knows what sort of shape we’ll be in.”
“If I tried to stop you,” Lieutenant Finch reflected, “Mr. Weinberg’s legal department would be quick enough to point out that I haven’t any right to. You’re material witnesses, yes; but as things stand I’d have a hard time to prove in court just what you’re witnesses to. That’s where somebody was smart—maybe not too smart, but this isn’t the time to point out where the slip was. All right, you two can go; but you understand, of course, that you’ll be watched. You others all live here, don’t you? That simplifies matters. I’m leaving Sergeant Watson here in the house.”
A ripple of pure enjoyment spread over the group. It never quite broke into laughter, but the amusement would have been evident to a much more obtuse man than Lieutenant Finch. “What’s the joke?” he demanded.
Dr. Bottomley at last let out the laugh he had been restraining. “It’s too good, Lieutenant. Here are all of us, amateurs of criminology and devoted worshipers of the Master Holmes. Each of us doubtless fancies that he can solve this crime; and his chief need will be a confidant, a Watson. And hell and death, sir, what do you do but thoughtfully provide us with one!”
Finch shook his head. “It isn’t so funny as all that. He’s here for a very real purpose, and don’t forget it. You’ll probably all see me tomorrow, so a good night to you now—what’s left of it.”
He turned in the doorway. “By the way, Miss O’Breen, I finally got that limerick straight. It goes:
“‘There was an Old Man with a beard,
Who said, “It is just as I feared!—
Two Owls and a Hen, four Larks and a Wren,
Have all built their nests in my beard.’
Good night!”
Lieutenant Jackson lingered. “Are you sure you all want to go to bed?” he asked.
Dr. Bottomley acted as spokesman. “If you mean what I think you mean, Lieutenant—that is, if you want to discuss the case with us—the answer is that we’re yours till the dawn in russet mantle clad walks o’er the dew of yon high eastern hill. In short, go ahead.”
“Mrs. Hudson,” Maureen begged, “pretty please could you rustle up some coffee and maybe some sandwiches and things? Don’t bother about dietetics; just get us something to keep us going.”
“My standing in this case,” Jackson explained as they waited for the refreshments, “is a damned contrary one. Officially, I’m nothing—just another one of you. Actually, Finch has taken me more or less into his confidence. Now I’m not going to violate that confidence; but I do want to do a little work on my own. I’m going to ask you a few questions, and in return for your information, I’ll give you as much of the straight dope on the case as I legitimately can. Is it a deal?”
“Shall I call for a show of hands?” asked Dr. Bottomley. “No, I think it is hardly necessary. Behold these eager faces glistening at the thought of getting the straight dope. Mrmfk. You may fire when ready, Jackson.”
“All right. First question’s this: Do any of you know anything about a woman named Amy Gray? No? Well, do you know anything about a woman named Rachel?”
This seemingly serious question provoked an amusement almost equal to that occasioned by Sergeant Watson’s name.
“Forgive us, Lieutenant,” Dr. Bottomley chortled, “but we can’t help thinking. I suppose next thing you’ll tell us that her uncompleted name was found written on the wall in the victim’s blood.”
Jackson’s usually pleasant face was drawn into tight lines. “I’m damned if I see what’s so funny. That is exactly what I was about to tell you.”
There was an awkward moment. “It is hard to say,” Bottomley observed, “whether that makes it serious or just all the funnier. Come now, Lieutenant, don’t you remember A Study in Scarlet?”
Jackson’s face began to clear and then to redden. “I knew,” he murmured, “that there was something about that. Something clicked back in my mind, and I couldn’t—”
Jonadab Evans was leafing through The Complete Sherlock Holmes. “For most of my life,” he said, “I have treasured these adventures, and now I invoke the blessings of all appropriate gods upon the Messrs. Doubleday and Doran for making them so conveniently available in one volume. Now at last the traditional problem of the desert island is solved. Who would think of taking with him Shakespeare or the Bible when in this one book—Ah,” he broke off. “Here we are. ‘Across this bare space there was scrawled in blood-red letters a single word—RACHE.’ Then Lestrade explains, ‘“Why, it means that the writer was going to put the female name Rachel, but was disturbed before he or she had time to finish. You mark my words, when this case comes to be cleared up, you will find that a woman named Rachel has something to do with it.”’”
“‘“It’s all very well for you to laugh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,”’” Harrison Ridgly quoted from memory. “‘“You may be very smart and clever, but the old hound is the best, when all is said and done.”’” There was a relish, a freshness, almost a naïveté in his manner as he quoted, a surprising change from his usual weary cynicism.
“And you remember the result, of course, Lieutenant,” Dr. Bottomley concluded. “‘“One other thing, Lestrade … ‘Rache’ is the German for ‘revenge’; so don’t lose your time looking for Miss Rachel.”’”
Jackson nodded. “I was right,” he said. “That’s what I told Finch: this case is all bound up with Holmes. It can’t help but be. And if I put all these little details up to this board of experts, they’ll give us leads we wouldn’t ever think of by ourselves. He wasn’t so strong for the idea, but he told me to go ahead with it on my own time and let him know whatever I found out.”
Sergeant Watson now spoke for the first time in this session. “It’s a German word, is it? Well, there’s only one German here.”
“My dear Watson.” Otto Federhut smiled; his was the first chance to use the phrase which had been lingering temptingly on five tongues since they had learned the Sergeant’s name. “It is elementary. That I am the only—I shall not say German in despite of the Anschluss, but German-speaking I am. That only I speak German means that I of all am least apt so to incriminate myself. Moreover, this is obviously a parody of the celebrated passage in A Study in Scarlet; and everyone here, as you have already observed from their quotations, is most familiar with the word from that source. By the way, Watson,” he could not resist adding, “does your heart still give you trouble since you have stopped smoking?”
“Naw,” said the Sergeant, “not a—hey! What goes on here? How do you know about my heart?”
“Allow me,” Ridgly interrupted languidly. “The Sergeant’s right hand shows extensive but almost completely faded cigarette stains. He devours an abnormal amount of sweets. In a man of his age, build, and profession, heart trouble is the most likely reasons for swearing off. Do I follow your deductions correctly, Federhut?”
“You do, Herr Ridgly.”
The two bowed with mock courtesy, while Dr. Bottomley applauded lightly and the Sergeant took confused refuge in another Lifesaver.
At this point, the coffee and sandwiches arrived. “Won’t you sit down with us, Mrs. Hudson?” Maureen asked. “After all, you’re in on this too, you know.”
“I hardly think I should, thank you, Miss O’Breen. After all, the knowledge of how to keep one’s place is the keystone, one might say, of domestic success.”
“As the departed Lieutenant
might say,” Dr. Bottomley rumbled, “‘Horse feathers!’ Mrmfk. For there is neither East nor West, Border nor breed nor birth, When one strong man’s been done to death, And of suspects there’s no dearth. Last line’s weak, but I like the third. Sit down, Mrs. Hudson; and you, Lieutenant, get on with the questions.”
“Innaminna,” Jackson mumbled through a ham sandwich. “Now,” he said more clearly after a swallow of coffee (which did wonders for Mrs. Hudson in his estimation). “Now, I want to show you some of our other clues and see if they tie into the Holmes saga, too. Sergeant! Finch,” he explained as Watson picked up what they all recognized as Worth’s brief case and laid out its contents on the table, “Finch consented to leave these here in Watson’s care. My position doesn’t quite extend to such trust as that.”
The clues lay there in orderly array—one white envelope, five orange seeds, a visiting card with squiggles, a tiny fragment of glass, a narrow length of black cloth, and a series of photographs.
First Jackson picked up the visiting card. “This I know a little about. Herr Federhut tells me that it is composed in the cipher employed in the story of The Dancing Men, and that it reads, “Stephen Worth: Death cancels all contracts.’”
“Momént,” said the Austrian. “May I once more see that card? I thank you.” He contemplated the dancing men for a moment. “Yes,” he said reflectively. “I thought that a chord of memory was stirred, and I find myself correct.”
“What is it? Did you make a mistake in the deciphering?”
“No. It is not that. It is only,” he turned to the group, “that you will recall that in the original cipher of the dancing men is no W to be encountered. With the name Worth it was needful that such a letter be found. This new symbol is a man halfway through a somersault and on one hand resting. Does that bring to your mind—?”
“Indeed it does,” Dr. Bottomley replied promptly. “That’s Derring Drew’s signature.”
“Derring Drew?” Lieutenant Jackson was puzzled.
“Your brother,” Maureen prompted. “Paul’s great starring role.”
The Case of the Baker Street Irregulars Page 9