by A. A. Fair
“Well?” Sergeant Buda asked, as he saw me taking in the surroundings. “What do you think of it?”
“Am I supposed to collaborate?” I asked.
He frowned his annoyance.
“If I am,” I said, “I would point out that it is elemental the safe was opened after the struggle took place and after Sharples was overpowered. You will observe, my dear Watson, that while the rugs are kicked about and the furniture is overturned,” the papers and documents, apparently pulled from the safe in a hurry, have remained virtually undisturbed.”
“Continue.”
“You will also observe that there is a broken elastic and a pile of envelopes apparently addressed in a feminine handwriting to”—I stooped down and picked up one of the envelopes—“Harry Sharples, Esquire. The name of the sender, as it appears in the upper left-hand corner of the envelope, is a certain Miss Shirley Bruce, who seems to reside—”
He snatched the envelope from me and said, “You’re not to touch anything.”
“The envelopes,” I went on, “seem to be quite empty. Obviously one does not store empty envelopes in a safe. Therefore it is quite apparent that after the envelopes were pulled from the safe, the letters which they had contained were removed.”
Buda said, “What I want out of you is facts, not theories.”
“What sort of facts?”
“Who would have abducted Harry Sharples?”
I raised my brows. “You think he was abducted?
“No,” Buda said with heavy sarcasm. “He made up his mind he’d dust the room, and the guy’s just heavy-handed, that’s all.”
“I gather Sharples is missing?”
“Sharples is missing.”
“And how did you get in on this?”
“One of the servants called Sharples for dinner. When he didn’t come, she entered the room. This is what she found. She thought she’d better notify the police.”
“And you brought me out here to ask me questions?”
“That’s right. You know this Shirley Bruce?”
I made a show of taking a handkerchief from my pocket and spreading it out on the table.
“What the hell’s that got to do with it?” Buda asked.
I pointed proudly to the crimson smear. “See that?”
“Yes.”
“That,” I said, “is Shirley Bruce’s lipstick.”
Buda looked at me with an expression of surprise struggling against the anger on his face. “How come?”
“She’s impulsive,” I said. “She likes people, or she doesn’t like them. She is the sort to love her friends and hate her enemies. When she met me, she liked me. She likes me a lot. She goes for people she likes.”
“Wow!” Buda said. “What a smear!”
“The lipstick?”
“No, the hooey,”
“That,” I said, “is what was handed to me. I could put it in quotes.”
“By whom?”
“By Shirley.”
“I guess,” he said, “I’ll go to see Shirley.”
“I think you should.”
“What was the occasion for the demonstration of affection?”
“I’m not entirely certain. She wanted me to do something for her.”
“What?”
“Ask her.”
“You did it?”
“No.”
Again Buda indicated the lipstick. “Not after that?”
“Not after that.”
Buda said, “Now look, Lam, let’s be reasonable about this thing. Sharples is evidently a man of position. He lives in a good house, presumably has money and undoubtedly has friends. He had some sort of a business connection with Cameron. Cameron was murdered. Sharples appealed to the police for protection and—”
“To the police?”
“Yes.”
“He wanted me to act as a bodyguard.”
“I know. The police didn’t take the thing seriously enough. They told him they couldn’t assign someone to be with him day and night. That was a job for a private detective.”
I said, “Then he went to the police first?”
“Yes. What’s so funny about that?”
“Nothing. I thought perhaps he had some reason for wanting me with him and that the rest of the stuff was just part of the build-up.”
“Well,” Buda said thoughtfully, “of course, he could have known that the police wouldn’t have assigned him a regular bodyguard.”
“Did he say what he was afraid of?”
“It was pretty vague.”
“Yes,” I said, “it would have been. If he really was afraid of something, he wouldn’t have told you what it was.”
“He seemed to think that the same person or persons who murdered Cameron might want to come after him.”
“Did he say why?”
“No.”
“Didn’t give any motive whatever?”
“None.”
“Don’t you boys go in for a little more detail than that?”
“Usually we do. Remember, this was a turndown. We didn’t give him anything.”
“So now you wish you’d gone into greater details?”
“Exactly,” Buda said, “and that’s why we sent for you. We had an idea that you’d know more about it.”
“Well, I don’t.”
A policeman popped his head in the door and said, “The other one’s here.”
“Bring her in.”
A moment later I heard the sound of heavy steps and then a cop escorted Bertha Cool to the door and all but pushed her in.
“Come in, Mrs. Cool,” Buda said.
Bertha glared at him and shifted her angry gaze to me. “What in hell is all this about?” she demanded.
Buda said, “We wanted some information, Mrs. Cool. And we wanted it quick.”
Bertha threw one of her glittering looks around the wreckage of the room. “What came off here?” she asked.
Sergeant Buda said, “Apparently, Mr. Sharples was attacked by someone. He seems to be missing. When he was last seen, he was in this room. A servant, who brought him tea about four o’clock this afternoon, says he was working on some papers on this table and that the safe door was open.”
“And what’s all this in my young life?” Bertha asked.
“That’s what I want to find out.”
Bertha jerked her head toward me. “Ask Mr. Bigshot over there. He’s the one who knows everything. I have only generalities. It’s Donald who sees all, hears all, tells nothing. That’s Donald Lam, my partner—a hell of a partner.”
“Well, let’s hear your idea of the generalities,” Buda said.
Bertha, cagey now and watching her words, said, “Sharples came to our office. He wanted us to do something for him. I called in Donald and let Donald take over from there.”
“What was your function in the transaction?”
“I endorsed the check,” Bertha said, “and rushed it down to the bank by special messenger.”
“Who?”
“Elsie Brand, my stenographer.”
“My secretary,” I added.
Bertha glared.
“And then what?”
“Then Sharples took quite a fancy to Donald. He said he wanted someone to be with him day and night. He offered us the job.”
“Why did Lam turn down the business?”
“Don’t ask me,” Bertha said. “Probably the guy had halitosis, athlete’s foot, pink toothbrush, tattletale gray, or some other hideous fault which blasts the romantic careers of the cuties.”
“I didn’t ask for a lot of sarcasm,” Buda interrupted.
“You asked me for something I didn’t have,” Bertha said, “and that’s the reason why Donald didn’t take Sharples’s business.”
“And you don’t know anything about this?” Buda asked, including the room with an impulsive sweep of his hand.
Bertha met his eyes and said in a voice so thoroughly angry that if carried conviction, “Not a damn thing.”
Buda sighed wearily. “I guess that’s all,” he said.
Sergeant Buda stood in the doorway of the library until we had crossed the reception hall. Then he turned back into the room behind him and slammed the door.
Bertha said to me, “This wouldn’t have happened if—”
“Hold it,” I told her. “It’s a phony.”
“What are you talking about?” Bertha demanded.
I piloted her out of the door and waited until we were in the agency car before I answered her question. “What I mean is, there wasn’t any fight.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Ever try tipping over an eight-tier sectional bookcase?” I asked her.
She glared at me. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Bookcases.”
“I’m not deaf.”
“Then don’t be dumb.”
“Don’t be so damn snippy. I could bust your jaw sometimes. Tell me, lover, what about the bookcase?”
I said, “Try tipping one over sometime.”
“Oh, go to hell!” Bertha snapped.
“I mean it.”
“Yes, I know. I’m supposed to go buy an eight-section bookcase and tip it over, just so you won’t have to answer questions. Sometimes I could kill you with my bare hands.”
I said, “When you topple over a bookcase that high, the top section is moving pretty fast by the time it hits the floor. The glass doors would all be smashed. Funny thing about these bookcases. There wasn’t a bit of broken glass in the panels.”
Bertha thought that over a minute, then said under her breath, “Fry me for an oyster!”
I said, “Moreover, the bottle of ink had been tipped over. That would have been done during the struggle, if there had been any struggle. But there weren’t any footprints in the ink. If people had been around the room smashing chairs and all that sort of stuff, they would have gone back and forth around and around stepping in the puddle of ink, slipping and falling and leaving ink smears all over the place.”
“Suppose the struggle quit when the ink was tipped over—about that time,” Bertha said.
“Why would it tip over then?”
“I don’t know.”
“Neither do I.”
“I don’t get it,” Bertha said.
“It’s a phony, Bertha. Notice the care that was taken to make no noise. The chairs were smashed by having the rungs broken out and then the chair legs pulled out one at a time. The books were taken out of the bookcases and placed in such a position on the floor that it would seem as though they had fallen out. The sections were lifted off one at a time and strewn about the place. But if you’ll notice the waxed floor, you’ll find there isn’t even a dent on it where the bookcases are supposed to have struck.”
Bertha said exasperatedly, “Damn you. I hate you. But you have got brains. Perhaps you’re playing it right after all, Donald. Bertha will have that door cut through into the other office tomorrow and get some more furniture and fix you up a nice private office. You can have Elsie for your private secretary and—”
“I won’t be here tomorrow,” I said.
“Why not? Where are you going, Donald?” Bertha asked, her voice cooing and affectionate.
“I’m going to take my two-weeks’ vacation.”
“You’re what?”
“My vacation. I’m going to South America. I’ve always wanted to see the country.”
Bertha jerked herself up in the seat of the agency car until her back was stiff as a ramrod.
“Why, damn you!” she said. “You dirty, pint-sized, double-crossing, two-faced four-flusher. Who the hell do you think you are to go gallivanting around on a vacation? If I didn’t need your brains, I—I’d commit murder myself. Damned if I wouldn’t!”
“You want to go to your apartment or the office?” I asked.
“The office,” Bertha screamed at me. “Dammit, somebody in the organization has to work.”
Chapter Sixteen:—ADVICE AT 11,000 FEET
THE BIG PLANE DRONED ALONG at 11,000 feet. Over in the east a faint suggestion of color showed. Passengers relaxed in the reclining seats, all of them asleep save for one man up near the front who had the light on, reading a newspaper printed in Spanish.
The air had been smooth. Now we began to hit short, sharp bumps in the atmosphere, making the plane buck a little.
The east blazoned into color. Below was a tumbled gray mass of jungle. From the pantry kitchenette in the rear came the sharp aroma of freshly brewed coffee.
The passengers began to stir.
The stewardess brought coffee and hot bread. The man on my right smiled sociably and said, “Tastes good, doesn’t it?”
He was a tall, big-boned, bronzed individual without any surplus fat. I judged him to be somewhere in the early fifties with eyes that held a kindly, penetrating twinkle. He seemed to know his way around. Earlier in the evening I’d heard him talking Spanish like a native.
“Certainly hits the spot,” I agreed.
“Good psychology they use on these planes,” he went on. “A man feels lowest just before dawn. Then the sun comes up, he begins to perk up, and there’s the stewardess with coffee. All night on a plane isn’t like traveling all night on a bus. There’s something exhilarating about the altitude, the speed. Look down there at the jungle. It’s beginning to give way to mountains. Everything looks gray down there at present, but it won’t be long until the sun will make it fresh as a dewdrop on a rose petal.”
“You sound poetic,” I told him.
His eyes were serious now. “I think living down in Colombia makes for an appreciation of the beautiful things in life.”
“You’re from Colombia?”
“Medellín, yes.”
“Been there long?”
He grinned. “Thirty-five years.”
“What sort of a place is it?”
“It’s beautiful. Everything about it is beautiful. The Andes are always green and fresh. The mountains there aren’t rough and jagged; they’re—dammit, they’re like jewels. Then you have the fertile valleys, the marvelous climate. Talk about climate—you just don’t realize what it’s like there.”
“What is it like?” I asked.
“It’s perfect. You’re around a mile high, up above the heavy heat of the jungle and near enough to the equator so you don’t have seasonal changes in temperature.
“Orchids grow by the thousands. People don’t need artificial heat. There’s an abundance of sweet, clear mountain water. Hell, I sound like a Chamber of Commerce. I miss the place. I’ve been away two months—special duty in the States.”
“You must have known quite a few people from time to time in Medellín,” I said.
“I know just about all of them—all the worth-while ones.”
“Quite a turnover of Americans there?” I asked.
“North Americans,” he corrected me. “They’re all Americans. Yes, there’s quite a turnover. I get so damn mad at the type of person they send down. Those people all want to club together. Business managers from the United States should be there primarily to promote international business and good will. Do they get around and mingle with the natives? Do they learn the language? Do they go to some pains to master the social customs of the country? Like heck they do! They wrap themselves up in their own little two-by-four cliques and claques, and leave at the end of two or four years without knowing a worth-while thing about the people or the country. Makes me sick.”
“I met a Mr. Cameron at a party one night,” I said. “He had some mining interests there, I believe.”
“Bob Cameron?”
“I think his name was Robert.”
“Gosh, I haven’t seen Bob lately. I usually see him every so often. He comes down to look over his interests. He’s trustee for a couple of heirs—the Cora Hendricks estate.”
“That’s right. I believe he did say he had some interest there. He’s quite enthusiastic about the country.”
“There’s another trustee,” I said, frowning. “Can’t think of his name now. Sharper, or something of that sort.”
“Sharples,” the other man said. “He doesn’t get down there quite so often—twice or three times a year.”
“What are their properties? Mines?”
“Mostly mines. I don’t know too much about ‘em. What’s your name?”
“Lam,” I said.
“Mine’s Prenter. George Prenter. How far are you going?”
“I don’t know exactly,” I said. “I’m looking around for some business opportunities. Just sort of looking the country over. Thought I’d stop off here and there.” “What’s your line?”
I said, “I’m a sharpshooter. I have a little money and I’ll take a flier at anything that looks interesting.”
“Where’s your first stop?”
“I hadn’t decided, but what you say about Medellín makes me think I might like to take a look at it.”
“Do. You won’t be disappointed. You’ll find some wonderful people there. Of course, you can’t expect to get in with the real old aristocratic families first rattle out of the box. They’re a little clannish. You can’t blame them. They have to be. But they’ll be looking you over, even when you least expect it. And if you measure up, first thing you know you’ll be getting an invitation or two and then if you have the ability to hit it off with these people, it won’t be any time at all until you have a host of friends.”
“What does it take to hit it off?” I asked.
“Oh, I don’t know. You just can’t have quite the commercial outlook that so many of us get. Be a little more leisurely. These people enjoy their friendships. Business is a necessary evil. But the business of the daytime is only an incident to the long evenings when they have their social life.”
“Parties?” I asked.
“Not the way we think of them. They sit around and have Scotch and soda and talk. Nobody ever gets really drunk. That’s something that just isn’t done—getting drunk in public. You can get to feeling just so good. But when it reaches a certain point, you just don’t go any further. It’s hard to describe. Hell, I can’t tell you about it. It’s subtle. It’s an intangible something you have to see for yourself.