by Otto Penzler
“Scuttle!” Lester Leith interrupted.
The valet jumped. “Oh, I beg your pardon, sir. I didn’t mean it in that way, sir. What I meant—”
“Never mind, Scuttle. We’ll pass the Brentwood diamond. What else do you have?”
“That was the main one, sir.”
“Well, forget it, Scuttle.”
The spy thumbed through the clippings. “There’s the man who was choked and robbed of some two thousand dollars he’d won at gambling.”
“Skip it, Scuttle,” Lester Leith interrupted. “A man who wins two thousand dollars at gambling, and hasn’t sense enough to go to a downtown hotel and stay there until daylight, deserves to lose his winnings. That’s an old gambling-house trick. What else do you have?”
“There was the woman who shot her husband and claimed—”
“Tut, tut, Scuttle,” Lester Leith said. “You’ve been reading the tabloids again. That is completely stereotyped. She shot him because he had forfeited her respect. She shot him because she couldn’t demean herself to accept the status in life which he thought a wife should have. She had been married ten years, but she made the revolting discovery of his baser instincts at a time when a revolver happened to be handy. She snatched it from her purse, thinking only to bring him to his senses, and then she can’t remember exactly what happened. She thinks he started for her, and everything went blank. She felt the recoil of the revolver as it roared in her hand. Then she couldn’t remember anything until she found herself at the telephone notifying the police. That was right after she’d slipped out of her house dress and put on her best outfit.”
“I see you’ve read it, sir,” the undercover man said. “I didn’t realize you were familiar with the case. May I ask, if you don’t mind, sir, how you happened to know about it? Were they friends of yours?”
“I’m not familiar with that case,” Leith said wearily, “but with dozens of others of the same type. Come on, Scuttle; let’s have something fresh.”
“Well, sir, I don’t think there’s— Oh, yes, sir, here’s something rather unusual. The murder of a monkey, sir.”
“The murder of a monkey?” Leith said, turning half around, so that he could study the spy’s face. “Why the devil should anyone want to murder a monkey?”
“Well, of course, strictly speaking, sir, it isn’t murder, but I’ve referred to it as murder because if what the police suspect is true, that’s virtually what it amounted to … that is, sir, I trust you understand me … I mean—”
“I don’t understand you,” Lester Leith interrupted, “and I have no means of knowing what you mean except from what you say. Kindly elucidate, Scuttle.”
“Yes, sir, it was a monkey belonging to Peter B. Mainwaring. Mr. Mainwaring was returning from a year spent abroad, principally in India and Africa.”
“Come, come, Scuttle,” Lester Leith said. “Get to the point. Why was the monkey murdered?”
“It was Mr. Mainwaring’s monkey, sir.”
“And who killed it, Scuttle?”
“The police don’t know. It was a holdup man.”
“A holdup man, Scuttle?”
“Yes, sir. According to Mr. Mainwaring’s story, the bandit held up the automobile, shot the monkey through the head, and slit its body open. Mr. Mainwaring thinks the killer came from India. It’s some sort of a ceremony having to do with thuggee and the monkey priests who worship the monkeys and exact a death penalty from any monkey that deserts the clan.”
“I’ve never heard of anything like that before,” Leith said.
“Yes, sir. That’s the story that Mr. Mainwaring has given to the police.”
“Bosh and nonsense,” Lester Leith said. “Thuggee is one thing; the monkey worship of India is entirely different… that is, there’s no possible connection which could result in a man following another from India to America just to kill a monkey and slit him open.”
“Yes, sir,” the spy said dubiously. “The police don’t know much about it. I don’t mind telling you, sir, however, that … well, perhaps I shouldn’t mention it.”
“Go ahead,” Leith said. “What is it?”
“I think I mentioned at one time that one of my lady friends was quite friendly with a member of the force, not that she’s encouraged him, but he persists in—”
“Yes, yes, I remember,” Leith said. “A policeman, isn’t it, Scuttle?”
“No, sir. He’s been promoted to a detective.”
“Oh, yes, Scuttle. I remember now. Where’s he stationed?”
The spy said: “Begging your pardon, sir, I’d rather not talk about that. But I don’t mind repeating a bit of information occasionally.”
“Am I to understand,” Lester Leith asked, “that this detective habitually tells this young woman police secrets, and the young woman in turn makes a practice of passing them on to you?”
The big spy smirked. “That’s rather a bald statement, sir.”
“Bald, nothing,” Leith observed; “you are doubtless referring to its whiskers.”
“Beg your pardon, sir?”
Leith said: “Nothing, Scuttle. I was merely making a comment to myself. Go on. Tell me what you were going to say about Main waring.”
“Well, sir, the police had an idea that Main-waring may have been in league with a gang of smugglers and that he may have killed the monkey himself in order to cover up the real reason of the holdup. Or, then again, the man may have been an accomplice who had been tricked, and shot at Mainwaring and hit the monkey instead.
“You may be interested in knowing that the police have reason to believe Mainwaring left India in fear of his life.”
“What has all this to do with smuggling, Scuttle?”
“Well, sir, if the native rumors are true, sir, Mainwaring may have slipped two very valuable gems to some native accomplice with instructions to smuggle them into this country. The gems weren’t in the car with Mainwaring, but he may have had them in India and intrusted this native to—”
“What gems, Scuttle?”
“The jewels of the monkey god, sir.”
“The jewels of the monkey god? Come, come, Scuttle; this is beginning to sound like one of Sergeant Ackley’s wild accusations.”
“Yes, sir. Over in India there’s the special god for monkeys, a god that’s named … Hanne … Hanney—”
“Hanuman?” Lester Leith suggested.
“Yes, sir. That’s it, sir. Hanuman. I remember the name now that you’ve helped me, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“What about Hanuman, the monkey god?” Lester Leith asked.
“It seems that back in the jungles, sir, there’s a huge statue of the monkey god. He’s covered with gold leaf. His eyes were emeralds, and his breast nipples consist of two huge emeralds. It seems that some adventurer managed to gain access to this temple and substituted bits of green glass for the emeralds. The substitution wasn’t discovered for some time.”
“And what has this to do with Mainwaring’s smuggling?” Lester Leith asked.
“The police, sir, have reason to believe that it was Mainwaring who made the substitution.”
“Peter B. Mainwaring?” Lester Leith asked.
The valet nodded.
Leith said thoughtfully: “Now, Scuttle, you interest me. You interest me very much indeed. I think you’ll agree with me, Scuttle, that if that were the truth, Mainwaring shouldn’t be allowed to retain the fruits of his nefarious action.”
“Yes, sir,” the spy agreed, his eyes eager. “Only Mainwaring apparently doesn’t have them.”
“And, by the same sign,” Leith said, “you will also admit that there is nothing to be gained by sending these stones back to the jungle to become part of the anatomy of a heathen idol.”
“Yes, sir, I agree with you upon that absolutely, sir,” the spy said with alacrity.
“Under the circumstances,” Leith announced, “we’ll consider the murder of this monkey, Scuttle. Tell me about it.”
“Yes, sir. Wel
l, you see, sir, the police had been notified. They thought that perhaps Mr. Mainwaring was bringing the emeralds in with him although Mainwaring had denied having them in his possession or knowing anything about them. He admitted that he had been in that section of the country at about the time the stones disappeared. In fact, he said it was due to this fact and only to this fact that the natives thought he was responsible for the theft.”
“Yes,” Leith said. “I can understand how it would happen that a white man, under such circumstances, would be considered responsible for the loss by ignorant or superstitious natives. Perhaps Mainwaring was telling the truth after all, Scuttle.”
“Well, sir. You see, it was this way, sir. The police and the customs officials were watching Mainwaring closely. Mainwaring made no declaration of the gems, nor did a most thorough search of his baggage reveal them. But he must have been mixed up with Indian gangsters, the disciples of thuggee. At any rate, this stickup looks like it.”
“Mainwaring was traveling alone?” Lester Leith asked.
“His nurse was with him, sir.”
“His nurse, Scuttle?”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Mainwaring is suffering from an indisposition, an organic heart trouble. At times when he’s seized with an attack, it is necessary that a nurse administer a hypodermic at once.”
“A male nurse, Scuttle?”
“No, sir. A female nurse, and rather a good-looking nurse at that.”
“Heart trouble, did you say, Scuttle?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I can well understand it,” Leith said. “And the nurse was in India with him?”
“Yes, sir. Airdree Clayton is her name. There’s a photograph of both of them here if you’d like to see it, sir.”
Lester Leith nodded. The big spy passed across the newspaper photograph. Leith looked at it and then read the caption.
Peter B. Mainwaring and his nurse, Airdree Clayton, who have just returned from extensive travels in India and Africa. While customs officials were going through the baggage of himself and nurse with what Mainwaring indignantly insisted was unusual thoroughness, Miss Clayton sat on a table in the inspector’s office, chewed gum, and entertained Mr. Mainwaring’s pet monkey. This monkey was subsequently killed in a most mysterious holdup. Mainwaring threatened to report the customs officials for rudeness, unnecessary search, and unfounded accusations. Miss Clayton, on the other hand, said the customs inspector was “delightful,” and returned to his office after having been searched by a matron, to thank the inspector for his consideration.
Lester Leith said, “She chews gum, Scuttle?”
“So the newspaper article says. Apparently she chews gum vigorously.”
Leith digested that information for several thoughtful seconds.
“Scuttle,” he said, “I can imagine nothing more soothing to the nerves than a nurse who chews gum. There’s a quieting monotony in the repetition of chewing, as sedative in its effect as rain on a roof. / want a nurse who chews gum. Make a note of that, Scuttle.”
“A nurse who chews gum, sir!”
“Yes,” Leith said, “and she should be rather good-looking. I noticed that Miss Clayton’s … er … pedal extremities and the anatomical con-necties are rather peculiarly adapted to photography.”
“Yes, sir,” the spy said. “Do I gather that you want a nurse with shapely legs, sir?”
“Not exactly that,” Lester Leith replied. “I want a nurse who chews gum. If her means of locomotion are attractive to the eye, Scuttle, that’d be an added inducement.”
“But there’s no reason why you should have a nurse, is there? That is, I mean, sir, you aren’t sick?”
“No,” Leith said. “I feel quite all right, Scuttle. Thank you.”
“Therefore,” the spy said, “begging your pardon, sir, employing a nurse would seem rather … er … conspicuous, would it not?”
“Perhaps so,” Lester said. “And yet, on the other hand, Scuttle, I can imagine nothing which would more readily reconcile me to Sergeant Ack-ley’s continued existence than association with a young woman with shapely pedal extremities, who makes a habit of placidly chewing gum.”
The spy blinked his small, black eyes rapidly as he strove to comprehend the significance of Leith’s remark.
“Therefore,” Leith went on, “since a nurse seems conspicuous, as you have termed it, I shall insist upon a gum-chewing secretary, Scuttle. Make a note to call the employment agencies asking for an adroit, expert, inveterate gum chewer, a secretary with pulchritude and bovine masticational habits, a careless parker— Here, Scuttle, take a pencil, and take this down as I dictate it.”
“Yes, sir,” the dazed spy said.
“A position at good salary is open,” Lester Leith dictated, “for a pulchritudinous young woman with shapely means of locomotion, amiable, easygoing, good-natured, acquiescent young woman preferred, one who never becomes nervous under any circumstances, a proficient, adroit, expert, and inveterate gum chewer, preferably a careless parker, must be able to pop her gum loudly. Salary, three hundred dollars per month with all traveling expenses…. Have you got that, Scuttle?”
“Yes, sir,” the spy said, his voice showing dazed incredulity.
“Very good,” Leith observed. “Telephone the employment agencies, and now let’s get back to Mainwaring.”
“Mainwaring got through customs on the evening of the thirteenth, sir. The customs officials found nothing which hadn’t been declared. It was then about seven o’clock and getting dark. Mainwaring’s chauffeur was waiting for him. He—”
“Just a minute, Scuttle. Mainwaring didn’t take his chauffeur on this tour with him, did he?”
“No, sir. The chauffeur stayed and acted as a caretaker at the house.”
“I see. Go on, Scuttle.”
“Well, the chauffeur loaded the hand baggage into the car, and they started for Mainwaring’s house. When they were somewhere around Eighty-sixth Street, the right rear tire blew out; and when the chauffeur went to fix it, he found the jack was broken. He knew of a garage some half dozen blocks away, and Mainwaring said he and Miss Clayton would wait in the car while the chauffeur went to the garage. The chauffeur had some difficulty as the garage was closed. He thinks he was gone perhaps some thirty minutes in all. The robber held up Mainwaring only a few minutes after the chauffeur started out. In fact the chauffeur saw the bandit drive past him, noticed him particularly because of his build. He was big, fat, massive, and with a swarthy complexion. The chauffeur actually saw his features, sir. He was the only one who did. The stickup man had put on a mask by the time he had driven abreast of the Mainwaring car.”
“Why did the chauffeur notice him so particularly, Scuttle?”
“Because he thought the man might stop, pick him up, and drive him to a garage, sir. The chauffeur had his livery on, and he stepped out from the curb and motioned to this man. The chauffeur’s quite thin himself, sir, and he naturally noticed the other’s corpulence.”
“The man didn’t stop, Scuttle?”
“No, sir. He seemed, according to the chauffeur, to be driving fast and with a purpose. When the chauffeur saw his swarthy complexion, he wondered if the man might not be following Mainwaring’s car; but he dismissed the thought as being a bit farfetched. Yet there can be no doubt of it that it was this man who held up Mainwaring and killed the monkey.”
“Killed the monkey!” Lester Leith exclaimed. “Do you mean that this was all the man accomplished?”
“Yes, sir. He killed the monkey. That seemed to be what he wanted to overtake the car for.”
“And didn’t take anything?”
“No, sir.”
“That’s odd,” Leith said. “And the man was masked?”
“Yes, sir, he was, but the nurse feels quite certain that he was a native of Southern India. Both she and Mainwaring agree that he was very fat although he moved with catlike quickness. He was driving a car which had been stolen.”
“How do they know the car
was stolen?” Leith asked.
“Because the chauffeur, returning with the jack, saw this same car again. This time it was speeding away from the scene of the holdup. He noticed that the driver was wearing a mask which concealed his features, so he took occasion to notice the license number. He gave it to the police, of course, as soon as he learned of the holdup. The police found that the car had been stolen. Later on, they found the car itself parked on Ninety-third Street. It had been abandoned there.”
“On Ninety-third Street,” Lester Leith said, frowning. “Wait a minute, Scuttle. Isn’t there a suburban railroad station there?”
“Yes, sir. I believe there is, sir. That’s the station where nearly all of the incoming and outgoing trains stop to pick up passengers who prefer to avoid the congestion of the central depot.”
“And the monkey was slit open, Scuttle?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What was the chauffeur’s name, Scuttle?”
“Deekin. Parsley B. Deekin, sir.”
“Any photographs of him?”
“Yes, sir. Here’s one, sir.”
Leith studied the photograph of the thin hatchet face, prominent cheekbones, and large eyes. “Rather young to be a chauffeur, isn’t it, Scuttle?”
“I don’t think he’s so young, sir. It’s because he’s thin that he looks young; the effect of a slender figure, you know.”
“I see,” Leith said, frowning thoughtfully. “And after the monkey was killed, he was slit open?”
“That’s right, cut almost in two, and then tossed back into the car. Mainwaring said he’s been afraid all along that an attempt would be made on the monkey’s life by some religious fanatic. He said that the monkey was a temple monkey, that his life was supposed to have been consecrated to the priests of Hanuman. He says that in India when a monkey has been so consecrated and then leaves the temple, the priests consider it a desertion just as they do when a priest has consecrated his life to the monkey god and then tries to leave the temple and take up life somewhere else.”
“Sounds like a barbarous custom, Scuttle.” Lester Leith said.
“Yes, sir, it is, sir. Oh, quite.”