Mangam’s friend, however, did talk. The person who paid him, he said, had never identified himself. Mangam’s friend had seen him—oh, yes, more than once; a big man with a stubby mustache, prominent ears, deep-set eyes. You’d think it would be easy to find him again, but he appeared only to carry on his negotiations, which began cautiously by telephone and ended with one personal interview and the pay-off. Those who had met this gentleman on business rather esteemed his generous habits, but they couldn’t pursue a social life in his company because no one knew his name or where he lived...
* * *
“From that description he might be anybody,” Barney said, striking one hand into the other, “anybody who doesn’t have to explain his absences. It’s a man, that’s all we know, probably tall. For his size, there’s such a thing as padding.”
“And false whiskers,” I murmured.
“Yes.” He was quite serious. “The ears could be made to stand out from his head with a bit of putty—no one has ever got close enough to take a good look; and thick eyebrows, pasted on, could give the impression—”
“Come,” I said, “you’re forgetting the red suit with white fur trimming.”
He gave a short unwilling chuckle. “I said you wouldn’t believe me. Wait, though; see if you think this is funny.”
* * *
...The Eagle had received Mangam’s story with interest not untempered by amusement. It was a good yarn, if it hadn’t possessed such a strong flavor of movie serial; here was the favorite ingredient, the Mystery Man, arriving out of the nowhere and disappearing into the same when his villainy had been accomplished. They gave it a trial spin in the next day’s paper, with the humorous angle to the fore. If anything came of it, the serious aspects could be played up later.
Mangam refused to laugh. He kept on with his ferreting, and the Eagle staff, scrutinizing the results, began to think that they had something. They made up a name for the big man with the mustache. He was the Cork, who stopped up a bottleneck.
They were even more encouraged when, under this fire of publicity, the artificial delays became less frequent. The story, however, was too good to drop. It was “stock news, must.”
Then, to their great delight, they received a threat, a facsimile of which was promptly reproduced in the paper. Mailed in San Francisco, on cheap paper absolutely virgin of fingerprints, printed from a purple ink-pad with rubber-stamp letters, it read, “Lay off the Cork, or else.”
That, everyone felt, might be a joke of sorts. The other newspapers, in fact, believed that Mangam had sent it himself to bolster up his story. On the other hand, it might mean that the reporter was close on the trail. That was his own contention, the only trouble being that he didn’t recognize the lead that he’d accidentally struck. What was more, his quest was leading him into some very queer company; but he went on...
* * *
“They can’t intimidate an editor?” I suggested.
Barney laughed without mirth. “It wasn’t quite like that. Mangam wouldn’t have dropped it for anything you could offer. There was just one way to stop him.”
“Oh, he did stop?”
“He was killed,” said Barney tonelessly.
EIGHT
Reasonable Facsimile
THERE HAD BEEN some excitement about that in the papers. A saloon brawl had spilled out onto a dark street in the East Bay, and Mangam was found in an alley, unconscious and with a fractured skull. He died a week later.
His money was gone, and so was the mini-camera which he had been carrying. The unused rolls of film in his pockets had been examined and left behind. Almost at once someone was arrested for the crime—a character of notoriously rough habits, who, as the police appeared, was trying to get rid of Mangam’s wallet.
Wildly this captive protested his innocence. It was a couple of other fellows, he hadn’t been near Mangam till he found him unconscious, and then—who could be blamed for picking up a bit of loose change? The real murderer, he added, must have been the big man whom Mangam had been eyeing in the saloon. Yes, that was it; the description grew more detailed; it was a man with eyes that sank far back into his head, and conspicuous ears. It was, in fact, the Cork.
The rough character was laughed to scorn. Was he sure, the police asked merrily, that the Blue Fairy hadn’t appeared round a corner and bashed Mangam with the brick which had been found near him? That story would be as likely. There was no such person as the Cork.
The rough character was firmly placed in the clink, and nobody—not even the few who believed his story—felt that this was a miscarriage of justice.
Those who believed him, however, were the members of the Eagle staff. Now, of all times, they could not give up.
Another reporter, Garwood, was assigned to the story. He couldn’t pick up the lead on which Mangam had unconsciously stumbled, but he went at it from the other end.
At this point the story began to get complicated. One careless word, one slip in timing would have changed the whole pattern, and Melissa Cleveland would never have been in danger. On the other hand, the death of Mangam might have gone forever unavenged. Luck worked with a nice impartiality.
The staff of the Eagle had built up a mental picture: the blow, the snatching of the camera, the examination of the remaining film packs to make sure that the one bearing important evidence was not among them—the quick departure. They took for granted that the camera was either destroyed or in the possession of the Cork. Garwood, however, knew the registration number. With only a faint hope of success, he set out to trace it with the help of the East Bay police.
They circulated the number to various pawnshops and camera dealers. Early on Monday, the eighth, a pawnbroker virtuously telephoned the Oakland headquarters, to say that he had the camera; of course, he’d had no idea that it was stolen goods.
As bad luck would have it, a reporter from one of the other papers was at the station when the call came in. Mangam’s death was still news, he saw no reason to suppress the discovery, and on Monday night the item appeared—without, however, a description of the person who had done the pawning. Garwood and the police were given that on Monday morning. They had the whole day to work in, but someone else was close on their heels.
The Cork did not have the camera, never had had it. It had passed out of Mangam’s possession before either he or his pursuer had stepped into the dark street where he met his death; it had either been left in the saloon or stolen from him there. The film pack, for which the Cork had committed his futile murder, was still at large—somewhere unknown, for it had been missing when the camera was pawned.
Acting with speed and justifiable caution, Garwood found the saloon waiter who had “picked up” the camera; and with diplomacy, a promise of immunity and a bit of lagniappe, got from him the information that marked a turning point. With some crude idea of eluding detection, the waiter had removed the film; and by an incredibly lucky chance he had kept it.
Nobody knew whether the Cork somehow found this out, or whether he merely jumped to the correct conclusion. The important thing was that he learned it, though Garwood had several hours’ start on him. Early on Tuesday morning, the waiter received a telephone call, purporting to be from Garwood himself.
Probably he never realized how near he was to death when he answered that call.
“Garwood speaking. That film you were to deliver—I’ve changed my mind about it. I’ll come for it myself, this morning.”
The waiter was sullen and yawning after a night of work. “Don’t bother, buddy,” he snapped back. “You’re too late. I didn’t want to handle it after what you told me—phoned the old woman last night, and told her to stick it in the mailbox.”
A pause. “It’s already in the mail?”
“You heard me, chum. Whatsa matter, you afraid the police’ll get it after all? Not a chance.”
“Are you sure you sent it to the right place? Repeat that address for me.”
For a minute everything hung bala
nced; then weariness and bad temper pressed down the scale on the side of justice—and its slow descent took a small child into deadly peril.
“Ah, the hell with it. Sure I got the address right. You’ll get it as soon as if I’d took it there myself,” the waiter said, and slammed down the receiver.
The hanging evidence was in the mail. There was no telling where it would go; but the two most likely places were the Eagle office and Garwood’s home in the city. If it had been picked up in the morning, it could not be delivered before eleven at the earliest; the afternoon delivery was more probable. The Cork had two hours or more in which to work. It was a short period, but it would serve.
He could not have anticipated this very set of circumstances, but for a long time he must have known that someday the unrelenting pursuit would catch up with him. Without doubt he had planned far ahead, held his forces in readiness. Perhaps he had recruited them on the day when Mangam first guessed at his existence. If the camera had not been found, if the Eagle had accepted the fortuitous scapegoat who was now in jail for Mangam’s murder, the move could have been postponed. Now, although it put him into further danger, he must strike. He must be able to make the one threat which would force the Eagle’s editor into submission.
He acted himself, or he gave the word to his employees. Jay and Gertie promptly obeyed.
There were two more mysterious telephone calls, one to the Eagle, one to Garwood’s wife. “This is the Cork. When that film comes, leave it alone. You’ll know why soon enough.”
The calls were made at 10:30 on Tuesday morning—when the baby was already in the hands of her captors. At the moment, their recipients listened dazed and uncomprehending, but soon enough they knew why, indeed. Perhaps they would have obeyed this order, if it had been within their power.
Garwood had ordered the film sent to an East Bay camera shop. It had arrived at ten o’clock, and before the news of the kidnapping had reached him, before he could countermand his instructions, it had been developed...
* * *
“They have a photograph of the Cork?” I demanded breathlessly.
“No,” Barney said. “Here’s the most hideous irony of the whole thing; it was all useless, all of it—the death, the threats, the danger. Mangam had failed. Only one shot in that whole film pack was any good. That was of a man with his arm over his face. It can’t possibly be identified.”
“But—the Cork doesn’t know that?”
“That’s what they believe—Cleveland and the staff of the Eagle. The secret has been kept like grim death; I suppose I’m the only outsider who knows it. The ransom payment must look as if it’s on the up and up.”
“But, good heavens,” I said, “the Cork seems to know everything else. How can they be sure he hasn’t found out about that too?”
“They can’t be. They can only hope that he’ll keep the baby alive until he’s collected the ransom, and give us a chance to save her. They hope, because he’s got a big stake in this, and he’s been pushed farther than he’d meant to go.
“You see how he’s been forced by circumstance? Up to the middle of January, he’d kept absolutely within the law. I don’t believe, myself, that he meant to kill Mangam. Maybe the blow was harder than he’d meant it to be. Until that minute, the evidence he supposed was on the film wouldn’t even have got him a jail sentence, it would only have finished his racket. Now—he’s got a murder rap coming.
“He’d calculate the risk. The evidence, important as it might be, would seem to the editor a small price to pay for the safe return of his baby. It was double or nothing; maybe, if the Cork could hire someone to do the actual kidnapping, the odds would be in his favor. Steal a stack of chips, bet them all—and then if he won, return the stolen chips and call it a day. After that he could lie low for a while, and when he felt safe, start up in business somewhere else—out of the Eagle’s territory.
“What could be neater? He stole the chips from the very man he was trying to out-bet! And yet, though he takes big chances, I think he won’t do anything he doesn’t have to do.”
“But what if—he found out that the evidence was worthless?”
Barney stood quite still for a moment. Then he said, “You can’t hang twice.”
“That’s so,” I whispered.
He took another turn around the room. “You see?” His voice drifted back from somewhere near the door. “A nice mess, isn’t it?”
“I never heard anything like it in my life,” I said. “It’s—it’s—has nobody an idea who the Cork is?”
“They’ve figured out this much; when he appears and disappears it’s out of another life altogether—obviously one where nobody could suspect him, where his looks and manner are entirely different. People on these obscure secret jobs are chosen because they look ordinary or unlikely. For all we know, the Cork might be a Nob Hill socialite, or one of the salesmen in your office. He might be your neighbor Fingers Lossert-Spelvin. He might,” Barney added with a ring of doubt his voice, “be Colly O’Shea.”
Or you, I thought: and to my horror, heard myself saying it aloud!
“Or me,” he agreed, unmoved. “I’m sure of my own innocence, but nobody else can be—except the Cork himself. I guess Walter Cleveland hasn’t suspected me seriously.”
I hadn’t myself. That habit of thinking aloud would get me in trouble sometime.
“But isn’t it more than likely,” I said, “that he’s one of the three kidnappers?”
“Maybe. If we catch them, we’ll try to find out.”
A very definite prickle went up my spine.
“Maybe!” he repeated bitterly. “Supposing what I said was true, and he doesn’t exist, and the Eagle was just playing games. Those three crooks could have turned the story to their own ends and framed the little man who wasn’t there. That’d be Frankenstein’s monster for you. Oh, hell—I’ve thought it over until I’m cockeyed. And yet—all the signs point to it, to one person who’s a genius at organization, who can think fast enough to deal with any situation, who knows just the right attitude to take with everyone he works with.
“And that double-or-nothing prospect—he wouldn’t have taken such a risk if he didn’t have a getaway planned; he’ll either get caught or he’ll be completely safe and above suspicion, back in that other life that looks so innocent—Why, look; suppose it were Bassett, here.”
“Bassett?”
“The landlady’s nephew; your quavering friend.”
“From my one look at Mr. Bassett,” I said, “I think he prefers his bottles wide open at the neck.”
“It’s not likely, I’ll admit. When we found out about Mrs. Ulrichson’s accident, the reporters were curious enough to check up on Bassett. He’s exactly what he makes out to be; lives alone in a cottage over in the East Bay somewhere, and runs a little two-for-a-nickel grocery that barely makes him a living. He has some of the neighbors in to play pinochle, every now and then. He takes pictures of their kids with a Brownie, he digs in his garden.—Garwood asked the boy who works in the store if it wasn’t hard for Mr. Bassett to get away. The boy was pleased as Punch to be left in charge. He says, ‘Mr. Bassett lets me keep store lots of times when he’s visiting his Auntie in Frisco.’ Well—”
“Well?”
“Bassett’s improbable, but no more so than anyone else. He’s alibied for all the important times, though I suppose he could have hired these thugs to do all the dirty work.—Oh, what’s the use? I get something like that all figured out, and then I call myself a fool for suspecting him, or anyone. That’s not my job.”
All at once his voice deflated, as if exhaustion had overtaken him. He added, “There’s your story. Will that hold you?” and sat down at last, but still on the hard chair across the room.
“You know how women are,” I said. “Give ’em an inch and they grab for the yardstick. How much more time do we have?”
“Lord knows.”
“Then clear up everything for me. Tell me what actually happen
ed when you knocked me out next door.”
He was silent momentarily; then he spoke with an unusual stiffness in his tone. “I’ve been doing my best to forget that affair next door. I’m not proud of it. Do we have to bring it up again?”
“No, no, you’ve got it all wrong. I’m not holding a grudge, you know that. I only wondered—”
“Stop,” said Barney levelly. “Stop right there.”
Considerably daunted, I did stop. He said nothing more. There we sat, once more strangers and enemies, with a thick wall of darkness and silence between us.
What was it that had gone wrong? He must know by now that I didn’t mean to reproach him; but if that were the case, there was no reason for his suddenly getting angry.
I honestly could not think what the trouble was.
He shifted uncomfortably in the small chair, and it creaked under his weight. I said in a small voice of apology, “I think that chair petrified in the store basement. Why don’t you come back to the chesterfield?”
“Safer to stay here,” said the disembodied voice.
“What on earth are you—” I began, and then a horrible and mortifying conviction got me by the throat.
I’d said too much. He was answering, deliberately, as if explaining in words of one syllable.
“I promised I’d be a perfect gent, didn’t I? Well, I’m not. When I was touching you, there in the next room, to find out if you were hurt—I might have found the pulse in your wrist. But I didn’t, as you damn well know. And now—I want to touch you again.”
For an instant I remembered, too, and my whole body started awake as if his hand once more rested over my heart. It was sickening to feel it, against will and logic and decency—because I knew that he’d had to say that, and I knew the reason.
The 9 Dark Hours Page 10