He reached for the light with a start, to hear Cynthia Renton’s voice chanting in a soft monotone:
“But when all the world is asleep at night,
And nowhere is there a breath of light,
Mister Owl comes out, spreads his wings for flight,
Tahoo, tah-o-o-o-o-o-o-o, says the owl in the tree.”
“What the devil are you doing out there?” Terry asked.
“Getting my clothes wet,” she confessed. “This fire-escape is sopping. Are you going to invite me in?”
Without waiting for him to say anything, she climbed in through the window.
Terry switched on the light.
“Oo, Owl,” she moaned, “I’ve got a headache!”
He thrust his feet into slippers, went into the bathroom and returned with a bronco seltzer, which she drank eagerly.
“If you’d been Mandra,” she said, “I’d accuse you of having drugged me. I went out like a light.”
“Never mind about that now,” he said. “The point is, how did you get out of here, and where have you been?”
She giggled. “Stubby Nash came up and pounded on the door and tried to get Yat T’oy to let him in. The argument woke me up, Owl, and there I was, lying in your bed! What a predicament, Owl. And Stubby’s so narrow-minded! So I got up and made the bed and wanted to get out. Then I heard you having an argument with Malloy as you came walking down the hall. I climbed out the fire-escape. I realized they’d have men in the alley, so I couldn’t go down the fire-escape, but it was foggy enough so I could climb up without being seen. I was afraid to go clean up to the roof because they might have men there. The man in the apartment above you had his window open. I crawled in and sat down in a chair.”
“Was he there?”
“Lord bless you, yes. He was in bed and snoring like a freight train on an up-grade.”
“And you calmly sat there all this time?”
“There was nothing calm about it at all. I was shivering in my boots... Wouldn’t it be just like Stubby to go ahead and spill the beans?”
“How did he know you were here?”
“He just suspected it. It’s that rotten, jealous nature of his. I’m going to tell him where he gets off, in words of one syllable. He isn’t engaged to me, and has no right to pull a stunt like that. He should know better... Tell me, Owl, why did you get me tight?”
“I didn’t get you tight.”
“You plied me with liquor.”
“You said you wanted a drink.”
She tilted her head to one side, surveying him as a bird might survey some strange bug. “It’s the Oriental in you, Terry, you won’t answer a straightforward question. You’ve become like the Heathen Chinee, with ways that are dark and tricks that are vain. You drugged me so I wouldn’t know what you were doing. Tell me, Owl, what were you doing?”
“What makes you think I was doing something?”
“But you were. You went out somewhere and did some dire, dark deed. Come on, Owl, ’fess up.”
Terry was about to reply, when he heard the sound of pounding knuckles on the corridor door and Stubby Nash’s voice shouted, “Cynthia’s in there! Let me in. I demand it! The cops have gone, and we’re going to have this out, man to man.”
“That damn fool,” Cynthia said critically, “is going to wake the house up. Open the door, Terry, I’m going to tell him plenty.”
Terry strode to the door, snapped back the bolt, opened it and in a voice cold with fury said, “Is there any way we can keep you from making such a confounded fool of yourself?”
Stubby whirled on him.
“Damn you!” he cried, “keep out of my business and let my girl alone!”
Terry saw cumulative hatred welling up in the man’s eyes. The right shoulder swung back, then he saw Stubby’s fist coming in a wild swing towards his jaw.
Terry jerked back. The blow missed his jaw by inches.
“Shut up,” he cautioned. “Are you completely crazy? Those officers may still be around here.”
“I’ll show you who’s crazy!” Stubby yelled, as he came swinging forward.
Terry caught a glimpse of the grinning face of Inspector Malloy, standing in the doorway of an adjoining apartment.
“Well,” Terry grunted, “at least I’ll have one satisfaction.” He stepped swiftly to one side, with the agile motion of a trained boxer, and swung a blow which was as perfectly timed as the golf swing of a professional.
As his fist thudded on the side of Stubby’s jaw, sending him backward and down, Inspector Malloy sauntered into the room and said, “That’ll be about enough of that. You, Miss Renton, are under arrest. And there’s just a chance, Clane, that you’ll have a permanent change of address if you keep on monkeying with buzz saws.”
Terry turned so he could watch Stubby Nash, who had propped himself to a sitting position and was stroking his jaw, his punch-groggy eyes glassy and unfocused.
“And there’s more where that came from, Nash,” he said.
Inspector Malloy nodded to Cynthia. “Come on, sister,” he commanded.
“I presume, of course,” Terry observed, “you have some grounds for your action. I believe Miss Renton has an attorney who will see that her legal rights are protected.”
Malloy grinned.
“It would have been a swell scheme if it had worked,” he said, “but it just happens that this Juanita woman was the one who went down the stairs of the apartment house at two o’clock in the morning carrying Mandra’s portrait. That leaves Miss Renton’s alibi all full of holes.”
“You have found the portrait you refer to and can prove it was the one taken by the woman you call Juanita?”
Malloy’s face showed irritation.
“Otherwise,” Terry went on, holding the flame to the end of a cigarette with a hand which showed not the slightest sign of trembling, “C. Renmore Howland would have but little difficulty in convincing a jury that the police had been more than usually credulous.”
He knew by the swift flicker of expression which crossed Inspector Malloy’s face that his shot had told, but Malloy gave no other sign of weakening as he escorted Cynthia to the elevator, with a rather dazed Stubby Nash stumbling along behind.
12
Alma’s eyes gave no indication that she had been crying. Watching her, Terry decided the manifestations of grief would come later. Just then she was in the position of one who had work to do and couldn’t take time out to indulge in emotions.
“Terry,” she said, “we’re depending on you. I just came from visiting Cynthia in jail.”
There was no outward curiosity upon the face of Yat T’oy as he shuffled into the room, bearing drinks.
Terry said, “How do things look for her, Alma?”
“In some ways rather bad.”
“Has she made any statements?”
“Not after she was arrested. She refused to say a word unless Renny Howland was there. Of course, she made a statement to the district attorney when she was first questioned.”
“In which she said she carried the painting away with her?”
Alma’s face showed a swift shadow of discouragement.
“Yes,” she said. “Oh, Terry, why didn’t I get in touch with you before we got into the mess! It looked like such an easy way out at the time, I didn’t figure what must inevitably follow.”
“Cheer up,” Terry told her. “I think we’ll come out all right yet.”
“Have you heard anything more?”
He shook his head.
“They’re going to do something with you, Terry?”