“That you shoved the blueprints down the barrel,” Captain Carmichael said.
“No, no! I swear that I didn’t, absolutely not!”
Captain Carmichael was insistent. “Yes, you did, Packerson. You grabbed your gun and stood right by the vault, holding it in your hands. Everyone thought you were standing there, protecting the property of the company. No one realized that you yourself—”
“I tell you, I didn’t. I...”
Captain Carmichael got up. “Let’s take a look at your gun, Packerson.”
Packerson pushed back his chair, grabbed the gun which was reposing behind his desk. “No,” he asserted. “That gun is my private property. You can’t look at it unless you have a search warrant.”
Sergeant Ackley moved belligerently forward.
Packerson jumped back and raised the gun as though to swing it as a weapon. “Keep away from me,” he shouted, “or I’ll cave in your skull—”
He ceased talking abruptly as his eyes came to focus on the small black hole which was the business end of Captain Carmichael’s revolver.
“Stick ’em up,” Carmichael said.
Packerson hesitated for a moment, then dropped the gun. His knees buckled.
“You got the blueprints in there now?” Captain Carmichael asked.
Packerson shook his head. “The money for them,” he said.
Carmichael exchanged a significant glance with Sergeant Ackley. “Who gave you the money, Packerson?”
“Gilbert, the furrier.”
“He planned the whole thing?” Carmichael asked.
“Him and Fanny Gillmeyer. There really wasn’t any customer. Fanny kept watching the offices over here. When she saw the coast was clear so that I could dash into the vault, grab the blueprints, and get out before anyone noticed what I was doing, she tossed the cape out of the window and started yelling for the police. I had just time to grab the shotgun, jump into the vault, push the blueprints down the barrel, and then stand with the gun at my shoulder.”
“Where arc the blueprints now?”
“I gave them to Gilbert. I walked out last night carrying my trap gun, and walked right past the guard.”
Captain Carmichael frowned. “Then you brought the gun back again today?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Don’t you see?” Packerson said. “I got thirty thousand dollars for those blueprints. The money’s in fifty-dollar bills. I didn’t dare leave that money in my room, and I didn’t dare keep it in my possession. So I rolled the bills into packages that would just fit the gun barrel and shoved them in the barrel of the gun. In that way I could keep the money with me all the time. In case anyone began to suspect me and I had to take it on the lam, I was all ready for a getaway.”
Carmichael gave a low whistle. “So there’s thirty thousand dollars in that gun?”
Packerson nodded.
Carmichael walked around the desk, stooped down, picked up the gun, and broke the barrel open.
It was Sergeant Ackley who blurted out, “There’s no money in here now.”
Captain Carmichael kicked Ackley’s shins. Packerson jumped to his feet. “No money in there!” He grabbed at the gun, stared at it with startled eyes, and said, “But that’s not my gun!”
Captain Carmichael nudged Sergeant Ackley in the ribs.
“It’s not my gun,” Packerson repeated. “It’s the same make and the same model, but my gun had a scratch and...” His voice trailed away.
“Well, go on,” Sergeant Ackley said.
A crafty smile came over Packerson’s face. “Ha, ha,” he said. “That’s a great joke on you.”
“What is?” Ackley asked.
“Of course it’s my gun,” Packerson said. “I never saw the blueprints, but since you birds thought you were such good detectives, I thought I’d kid you along for a while.”
Captain Carmichael said, “A quick thinker, aren’t you, Packerson?”
Sergeant Ackley turned to the captain with a puzzled frown. “I don’t get it at all, Cap,” he said.
Captain Carmichael pulled handcuffs from his hip pocket. “If,” he announced, “you’d kept your big mouth shut about the money not being there, we’d have had a complete confession. As it is, we can still get those blueprints if we get after Gilbert and that clerk of his right away. As far as the money is concerned — well, we can still get that, if we work fast enough, thanks to the fact that you got your manuscript twenty-four hours in advance. Now do you get it, dumb head?”
Sergeant Ackley was staring at Captain Carmichael with eves that seemed unable to focus. “You mean — Lester Leith — been here — changed guns...”
“Exactly,” Captain Carmichael said. “Now, come on, first to Gilbert’s...”
Bernice Lamen lingered over her last drink with Lester Leith. Her eves, as she raised them to regard his profile, were warm with appreciation. “I don’t know,” she said, “how I can ever thank you. I—”
One of the busboys, who had been standing near the window, approached the table and bent deferentially above Lester Leith. “Excuse me,” he interrupted, “but is your car number XL552?”
Leith’s eyes narrowed. “That’s my license number,” he admitted.
“I think you’ve violated a parking ordinance. I’ve noticed a couple of cops looking it over, and now they’re sitting in a squad car just outside the door, apparently waiting for you to come back to the car.”
Lester Leith absently fished a roll of bills from his pocket, peeled off a ten-dollar bill, and pushed it into the busboy’s hand. “Thanks very much,” he said. “I tore up a couple of traffic tickets. I guess they’ve caught up with me. By the way, could you get me about a hundred of these paper cocktail napkins?”
The busboy stared at the bill. “Gee, mister, thanks. Paper napkins? Gosh, yes, I should say so.”
Lester Leith turned to his feminine companion. “On second thought,” he said, “I think it would be better for you to have your talk with Jason Bellview without me being there. Now, I’m going to leave the restaurant in a few minutes, and you’d better wait ten or fifteen minutes before you go out, then take a taxicab to Bellview’s office.”
The busboy brought a huge stack of small paper cocktail napkins.
“My gun,” Lester Leith explained, “needs cleaning. I wonder if I could step out in the kitchen to run some napkins through it?”
“Why, certainly, but you don’t need to use napkins. I can get you a rag and—”
“No,” Leith said. “Napkins really work better.” He got to his feet and bowed to Bernice Lamen.
Puzzled, she saw him follow the busboy in the direction of the kitchen, nor was she greatly surprised when he failed to return. She waited a full fifteen minutes, then started for the door.
“Wait a minute,” the busboy said. “He’s forgotten one of his guns.”
“Oh, that’s right, he did. He’s gone?”
“Yes. Out through the kitchen door into the alley.”
Bernice Lamen smiled brightly. “Under those circumstances, you’d better keep this gun here — until he calls for it later.”
Sergeant Ackley, sitting in the squad car, suddenly grabbed Captain Carmichael’s arm. “By George, here he comes down that side street. And he’s got the gun with him.”
“Take it easy now, Sergeant,” Captain Carmichael said. “Don’t tip our hand until we know we’re right.”
Lester Leith, a gun case swung over his shoulder, a briefcase in his hand, walked up to his car and slid in behind the wheel.