There was not one chance in ten thousand that such manipulation would go unnoticed. It was the last-minute, clumsy attempt of a desperate criminal who was being cornered.
When I had completed my work, I replaced the books, closed the vault, slipped out of the door, and noticed that the first gray light of dawn was beginning to illuminate the French Quarter.
I walked through the deserted streets to the Roosevelt Hotel, found a taxi and was taken to the airport. I sat in the waiting room, dozing until my plane was ready to take off.
At about the time I entered the plane and fastened the safety belt, I had the satisfaction of knowing that I had left behind me a trail which would lead to a bewildered confusion which, in turn, would set in operation certain activities that promised to have some very startling repercussions.
When I failed to respond to the call I had left at my hotel, a bellboy would be sent up with a passkey. He would find the bed had not been slept in, that my personal belongings were spread about the room. The night clerk would remember that I had wished him a good-morning at around four o’clock, that I had gone directly up to the room, that shortly before that I had been in earnest conversation with a dark-complexioned man who might have been a South American. And at about the time the police were being notified, Señor Ramon Vasquo Gomez would enter the lobby to keep his early-morning appointment with me, and find a police officer ready with a warm welcome.
Shortly thereafter, auditors checking the books of the chemical company would begin to puzzle over certain discrepancies which had, apparently, been duly checked in the progress of their audit. Sometime within the next forty-eight hours, the discovery would be made that the books had been tampered with in a desperate attempt to distort the facts with reference to liquid assets.
On the whole, it looked rather promising. New Orleans police would definitely be puzzled to account for the manipulation of the books. Such falsification of records was hardly compatible with the theory that Daphne Strate was the guilty party. Perhaps now Benjamin Colter Ruttling would begin to concern himself with the details of his New Orleans branch, while Daphne Strate could begin to wonder at what was happening.
So I settled back in the cushions and let the rhythm of the pulsing motors lull me into restful slumber. I doubted if the New Orleans police would connect the west-bound passenger who had secured reservations under the name of John Harper with the east-bound passenger named Sabin who had been bound for South America.
At any time now, the cat which had eaten the canary might well begin to suffer the first premonitory pangs of acute indigestion.
Chapter Eleven
Yat Sing was waiting for me in front of the dingy little Chinese-owned apartment house where I had my hideout. His eyes slithered up to mine in quick appraisal, then glided away without his having made the slightest sign; but I knew he had news to impart, and would join me in a few minutes.
I got under a shower, changed my clothes, and was half dressed when I heard Yat Sing’s knock at the door, and the rattle of dishes.
I opened the door. Once more, Yat Sing was the perfect characterization of a Chinese waiter. He raised his voice in the sing-song pidgin English of Chinatown, and said, “My bossey man say long time now you no pay. You going cat chum food my restlaunt, you must catchum pay me money tomollow suah.”
I said, “Things have been pretty tough. I can let you have two dollars today, perhaps two dollars more tomorrow. How’s that?”
“All-right. Maybeso I tell bossey man,” Yat Sing replied.
The dishes rattled as Yat Sing set the tray on the table. Then he went back and closed the door, came over to sit beside me, and took a long breath, priming himself for the unwelcome chore of carrying on a long conversation.
“You go airplane,” Yat Sing said. “Maybeso two hour later, white man comes, ask questions, look over list of people who go on plane. Then he go sendum telegram. No can find out what’s in telegram. I find out two telegrams to New Orleans.”
“What did this man look like?”
“Face have expression alla same happy bull. This man thick.”
“Clothes?”
“Clothes alla same yours, but different color — brown.”
“You mean double-breasted brown?”
“Alla same.”
“A little stripe?”
“White.”
I knew now that Herb Rendon had given me a line on himself. I asked confidently where this man lived.
“This man,” Yat Sing said, “velly smart. Velly hard follow. He go all around circles. He go in one door; he come out another.”
“Where did he go finally?”
“Montelley House Hotel.”
“Under what name is he registered?”
“No find out yet.”
“Benjamin C. Ruttling, president of Chemical Company — how about him?”
“He go see police.”
“What about?”
“Not find out yet.”
“Daphne Strate and Genevieve Hotling — what about them?”
“Still same place.”
“Has Daphne Strate seen Mr. Ruttling?” I asked.
“No see.”
“Have the police found any more clues to the killing of George Bronset, the porter?”
“No clues.”
I ate my dinner silently, thinking that over. Yat Sing smoked a cigarette, saying nothing.
“Ramon Vasquo Gomez,” I said at length, “in New Orleans. I saw him there and...”
Yat Sing was ahead of me. “You leave hotel. Ramon Gomez come see. Police talk long time. Ask many questions. Take him headquarters.”
I said, “I also had an appointment with Randolph Holaberry for ten o’clock. What did he do?”
“He not come.”
Once more, I was silent, and once more, Yat Sing returned to his cigarette. No use to ask him how he knew these things or to question the accuracy of his information. He was head of a far-flung system of celestial espionage and transmitted accurate, up-to-the-minute information of cold, hard facts. He wasted no time in idle surmise. When Yat Sing had established something as a fact, he would communicate it. Until that time, his thought processes were locked behind a bland, moonfaced tranquillity that was as hard to penetrate as the armor of a battleship.
Abruptly, Yat Sing, noticing that I had finished, got up and arranged the empty dishes on the tray.
“That’s all the information you have?” I asked.
“No more.” He turned at the door. “Maybe so you go out,” he said. “Maybe so you have trouble. No matter. Chinaboy plenty close.”
And he was out, closing the door behind him.
Soo Hoo Duck had spoken. The mysterious, ubiquitous hand of the Chinese would be protecting me.
I smoked two cigarettes and did much thinking. Then I put on a light overcoat, drew on thin, very soft and flexible gloves, pulled a hat down low on my forehead, and went out into the night.
Chapter Twelve
I tapped gently on Apartment 632 at the Medville Arms.
Genevieve Hotling opened the door. “Hello,” she said.
“May I come in?”
“It’s almost midnight. I was just going to bed.”
I didn’t say anything.
She smiled then and said, “Oh, all right, come on in. I was interested in a story and was sitting up to finish it. Usually I’m in bed by eleven.”
“Where’s your friend, Daphne?”
“She hasn’t come in yet.”