I held a chair for Genevieve. “We may as well be seated,” I told her.
Daphne Strate sat on the davenport, looking from Gomez to me. Her forehead was creased in a thoughtful frown. Her eyes were intent upon missing nothing that happened.
“May I reach for a cigarette,” I asked Gomez, “without causing unpleasant complications?”
“Oh, but certainly. You see, señor, it is necessary for one in my profession to acquire and remember many things. And among the odd bits of knowledge that I have picked up is some rather detailed information about the character who is known as The Phantom Crook. I know, for instance, that he never carries a gun. He has rather a unique philosophy upon this point which appeals to me.”
Gomez turned to Genevieve Hotling. “Would you ladies perhaps like to hear about it?”
“I would,” Daphne Strate said, speaking so quickly that her reply came on the heels of Gomez’ question.
Gomez favored her with a little more detailed study. “Ah, yes,” he said, “the young woman who had the room in which the Pullman porter was found with his throat cut wishes to know more about The Phantom Crook. Most interesting — perhaps we should say most significant.”
“What about his philosophy concerning guns?” Daphne Strate asked.
“It is very, very interesting,” Gomez announced in the voice of an enthusiastic collector praising some very rare item. “You will correct me if I am wrong, Señor Sabin, but as I gather the story, The Phantom Crook relies entirely upon his wits. He says that to carry a gun is like carrying a crutch. One grows to depend upon it, and to the extent that one relies upon the symbol of brute force, one loses the ability to think with that quick-witted cunning which takes advantage of every situation. And that is correct, is it not, señor?”
“You’re doing the talking,” I said.
Gomez turned to Daphne Strate. “Moreover,” he said, “The Phantom Crook has been known to remark that if one depends upon a gun, someone can take the gun away from him, and he is disarmed. But if he depends upon his wits, he can always keep his wits about him. Rather a neat bit of an idea there, don’t you think?”
“You mean he never carries a gun?” Daphne Strate asked.
“I personally cannot vouch for it. This is only the second time I have met the gentleman. The first time was in New Orleans, when he was posing as one about to embark upon a business in South America. However, my dear young lady, rest assured that if my information is inaccurate and the hand which is exploring Señor Sabin’s pocket, ostensibly for a cigarette case, should come out with anything more sinister, you will promptly proceed to stick fingers in your ears, because four or five explosions will take place with very great rapidity, and the stomach of Señor Sabin will be perforated with holes arranged in a very neat circle. I pride myself not only upon my accuracy with a gun, but the quickness with which I can pull the trigger. I am interested in the philosophy of The Phantom Crook, but I do not subscribe to it. I find a gun a very convenient weapon — but then I do not have a police record. I can appreciate the fact that as Señor Jenkins — or Señor Sabin, as he undoubtedly prefers to be called — would express it, the police can arrest a man with a police record simply for having a gun in his possession. But they can hardly arrest him for merely having his wits about him.”
I said to Daphne Strate, “He’s rather vain, you know. Don’t deprive him of his moment of temporary triumph. He is basking in the warm light of his own self-approval.”
For a moment, there was anger in Gomez’ eyes. Then he was smiling at me. “Perhaps you are right, Señor Sabin. Who knows. But, in any event, señor, this little steel baton that I hold in my hands makes me the master of the orchestra. I can command the tune that is to be played and the tempo with which it will be played, as well.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Come, come, Señor Sabin. I do not want to steal the entire show. I have shown you the efficacy of my weapon; now perhaps you would like to give these very beautiful young ladies a demonstration of the weapon which is supposed to serve you in such good stead — the use of your wits.”
“Why not?” I said.
“Why not, indeed, señor? We are waiting impatiently for you to proceed.”
I said to the girls, “How about a cigarette?” and extended my case toward Genevieve.
“I’m sorry,” Señor Gomez interrupted, “but if the young ladies wish cigarettes, they must get them themselves from their own supply. I do not wish to seem impolite, but when one has heard stories of the remarkable agility of The Phantom Crook, one wishes him to keep his distance. I am only too well aware, señor, of the limitations of a gun at very close quarters. To keep your victim at least seven feet eight inches away is my motto.”
I lit a cigarette.
“We are waiting for the demonstration of your particular weapon, señor,” the South American reminded me.
I said, “Let’s do a little reasoning, then. Betty Crofath, it seems, was killed by a rather peculiar poison, which resembled one of the barbitals in its action. It seems that the Crescent City Chemical Manufacturing and Supply Company has recently put out a chemical for the treatment of brush bristles which comes in small white tablets, which is quite poisonous, and which, when taken internally, produces rapidly fatal symptoms that are very similar to those accompanying an overdose of the more powerful hypnotics.”
“You interest me very much,” Gomez told me.
“Now then,” I went on, “I went to New Orleans. I sent Randolph Holaberry, the manager of the Crescent City Chemical Manufacturing and Supply Company, a wire stating that I was arriving by plane, that I was leaving almost immediately for South America, and that I wished to get some information from him as to prices and deliveries on commercial chemicals.
“Mr. Holaberry came to my hotel very shortly after I arrived. I talked with him for some time about chemicals and prices. Mr. Holaberry was the only person in New Orleans who had any reason to believe I was interested in commercial chemicals.
“Around three o’clock in the morning, I returned to the hotel. Señor Gomez was waiting for me. He told me that from sources of information which were purely his own, he had learned that I intended to engage in business in Argentina and that I was in the market for commercial chemicals. He wished to tell me about the chemicals of the Bak Shui Wong Chemical Company of Shanghai.”
I turned to Genevieve Hotling. “Under the circumstances, would some idea suggest itself to your mind?”
Señor Gomez said delightedly, “This is enjoyable, señor. Pray, proceed.”
I said, “Since I was not engaged in business in Argentina and had no intention of doing so, since Randolph Holaberry, the head of the chemical company in New Orleans, was the only person on earth who had any information to the effect that I intended to engage in business, it is obvious that Señor Gomez’ information must have come through Randolph Holaberry.
“That brings up a very interesting situation. Mr. Holaberry calls upon me, apparently attempting to sell me chemicals. He leaves, and passes on information to Señor Gomez which enables that individual to call upon me as the representative of an Oriental competitor, and offer to deliver the same merchandise at a much lower price than that quoted me by Mr. Holaberry. A very interesting situation.”
“But don’t stop there!” Gomez said. “Please, señor. Please go on. Surely your next step of reasoning is obvious.”