“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’ve been greasing my typewriter.”
“I want you to show Mr. Strickland the designing room,” said Mrs. Carver. “Make it snappy, Jacqueline, because Mr. Du Nord is going to the boat to meet his son. I think it might be well for Mr. Strickland to ride down as far as the dock in Mr. Du Nord’s car. They can talk during the trip. You see,” she explained to Strickland, “Mr. Du Nord has an important appointment at four o’clock, and that won’t leave him much time to see Dane and get back from the boat.”
Strickland nodded, permitted himself to be led like some big Newfoundland dog, along a glass enclosed passageway, to a room, the door of which was locked. Jacqueline Carver selected a key, unlocked the door. Four men seated at a long table looked up.
The table, covered with green imitation leather, held taut by wooden strips screwed along the side, was illuminated by huge drop-lights. In front of each of the men was a sheet of paper, fastened to the table by thumb tacks. The table itself was littered with pages clipped from fashion magazines with photographs of smart women.
“You see,” said Jacqueline, “they work in absolute privacy. The best points of all the styles are combined and then submitted to Mr. Du Nord himself for approval. It’s all very confidential.”
Strickland nodded, turned away from the door.
“Yeah,” he said, and looked at his wristwatch.
“Don’t worry,” said Jacqueline, with the quick efficiency so characteristic of her mother, “I am watching the time. You will have plenty of time for your conference with Mr. Du Nord. And there goes Nell Brent. She’s another of the possible suspects, only mother says she responded okay to the honesty test.”
Strickland looked through the partition window at a tall woman who, suddenly becoming conscious of his appraisal, flushed a bright scarlet.
“Looks like she knows who I am,” he said, “and why I’m here.”
Jacqueline Carver tittered. “Mother says you can’t disguise a detective — she does look guilty, doesn’t she?”
Strickland grunted.
Du Nord grew confidential as the huge limousine purred down Market Street.
“Part of the credit for this,” he said, “should go to Mrs. Carver, but personally, I think it’s a fine scheme. It’s rather a clever trap—”
“Listen,” Strickland said, “I’m a rule of thumb detective. I don’t judge people by the fact that they walk with their hands closed, or the shape of their noses. I like to get evidence before I accuse anybody of crime. There is a crook somewhere in your organization. Those dishonesty tests don’t mean a thing — particularly that one you tried on the girl you suspect. The real crook must be smart enough to know what’s going on in the joint. She could have taken the twenty bucks out of the cash drawer before cash was made up in the evening.”
Du Nord nodded, leaned forward.
“To some extent,” he said, “I agree with you.”
“What I’m trying to tell you,” Strickland blurted, “is that I sympathize with that Anita girl.”
“No, no,” Du Nord said, “you mustn’t do that. She’s beautiful, magnetic, attractive. You mustn’t be influenced by that.”
“I’m not influenced by that, I’m influenced by the fact you’re all picking on her without giving her a chance to defend herself.”
“Well,” Du Nord said, “I’ve thought up an idea of my own. It’s so confidential that I’m not even telling Mrs. Carver about it, and she knows everything that I do.”
“What’s the idea?” Strickland inquired.
“A crook,” said Du Nord, “is dishonest. A crook is after money. A crook who would sell me out to my competitors here, would be that much more eager to sell out information to a foreign competitor. I have some very valuable process secrets that are in my vault. I have decided to get a clever man to impersonate a foreign buyer. I am going to arrange things so that Anita Lyle will be called back to work tonight. She will actually catch this man rifling the vault. If she is dishonest, she will make him a proposition to share in his profits if she turns him loose; otherwise, she will report him. That generally is my scheme. The point is, do you speak a foreign language, Strickland?”
Strickland sighed.
“I don’t speak a foreign language,” he said. “In fact, I don’t even speak your language.”
Du Nord frowned.
“That,” he said, with an edge to his voice, “makes you unavailable. I shall have to get someone else. Good heavens — my son! I can use Dane. No one will know him. He has foreign labels on his baggage and speaks French like a native.”
Strickland sighed.
“While you’re doing all that,” he said, “would you mind getting me a screw driver?”
“A screw driver? You mean now?”
“No,” said Strickland, “when we get back to the plant.”
The big liner nosed its way into the dock, a blunt-nosed tug pushing at the bow to overcome the effect of the swirling tide at the stem. Men and women waved arms, handkerchiefs and hats.
Du Nord gripped Strickland’s arm, waved frantically.
“There he is,” he said, “up on the boat deck, with the binoculars. He’s looking the crowd over — looking for us. Hi, there, Dane! Here I am, Dane — down here. Hello — hellooo!”
Strickland nodded.
“Good looking boy,” he said.
The lenses of the binoculars swung down, fastened upon them in appraisal. The young man took off his hat, waved it frantically. The father dislodged his glasses, juggled his paunch as he waved his arms in almost hysterical violence.
The detective watched the thin figure of the young man as the binoculars were lowered, listened to the shouted greetings lost in the hoarse bellow of a roaring steam whistle. Then, as the boat edged in closer to the dock, as lines thudded to the pier and winches started warping the ship through the last few feet of water, to snug it up against the pier, Strickland saw the lenses of Dane Du Nord’s binoculars swinging about in the casual appraisal of a curious tourist anxious to be home, curious to look over the faces of his fellow countrymen, in search, not so much of a familiar face, as to feast upon the general familiarity of all faces — the kinship of a country.
Abruptly, the lenses fastened in rigid, steady appraisal. There was a swirl of motion in the back of the crowd. Pete Strickland saw a young woman, with firmly clenched, defiant little fists, slipping rapidly through the open door, to the interior of the huge shed. She was almost running.
The detective’s finger started to tap Du Nord on the shoulder then was arrested mid-motion. Slowly, the huge, awkward hand dropped back to his side.
“When we get back to the plant,” he said, “don’t forget that screw driver.”
Pete Strickland groped, with his big, awkward hand, for the ringing telephone. The instrument was cold to his touch. He pressed the receiver to his ear and said in a thick voice. “Yeah?”
The voice of the manager of the detective agency smote his eardrum in a metallic rattle. Strickland was advised to get out of bed and down to the main office of the Du Nord Sincere Service Stores. Hell, it seemed, had broken loose. Burglar alarms were ringing. The police were rushing reserves down, and Du Nord, himself, was hysterical.
Strickland made tasting noises with his mouth.
“Okay, chief,” he said. “God, I got an acid stomach! Yeah, I’ll get down there right away. I got the flivver in the garage. G’bye.”
He groped for and found the light, got into his clothes in the wearily philosophical manner of one who is accustomed to midnight emergency calls, flivvered through the fog-swept streets to the side entrance of the Du Nord Sincere Service Stores.