Barney Killigen squared himself to face the butler. “Of course,” he said quietly, “if you want to start playing rough, Armstrong—”
Evidently Armstrong didn’t. He looked at Mrs. Chester-Smith for instructions, and, receiving none, stood perfectly still, not wishing to retreat, yet afraid to go forward.
Barney Killigen said to Mrs. Dwight Chester-Smith: “The service of the subpoena was complete, Mrs. Chester-Smith, when I placed the document in your hands. Any disobedience will be a contempt of court. I feel quite certain you don’t want that to happen. Come, Wiggy; we’ll leave.”
I was afraid the woman was going to burst a blood vessel before we reached the door.
“Scum! Shyster! Crook!” she screamed. “I’ll have you disbarred. I’ll... I’ll—” Barney Killigen held the door open for me.
“Fat people,” he said calmly, and apparently apropos of nothing, “should never excite themselves. It’s quite a strain on the heart. Promise me you won’t ever get fat, Wiggy.”
“I won’t,” I promised him, as we filed out.
And Barney Killigen, beating the butler to it by a fraction of a second, was the one to slam the door with such violence it shook the side of the building.
IV
Barney Killigen sat tilted back in his swivel chair, his feet on the corner of the desk. A lighted cigarette was held in his fingers, but he wasn’t smoking it; instead he was holding it where he could watch the smoke spiral upward. It was his theory that watching a thin stream of smoke spiraling upward was conducive to concentration. Formerly he had used an incense burner, but now he found cigarettes more convenient.
On the desk, in front of him, were three or four pieces of thin glass, slightly curved and broken, with irregular, jagged edges. The outer surface was coated with silver.
“What in the world,” I said, as I stared at the broken glass, “are you doing with that?”
He looked up and grinned, that peculiar, boyish grin which indicated he was thoroughly enjoying life.
“I am engaged,” he said, “in solving the burglary of Mrs. Dwight Chester-Smith’s exclusive residence.”
“You look like it,” I told him. “I have some bad news. Do you want it now or later?”
“Now,” he said, “and all in a lump. I’m just in the mood for bad news. I can shake it off as a dog shakes off raindrops. Give it to me in large doses, begin in the middle, and work simultaneously toward both ends. In other words, don’t break it to me gently, hit me with a wallop.”
“Jimmy Grayson,” I said, “is an ex-convict.”
“How do you know?”
“I picked it up from a friend of mine, who is in the Bureau of Identification.”
“Male or female?” he asked sharply.
“Female,” I said. “A stenographer. She wasn’t betraying any particular confidence. The D.A.’s office is going to announce it in the newspapers.”
“That’s fine.”
“What is?” I asked. “About his being a criminal?”
“No,” Killigen said, “about your friend being a female. If it had been a male, I’d have either had to fire you, or shoot him. Either alternative would have been disagreeable.”
“Why the violence?” I asked.
“Information is a two edged sword,” he said. “Sometimes you’re giving information when you think you’re getting it. You can control your tongue with another woman, but you can’t do it when you’re talking to a man — not if you’re sweet on him.”
“Well,” I said, “I’m not sweet on anybody. I’m heart-whole and fancy-free.”
“Wonderful,” he said, and his eyes were back on the curved fragments of glass on his desk, his thoughts evidently far away.
“Would you mind if I asked what that glass has to do with the burglary?” I inquired.
“I found these pieces of glass by the side of the driveway,” he said. “I fancy there were more of them, but the butler was so irritatingly suspicious that I didn’t have an opportunity to make any further investigation. I think we’ll rush some want ads to the afternoon editions, Wiggy.”
That was invariably a sign of Barney Killigen’s cerebrations. He’d work around on a case for a while, playing with some angle no one else would ever consider as having any possible bearing on the case, and then suddenly he’d put want ads in the newspapers, asking for some of the weirdest things. Yet, by the time the case came up for trial, he usually had a plan of campaign laid out, so completely unconventional, so wildly unorthodox, that anyone who didn’t know the mechanism of his chain lightning mind would have thought that only the most insane combination of coincidence would have made his solution possible.
“The first ad,” he said, “will be for a live, very active, and untamed skunk, or polecat. You may offer a hundred dollars for a proper specimen.”
My pencil simply refused to get near the paper. I found myself staring at him with wide eyes. Accustomed as I was to the vagaries of the man, this was the crowning climax. However, he seemed to see nothing unusual about either the request or my reception of it.
“Specify,” he said, “that the skunk must be in good condition, very wild, and exceedingly active. In order to obtain the best results, the animal should be delivered under the influence of an anesthetic, but it must be specified that he will recover from the stupor, or the anesthetic, within at least two hours after delivery, and delivery must be made before ten o’clock tomorrow morning.
“Now then, we’ll offer a prize of five hundred dollars to the artist’s model having the most beautiful figure, who presents herself at two o’clock in the afternoon at the address mentioned in the ad. There are absolutely no strings attached to this offer. Five hundred dollars will be deposited with the newspaper, coincident with the filing of the ad. The newspaper will turn over the money to whichever contestant bears a certificate of award from the judges.”
“Five hundred dollars?” I asked dryly.
“Yes,” he said. “Make out a check, and I’ll sign it.”
“Have you,” I inquired, “made any deposit during the last two days?”
“Deposit? No,” he said. “Why?”
“I was thinking about the attitude of the bank in regard to the overdraft.”
“Oh, forget it,” he said. “I’ll drop in and make a deposit one of these days. Don’t take financial matters so seriously. We have Miss Ray for that. She does our worrying.”
“And who,” I asked, “is going to judge the artist’s models?”
“Oh, yes,” he told me, “get F. C. Underwood on the telephone.”
“You know his address?” I asked.
“No, I don’t,” he said, “but I know he’s a building contractor, and I know he’s a close friend of Lame’s. He probably isn’t too busy right at present. Get him on the phone; I’ll talk with him personally.”
I found F. C. Underwood listed as a building contractor, and was satisfied that he answered the telephone in person, although he went through the motions of pretending to be a secretary, answering the first time in a high pitched tone of voice, saying, “Very well, I’ll call Mr. Underwood,” and then answering gruffly: “Hello, hello. Underwood speaking.”
Barney Killigen took the telephone.
“Hello,” he said, “this is counsel for Associated Bathing Suits, Inc. We’re going to do something to increase the interest in swimming, not from the standpoint of featuring any particular make of suit, but simply to popularize swimming as a sport. In order to do this, we’re going to try to bring people to the beaches, and, for that purpose, want to call their attention to the scenery which the beaches have to offer... Yes, Mr. Underwood, don’t be impatient; I’m coming to that. Give me a moment, please... Briefly, we’re offering a prize of five hundred dollars to— What’s that?... We want you to be one of the judges... No, there are no strings tied to it, whatever. The money will be paid over to the person you and the other two judges name as the winner... The other two judges? We haven’t decided on those. I can assure you they’ll be persons whom you’ll find congenial... Yes, it happens that one of my clients knew of you, and said he thought you were amply competent to judge... No, no, nothing like that; but you’re a man with an appreciative eye, and you know beauty when you see it... Tell you what we’ll do, Mr. Underwood. We’ll let you select the other two judges. Suppose you give me their names right now.