Mac, brightening a bit at this, hurried out. Swede, still scowling, followed.
Merlini gave me the wire. “We ought to hear something really interesting now — from our detective writer. And we’ll hope what he gives us isn’t fiction, for a change.”
The telegram had been handed in at Mamaroneck, New York, at 5:10 p.m. It was addressed to Merlini, care of the Hannum Circus, Norwalk, N.Y. It read: Fact that I am traveling on circus news to me. Thought all the time I was here. Suggest you cash no checks for my alter ego. It was signed: Stuart Towne. None genuine without signature.
“So,” I said, blinking a bit, “that’s why our Mr. Towne doesn’t know proofreaders’ symbols when he sees ’em. And he’s not an ex-convict after all. How’d you know where to locate the real article?”
“I didn’t. I wired his publishers. Told them a man representing himself to be one of their authors was circulating in this vicinity, and that I had doubts. They passed it along to him.”
“You suspected he wasn’t the ex-professional thief because he didn’t know any of the pickpocket lingo? And you checked up with the proofreader’s symbols and the hobo signs?”
“Yes. That and some other things. Remember that the Captain said ‘Towne’ had a pistol permit? The real Towne couldn’t have one — at least none that was legitimately obtained — because he has a felony conviction chalked up against him. And, since the Captain is satisfied, the photo on the permit must match our ‘Towne.’ And apparently the name that goes with it, though not Towne, doesn’t bother the Captain. He knows who ‘Towne’ really is, and his lack of excitement over the knowledge intrigues me no end.”
“I suppose it must,” a quiet voice behind us said. “Towne” stood there, a sober expression on his dark face. He took the red wrapper from a stick of gum which he popped into his mouth. “You’re doing all right,” he added. “I hunt you up because I’ve got a confession to make and I discover you’re already hep. Takes some of the wind out of my sails.”
“Mac find out?” Merlini asked.
“Mac? No, haven’t seen him. This is my. own idea. Mind telling me where the impersonation fell down?”
“Lack of proper background,” Merlini said. “You should have brushed up on the subjects of proofreader’s symbols, hobo signs, and pickpocket argot. You—”
“Proofreader’s signs? Is that what the rest of those hen tracks were in the note you gave me this morning?” Towne frowned. “I guess that point goes to you. I knew the tramp symbols, but I didn’t want to admit it at the time. Besides, I didn’t see why Stuart Towne should know them — I still don’t. Nor the gun talk either. Why would he be up on that? Most detective-story authors still use the old-fashioned lingo, and about all they know of that is the word ‘dip.’”
“You’re not only not Towne, you don’t seem to have read many of his books either.”
“No, I haven’t. Just the last one, The Empty Coffin thing. Read it a few nights ago before I started passing them out. But he doesn’t—”
“Not so much in that one, no,” Merlini said. “He’s using a new locale. But in most of his others there’s plenty of underworld dope, and it’s all the quill — the real thing. If you had read the book reviews or the jacket blurb on his first book, you’d have known that.”
Towne gulped and swallowed his gum. “I’ll be damned! I’m ashamed of myself. My only excuse is that the impersonation was damned impromptu. Oughta read more, I suppose. You see, when I decided to be an author, I hardly expected to run smack into a couple of mystery-story addicts. Should have pretended I was e. e. cummings, or do you read him, too? I’ve known I was on damned thin ice ever since you arrived, and the first crack out of the box you started talking about The Phantom Bullet, which I haven’t read.”
“Neither have I,” Merlini said. “There isn’t any such book, or at least no such title on the Towne list. But you still bother me, Mr. X; you’re not the ex-convict and yet you say you do know the gun talk and the tramp signs, though you hadn’t realized that, you should have admitted it. Could I see that pistol permit you showed the Captain?”
“Uh huh,” Towne assented. “High time I ran up my true colors. The pistol permit will do for identification as well as anything.” He took it from an inner breast pocket and tossed it on the table before us.
As he talked, I had been rapidly trying to fit together a deduction or two in the classic Holmes manner and construct a theory as to his identity, or at least his occupation. I had a couple of guesses all formulated, but it’s just as well I didn’t have a chance to go on record with them. The name on the pistol permit was one that, in all the excitement, I had nearly forgotten.
“Stuart Towne” was our old friend Martin O’Halloran, the private dick who had been tailing Pauline and who had subsequently followed us last Friday evening.
“This is a nice tidy development,” Merlini said in a relieved tone. “The O’Halloran loose end has been buzzing about annoyingly in my subconscious. I’m happy to see it gathering itself up. I wired Inspector Gavigan of the New York Homicide Department asking him to send me a dossier on you. No answer as yet. The Inspector’s probably up to his neck in a hatchet murder or something of the sort.”
“He’s plenty busy,” O’Halloran said. “Haven’t you two seen any papers lately?”
“Circus people don’t read newspapers. Except when they’re in winter quarters, they don’t have time. That’s been our trouble the last few days. Have we missed anything?”
“You certainly have. But I’d better start at the beginning. The reason I was tailing Miss Hannum Friday—”. Detective O’Halloran’s revelations suffered a sudden postponement. At that moment Captain Schafer strode into the tent, moving with that determined steam-roller way he had. His face was grim. Patrolman Crossen, who was with him, was also grim, and in addition somewhat white about the gills.
Schafer’s voice was hard. “Tonight seems to be bank night,” he said. “We just finished searching all the cars on the lot. In the last one — we found things.”
The statement was directed at Merlini, and he stopped there as if waiting for comment.
Merlini said, “Yes? You found something?”
Schafer’s square jaw protruded slightly. “I’ll say we did. You’d better come look.”
A distinctly uneasy feeling settled around me as we followed him out. It was caused by the fact that the Captain and Patrolman Crossen had dropped into step, one on either side of Merlini, and by the fact that they both had their hands on their guns.
We walked the length of the lot past car after car and stopped outside the side-show top at Merlini’s car itself. The trunk compartment at the rear was open. Chief Hooper and several other cops stood beside it holding flashlights.
“Don’t tell me,” Hooper said, “that you’ve got a nice pat answer for this.”
He stopped and suddenly jerked away the canvas that covered the shape on the ground.
I saw Merlini’s jaw tighten. Slowly he said, “No, Sheriff. I’m afraid I hadn’t counted on this.”
The girl’s body was dressed in blue slacks and a bright yellow sweater. Laid out beside it, I saw a blood-stained rug, a cowboy hat, and a bright two-edged sword with an ornamental hilt.
The body had no head.
Chapter Fifteen
Murder Charge
This time there was no trick or illusion to it. One quick look at the severed stump of white flesh projecting from the open shirt collar was more than enough. I raised my eyes and kept them up.