I told him that I was a female, colored, and had a three-inch scar that hurt me when I sat down. “I had a scissors lock on an F.B.I. agent,” I said. “He bit me.”
This was not, I well knew, the proper approach for a wild-animal trainer to take, but I was annoyed. I wanted very much to be out there on that showground when what was going to happen next happened — and I could plainly see that my chances were not good.
Schafer said, “All right, Burns; that’ll do. Harte, Chief Hooper wants to test out a new rubber hose he has. If you keep that up, I’ll let him.”
“Sure,” I replied. “Go ahead. But when your names hit the news teletypes tomorrow morning, I’ll see to it that they’re spelled wrong. And that won’t be all.”
The way Hooper jumped from his chair, I thought it must have kicked him. The lion’s tail switched in earnest now. “Are you a goddamned reporter?”
“In my spare moments I do little pieces for the papers, if that’s what you mean, yes. I’ve got a Guild card and I usually get a by-line. What’s the matter? Have you been bitten too — by a newspaper?”
“Hell!” he said disgustedly and sat down again. His broad fingers nervously hefted the inkwell on his desk; a psychoanalyst would have diagnosed a repressed urge to throw it.
Schafer said, “That complicates matters some, but not as much as you’d like to think. I want some straight answers out of you — now!”
“Shoot,” I replied. “But skip the questions you asked this afternoon. The answers you got then were straight — all of them.”
The Captain didn’t act as if he had heard me. He started in right at the beginning and slowly and carefully worked his way down to date without skipping a thing. He asked all the questions he’d asked before and twice as many new ones. I gave him the same answers as before, though I had to say “No” and “I don’t know” and “Okay, I’m lying then” to some of the new ones — too many of them to suit him.
The Chief and O’Halloran listened to the inquisition without speaking. They both scowled a good bit, though not always at the same things. Burns, with a notebook at a desk in the corner, industriously transcribed our talk into rows of little pothooks. He glanced up now and then and fixed me with a bright, beady eye as if I were some new and especially virulent species of bacillus.
The Captain’s supply of questions finally gave out. He had obtained very little new information, considering the large amount of expended effort, and his manner was getting harsher by the minute.
“Stevens!” he rapped. “Send in the other one.”
As he entered, Merlini dropped his cards into his pocket and asked, “May I smoke?”
“Yes,” Schafer growled. “If it’ll make you more talkative. Take his prints, Burns.”
Merlini drew a cigarette from his breast pocket. O’Halloran started to toss him a paper of matches, but Merlini shook his head.
“No thanks.” He put the cigarette to his lips, inhaled and blew forth a cloud of smoke. The cigarette seemed to be already lighted!
Quickly then, while the Captain and the Chief were a bit off balance, he said, “I’d like to hear that story of yours, O’Halloran. I suspect it’s important.”
“No,” Schafer contradicted. “We’re going to hear yours — the revised version.”
Merlini let Burns take his fingers and roll them across the inked sheet of glass. “I haven’t made any revisions,” Merlini said flatly. “I don’t intend to.”
“Maybe not,” Schafer said, “but I think you will. Why did you show up on this circus in the first place?”
Merlini shrugged. “Because, as I’ve told you, Miss Pauline Hannum took a Headless Lady illusion from my shop under very odd circumstances. I wanted to know why.”
“And you found out—”
“I haven’t yet. Miss Hannum hasn’t been exactly cooperative. I’ve got a theory, but there’s too much plain and fancy guesswork built into it, so I won’t bother you with it yet.”
“Merlini”—Schafer’s voice suddenly had a knife-edge sharpness—“did you ever hear of Duke Miller?”
“Duke Miller?” Merlini gave a perceptible start. “Yes, of course. Maxie Weissman’s lawyer. But what—”
“Oh, you know Maxie? Rather well, maybe?”
Merlini gave him an intent look; then his eyes shifted toward O’Halloran. “I’m completely floored,” he said, in what sounded to me like genuine surprise. “What would the Racketeer King and his mouthpiece have to do with me or this case? Is this some of your story, O’Halloran?”
“You’re overdoing the surprised innocence,” said Schafer icily. “It won’t wash. What’s your real racket? A magician might be a handy guy to have around to juggle policy numbers or betting odds. You might as well tell us about it.”
Merlini made no reply. He stood very still, and I had the feeling as I watched him that inside his head a multitude of little wheels and curiously shaped gears were spinning rapidly in a busy whirl.
The Captain, catlike, extended his claws in a threatening gesture. “Sitting tight won’t do you any good,” he added. “Inspector Gavigan is coming up here himself with all the dope. We’ll have the goods on you as soon as he arrives. You might just as well give.”
Merlini looked interested. “You’ve talked to him?”
“I have. Long distance. Bridgeport, New York. He’s on his way now.”
“Oh, at Bridgeport, was he? Did he say anything about removing these shackles and letting Harte and myself go?”
“Yes, he did. And you had a nerve this afternoon to tell me he’d vouch for you! He said we were to throw you both into the best cell we had. He’s been hunting you ever since Sunday.”
If Burns had tried to express in his notebook the speechless looks on both Merlini’s and my faces, he’d have had to use a double row of exclamation marks and a colored pencil.
“Blast the man!” Merlini exploded, and followed that with several heated remarks about certain medieval customs that had to do with boiling oil, drawing and quartering, iron boots, the rack, and the thumbscrew.
The Chief, watching Merlini as a young doctor watches his first patient, issued a terse clinical bulletin.
“More homicidal tendencies!”
Chapter Sixteen
Cells for Two
The character or, perhaps better, the lack-of-character reference supplied by our old friend Chief Inspector Homer Gavigan was obviously less than no help at all. Detective Lester Burns, who had disappeared with Merlini’s fingerprint card, came back into the room and made a report that didn’t improve matters.
“The prints on the trunk compartment lid,” he said, “are being photographed now. As soon as I can get them developed and have some enlargements run off I can give you a final report. But I just gave them a quick once-over, and I haven’t any doubt that they’ll check with these.” He indicated the black smudges on Merlini’s card. “And there are a couple that fit Mr. Harte.”
“Good,” Schafer said. “What about that glossy photo of the accident? Any prints there?”
“No. That’s clean.”
Merlini asked, “Did you make that nitrate test on the gloves, Burns?”
Burns didn’t reply, but Schafer said, “Show him.”
The detective went to his desk in the corner and came back with several paraffin molds which he placed before the Captain on the blotter. Merlini and I stepped forward to look. O’Halloran and Hooper did the same.
“I put the gloves on and made paraffin molds in the usual manner rather than apply the reagent directly to the gloves,” Burns said, displaying his technical knowledge rather proudly for the Chief’s benefit. “Rubber contains some combined nitrate that might, just possibly, react positively and spoil the test.”[4]
4
Melted paraffin is dropped over the fingers and hand until a thick coating is obtained. This is slightly reinforced by a thin layer of cotton, which in turn is covered with hot wax. After the paraffin has set, it is cut around the sides and removed in two halves. The resulting negative cast or mold is then tested for the presence of nitrates.