Bunched Knuckles

Chapter III Phyllis Proctor

The arrival of the White Nomad, the palatial yacht which had come up from the Galapagos Islands after cruising about the west coast of Mexico, attracted some attention. Waterfront reporters dropped down to get a story, and heard one which sent them scurrying for telephones.

The owner of the yacht reported picking up a castaway on one of the deserted islands. The man had been cast ashore when a small fishing boat on which he had taken passage had been wrecked in a storm. But this shipwreck, which would have been a tragic adventure to most men, was to this individual but an incident in a life which had fairly bristled with dangerous adventure. He was, it seemed, none other than Sidney Proctor, whose death had been recently reported in the press when a companion had reached civilization to report the disaster which had overtaken the exploring expedition.

Sidney Proctor gave a brief statement to some of the reporters, but he was rather taciturn and noncommittal, and he objected to being photographed. He went from the yacht directly to the Palace Hotel.

Among those who met the yacht on its arrival in the early morning was Jax Bowman, the multi-millionaire, who had traveled incognito to San Francisco. Bowman was a close friend of Franklin Stanza, the owner of the yacht, and Stanza introduced Jax Bowman to Sidney Proctor, and, since the introduction took place in the presence of newspaper men, Stanza kept his countenance gravely serious as he performed the introduction.

Big Jim Grood, masquerading as the rescued explorer, crushed Bowman’s hand in a mighty grip.

“Have a pleasant voyage?” Bowman asked, with an attempt at facetiousness as he winced from the pain of the crushing grip.

“Swell,” Jim Grood said, increasing the pressure of his mighty hand. “I lost a few pounds, but that was to be expected.”

“You evidently didn’t lose any strength,” Bowman said, wiggling the fingers of his hand, as though to test them for broken bones.

“I lost everything else,” Jim Grood muttered in an undertone.

Jim Grood registered at the Palace Hotel under the name of Sidney Proctor. He kept to his room, refused to give any further interviews, and refused to be photographed. Jax Bowman had a room on the same floor. He was, he explained to reporters, taking a pleasure trip, but managed to convey the impression he might be interested in purchasing a ranch which could be reached by airplane and on which there was good hunting and fishing.

Having cast out his bait, Jax Bowman sat back to await results.

His telephone rang within half an hour after the newspapers had hit the streets. Big Jim Grood’s voice was cautious: “Coast clear?” he asked.

“Yes,” Bowman said.

“Leave your door open, then; I’m coming down.”

A moment later Bowman heard the sound of his confederate’s steps in the corridor, then the knob twisted and Rig Jim Grood pushed his way into the room.

“Phyllis just called up,” he said.

“Phyllis?” Bowman asked.

“Yes, Phyllis Proctor. Say, chief, there’s just a chance we may have guessed this thing wrong. Phyllis Proctor may be the one that’s back of this killing.”

Jax Bowman frowned thoughtfully. “That’s hardly likely,” he said, “but I’m surprised that she rang you up. I thought the murderer would be the one to get m touch with you.”

“Perhaps,” Grood said grimly, “the murderer has.”

“What did she say?”

“Said she was Phyllis Proctor; that we had some relatives in common, and she’d like to run in for a chat.”

“What did you tell her?”

“Told her I wasn’t seeing anyone.”

Bowman nodded thoughtfully.

“Think I’d better see her?” Grood asked.

“Did she leave her number?”

“Yes, she left a number where I could call her. I’ve got it written down on the pad by the telephone. I forgot to tear off the sheet to bring it in here.”

Jax Bowman started pacing the floor. “It doesn’t stand to reason,” he said, “that a young woman would be back of these crimes. And it doesn’t seem logical that Phyllis would kill off the others merely in order to increase her share in the estate.”

“Why not? Women do just about as much killing as men,” Grood said with that skepticism which comes to one who has seen life in the raw.

“But,” Jax Bowman protested, “we don’t want to pull this White Ring stuff on a woman.”

“We’re fighting crooks, ain’t we?” Grood countered.

“Yes, we’re fighting crooks, but not making war on women.”

Jim Grood said impatiently, “I tell you, chief, this is one case where the old police methods would work to advantage. Let’s get this jane in and start sweating her. Let’s make a direct accusation and see what she says—”

“No,” Bowman interrupted, “we can’t do that. In the first place, I don’t want to let it get out that I’m interested in crime. In the second place, you’re not on the force any more; you haven’t any official standing, particularly in San Francisco.”

“If we uncovered the murderer,” Grood said, “we could get by with anything. The boys would be tickled to death to have someone solve the case and hand them the solution.”

“No,” Bowman said. “Go back and ring up Phyllis. Tell her that you’ll make an exception in her case, and talk with her. Pretend that you nothing whatever about an estate or any inheritance. See if she brings the subject up. Find out what she has to say, but don’t get rough with her.”

“You don’t suppose she’s seen pictures of the real Sidney Proctor?”

“That’s a chance we’ll have to take. Remember, if she’s mixed up in those murders, she isn’t going to run to the police and brand you as an impostor, even if she knows you to be one. She’ll do that when you come forward to claim a part of the estate.”

Grood turned toward the door.

“And watch your step,” Bowman counseled. “Don’t fall for a pretty face.”

Big Jim Grood gave a hoarse chuckle. “Me!” he exclaimed scornfully “Fall for a pretty face when it’s on a crook? No chance — I’ve seen too many of them.”

He closed the door behind him and Bowman heard the indignant pound of his heels on the carpeted corridor.

A few moments later there was a knock at Bowman’s door. He opened it, to stare into a pair of twinkling brown eyes set in an attractive face, while red lips twisted upward in confirmation of the smile in her eyes.

She was not over twenty-four or five at the most. To her, life was nothing serious; only a game to be played, the unbounded vitality of her youth making any false guesses seem merely minor matters.

“This,” she said, “is going to be a frightful imposition.”

Jax Bowman felt the magnetism of the trim figure, was conscious of her exceptional beauty.

“Come in,” he said, “and let’s see if it is.”

She entered his room with hesitation. There was in her manner the assurance of one who knows her way around, who has sufficient poise and ability to depend upon her own judgment, rather than upon the dictates of convention.

She dropped into a chair, crossed her knees, surveyed the trim ankles which protruded below her skirt with approval and said, “Give me a cigarette and I’ll get the agony over with as quickly as possible.”

Bowman suspected her identity even as he handed her the cigarette case and was turning over in his mind the best method of handling the situation. He dared not let her feel that his association with the spurious Sidney Proctor was too intimate. At any cost, Big Jim Grood must be left isolated — bait for a death trap.

“What is it?” Bowman asked, holding a match to her cigarette.

“I’m Phyllis Proctor,” she told him. “Does that mean anything to you?”

He seated himself in an easy chair, lit his own cigarette, and remarked noncommittally, “An attractive name, and, apparently, an attractive personality.”

She ducked her head in a bow. “Thank you, kind sir.”

He laughed.

“I’m related,” she said, “to Sidney Proctor.”

Bowman kept his face expressionless, as though the statement meant but little to him.

“I simply must see him. We have some matters in common that we should discuss.”

“Why don’t you knock on his door, then? I understand he’s in the hotel.”

She shook her head decisively. “No, there’s too much involved to meet him that way, unless he’s the type who would respond to that sort of informality.”

“What makes you think he isn’t?”

“I’ve talked with him on the telephone.”

“And he doesn’t seem responsive?” Bowman asked.

“Not in the least.”

Bowman made clucking noises with his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “If we only had television perfected it would have been a different story, I’m sure.”

Her face lost its smile.

“Quit complimenting me,” he said, and let’s get down to brass tacks. “I know you’re frightfully busy and this is an imposition, but I thought you could help me.”

“How?”

“I want you to introduce me to Mr. Proctor.”

“But I hardly know him myself.”

She stared at the toe of her shoe, which was restlessly moving in little nervous circles. “It certainly is queer,” she said. “You’d think people who had been on the boat with him for days at a time would know him quite well.”

“But I wasn’t on the boat with him.

I only met him when I went down to greet Franklin Stanza, the owner of the yacht.”

“I know,” she said, “but Mr. Stanza avoided the issue when I tried to get an introduction, and finally, when I forced matters, said that I’d have to get your okay.”

Bowman frowned. That wasn’t the sort of information he’d wanted Stanza to give out. On the other hand, he could appreciate Stanza’s predicament. A very pretty girl, most insistent in her demands. Stanza, who was quite susceptible to feminine beauty, had found himself at a loss what to do and had finally referred her to Bowman. Well, in some ways Stanza couldn’t be blamed. In any event, the fat was in the fire.

“You,” Bowman said, “must have been moving fast to do all of this checking up after the newspapers reported Mr. Proctor’s arrival.”

“I’m a fast worker,” she admitted, grinning at him through cigarette smoke, “and I didn’t get it from the newspapers, but over the radio news flashes.”

“Why,” asked Bowman, “did Mr. Stanza say you’d have to get my consent?”

“I’m certain I don’t know.” Her eyes raised disconcertingly to his face. “Do you?” she added.

Jax Bowman sparred for time.

“Was there any reason for an immediate meeting?”

“Yes.”

“Would you mind telling me what it was?”

She hesitated a moment, then said, “I’m going to be frank with you. I have reason to believe the man who is in this hotel claiming to be Sidney Proctor is an impostor.”

Jax Bowman became rigidly motionless, with concentrated attention. “Yes?” he asked tonelessly.

“Yes,” she said.

“What makes you think so? Do you know him personally?”

“No, but my attorney tells me he’s seen photographs of the real Sidney Proctor, and that he glimpsed this man’s face in the hotel lobby, and that he is not the real Sidney Proctor.”

Jax Bowman did some rapid thinking.

“Your attorney?” he asked.

“Yes. You’re a wealthy man, Mr. Bowman. Money means nothing to you; your fortune puts you beyond greed, even if I didn’t realize instinctively I could trust you.”

Bowman said nothing, but sat waiting, his mind racing rapidly.

“Probably you’re wondering why I needed an attorney,” she went on. “All right; I’m going to tell you the whole story: I didn’t know it until recently, but I am one of the heirs to the estate of George Cutler Proctor. It’s a very large estate. I don’t know too much about the other heirs. My attorney, however, knows all about them.”

“How did you get this attorney?” Bowman asked.

“I didn’t,” she said, laughing. “He got me. He’s one of those lawyers who make a specialty of checking up on large estates, finding heirs and signing them up on a commission basis.”

“You signed up with this man?”

“Yes.”

“Do you mind if I ask on what commission?”

“He’s to receive half of what I get, for his services in calling the matter to my attention and making proof that I’m an heir at law.”

“An outrageous contract,” Bowman remarked. “You shouldn’t have signed it.”

“But please remember,” she pleaded, “that I didn’t know anything whatever about an estate. I’d never heard of George Cutler Proctor. I certainly would never have traced the estate.”

“No, but the estate would eventually have traced you.”

“Well,” she said, “the contract is signed, and that’s that. But it seems that if the real Sidney Proctor is alive, then I don’t take anything, because he’s a closer heir than I am. I don’t understand the legal points involved, but my attorney does.”

“Where’s your lawyer now?”

“Downstairs, waiting in a car.”

“Waiting for you to bring Sidney Proctor out?”

“Yes. He wants me to bring the man who claims to be Sidney Proctor down to the car if possible.”

“And your lawyer then intends to denounce him as an impostor?”

“If the meeting, face to face, convinces him Proctor is an impostor, yes.”

“Well,” Bowman said, “I’ll do whatever I can. I’ll see if Mr. Proctor is in his room.”

He crossed to the telephone, held the receiver to his ear and said, “Please ring Mr. Sidney Proctor.”

A moment later he heard Grood’s gruff voice on the telephone saying, “Hello.”

Bowman said, “He doesn’t seem to be in the room, Miss Proctor. I can hear the operator ringing, but I don’t get any answer. I’ll hold the phone and wait for a few moments... You say your attorney is in an automobile downstairs, and that he says Mr. Proctor is an impostor?”

“Yes” she said.

Bowman heard Big Jim Grood’s voice rumbling over the wire. “I get you, chief,” he said.

“Then perhaps I’d better step downstairs and talk with your lawyer personally.”

“Oh, if you only would!” she exclaimed. “But are you sure Mr. Proctor isn’t in his room? I felt certain he was.”

“So was I,” Bowman said. “I saw him in the corridor a moment ago. However, he must have stepped out.” He waited a moment, then said, “Thank you, operator,” and hung up.

“No,” he said, “Mr. Proctor doesn’t answer.”

“If you wouldn’t mind stepping down to meet my attorney—” she said.

“It would be a pleasure,” Bowman assured her. And the words came from his heart. Very evidently their suspicions of Harry Cutting were unfounded. This mysterious “attorney” who had signed Phyllis up for one half of her inheritance was quite probably the guiding force back of the murders which had been committed. Bowman wanted very much to meet this man, to ask him for his card, to note the license number of the automobile he was driving. Later on the White Rings might pay the man an official visit.

Jax Bowman got to his feet, took his hat and light coat from the closet.

“At your service,” he observed.

She ground out the end of her cigarette in the ash tray, got to her feet, came close to him, and placed slender, tapering fingers on his arm. “It’s so nice of you,” she smiled gratefully.

“Not at all,” Bowman remarked. “It’s really a pleasure.”

He opened the door, escorted her to the elevator. They descended to the lobby and crossed to the street exit.

“Where’s your lawyer waiting?” Bowman asked.

She nodded toward a sedan parked across the street. “He has the curtains drawn,” she said, “because he wanted to see the man who claims to be Sidney Proctor without himself being seen. Come on over and I’ll introduce you.”

Jax Bowman managed to walk around the rear of the car so that he could note the license number. Just as he had finished fixing it in his memory, the car door opened. The girl said, “Mr. Bowman agreed to come down and meet you. Isn’t that splendid of him?”

A man’s voice from the interior of the car boomed enthusiastic agreement.

She stood to one side, smiling. Bowman stepped forward, caught a glimpse of flashing teeth smiling from a swarthy countenance, saw a right hand outstretched in greeting.

“This is my lawyer,” said the girl, “Mr. Smith, Mr. Bowman.”

Bowman leaned forward to grasp the outstretched hand. As the fingers gripped his, the smile faded from the man’s face. Bowman sensed the menace of motion. He twisted his head, saw Phyllis Proctor swinging a very businesslike blackjack.

He tried to jerk free, but the man in the car held his hand. The blackjack swung to his temple. As things became sickeningly black, he felt his knees turn to jelly, realized that the “lawyer” was pulling him into the car.

He heard the motor hum into life, felt the car lurch forward, struggled to shake off the black nausea which gripped him, raised himself on his hands — and received another crashing blow on the head.

Jax Bowman became entirely oblivious of his surroundings.