Murder Up My Sleeve

13

Twin red spots showed on Sou Ha’s cheeks. Her eyes glittered with emotion, but she affected the elaborate casualness of flippant youth.

“Hi, Wise One,” she said.

“Hello, Sunshine,” he answered, matching her tone, while his eyes studied the dilated nostrils, the tense rigidity of her pose, and the evasion of her manner. “What’ll it be this time, melon seeds or highballs?”

She shook her head, made a little gesture with her hand, as though checking him. She was like some wild thing approaching a suspicious object, ready at any moment to turn and bound into flight.

“You were at Juanita’s apartment some time after our visit, and before midnight?” she asked.

He remained silent and motionless.

“Why did you go there?”

He shrugged his shoulders and said, “I’ll not lie to you, Embroidered Halo.”

She said slowly, “It is unfortunate Juanita hated the painter woman.”

“Time spent in contemplating misfortunes is time wasted,” he told her. “Unless one may thereby change the bad to the good.”

“Do you, then, love her that much?” she asked.

He purposely misunderstood her. “Juanita?” he inquired, raising his eyebrows.

She was impatient, and showed it in her voice. “The painter woman. Do not avoid the question.”

He moved towards her. “What is it, Sou Ha? What’s wrong?”

She backed away from him, her face utterly impassive save for the slightly dilated nostrils and those two tell-tale spots of dusky red beneath the satiny smoothness of the skin.

“Tell me,” she demanded.

His eyes were narrowed now. “I will,” he said, “answer your question with a question...”

“You will,” she told him, “answer my question with deeds, not with words. I have come to tell you the truth. I am the one who killed Jacob Mandra. He tried to blackmail me. He demanded that I should make my father cease fighting this opium ring, otherwise he would show that I had crippled a man by hitting him with my automobile. He said I was drunk, and some doctor also claimed I was drunk.”

He watched her in frowning concentration.

“And what did you do?”

“I placed the seal of silence on his lips. The man was evil, and I killed him.”

“With what?”

“With your sleeve gun.”

“Where did you get it?”

“From the case in your apartment. Afterwards Yat Toy saw it was gone and locked the door, lest you should accuse him of carelessness when you discovered its loss. I tied it to my arm and pressed my arm down on the table top as Mandra leered across at me. He was evil, I killed him, and my soul knows no regret.”

He studied her thoughtfully.

“Where was he sitting?”

“At the table where the body was found.”

“Was the portrait there in the room at the time you killed him?”

“No, certainly not. Juanita had taken that with her when she left at two o’clock.”

“Where was the painter woman?”

“Asleep in another room. I think she had been drugged. She did not waken, but she stirred uneasily. Her black bag lay on the table at Mandra’s elbow.”

“Did you leave through the corridor door?”

“No, I left as I entered.”

He regarded her with narrowed eyes. “Whom have you told of this?”

“No one save you.”

“Why do you tell me?”

“So that you can save the painter woman if it becomes necessary — but only if you have to do it to save her. Otherwise I am proud of what I did. My face does not regard such an act as being wicked. He was evil. He needed to die. The law could not touch me. I sent him to his ancestors.”

“Look here, Sou Ha, do you know what this means?”

“I am not a child.”

“But why do you tell me of this? I want to protect you. I know the man was evil.”

“You also want to protect this painter woman?”

“Yes.”

“And to protect me?”

“Yes.”

She laughed bitterly and said, “I am not of your race. You love her. Protect her. If it becomes necessary, surrender me to your law. I have placed my life in your keeping.”

She turned and sought the door. And Terry Clane knew enough of his Chinese not to interrupt the dignity of her exit by word or gesture.

It was as she gently closed the bedroom door that Terry, moodily contemplating the opposite wall, noted that one of the pictures was slightly tilted. His training in the Orient had taught him to notice details and to appreciate the hidden significance of those things which would appear trivial to the casual eye. He strode to the picture. Looking on the floor directly beneath it, he detected several bits of plaster dust. He gently tilted the picture. Behind it was a sinister dark object, a concealed microphone, looking as malevolently omnipotent as the unblinking eye of a serpent.

Terry gently replaced the picture, walked quickly back to the centre of the room and, speaking in a naturally conversational tone of voice, his face turned towards the empty chair which Sou Ha had just vacated, said, “No, Sou Ha, wait a minute. I have something to tell you, a confession of my own. But I must make it in my own way, and you mustn’t interrupt me. You promise? That’s fine.

“I am going to tell you something of Mandra, something which, perhaps, you already know, since he tried to blackmail you. Mandra and a Dr. Sedler were working together, hand in glove. There were two others in the game, but they were small fry, one was a man with a serious spinal injury, the other an acrobatic tumbler.

“This combination was supposed to be working together, but the individuals were actually double-crossing each other. Mandra collected twenty thousand dollars from one victim. He held out on the others. Dr. Sedler heard of this and became angry. He sought out Mandra to demand an account. Mandra was cold, sneering, and triumphant. Sedler determined to kill him.

“Now, that leads up to my own connexion with the case, but first, in order that you may understand exactly what I have done, I want you to know just how I feel towards this painter woman... No, don’t interrupt me, Sou Ha, you promised, you know... Sit back there and listen to me... Look at me, Sou Ha... There, that’s better.

“You think that I am in love with the painter woman. And when you say the painter woman, you mean Alma. Please believe me when I tell you that I am not in love with Alma. Remember that much can happen in seven years... and remember that I have a confession to make, not in regard to my feelings for the painter woman, but in regard to the murder.”

Terry paused to take a deep breath. Mechanically he wiped a handkerchief across his forehead. He knew now how a radio announcer must feel, talking against time when something goes wrong with a programme, striving to hold his listeners with an improvised patter.

Terry moved over to the window and looked down at the sidewalk. He saw Sou Ha cross the strip of cement, enter her car and drive out from the curb, unmolested. As nearly as Terry could tell, she was not followed.

But Inspector Malloy was waiting somewhere at the other end of that dictograph wire. One thing, and one thing alone, would hold him to continued inactivity, Terry’s repeated assertion that he was about to make a “confession.” And even that bait would soon grow stale. Sou Ha must be given every opportunity to get away.

Terry turned back towards the dictograph. “Now, Sou Ha, you must realize that Mandra was a man of many interests. In some of those interests he had crossed you and your father. But how about me? Isn’t it possible that I, too, was a victim of that same hoax which Mandra played upon automobile drivers who had taken a drink or two? Isn’t it possible that I, myself, had reason to wish both Mandra and Sedler out of the way? And how about Sedler? Think for a moment of his position. Think, I say!”

Terry paused. He realized he wasn’t doing so well. He dared not actually implicate himself, yet nothing short of a confession would stay Malloy’s hand. Sooner or later the Inspector would realize Terry was talking against time... He was seized with a sudden inspiration... “Wait right there, Sou Ha, and think this matter over. I am going to step into the next room and get some papers which will furnish definite proof of what I have to say. When you see these papers, you will realize... But sit there and wait. Do not move.”

Terry walked to the door which led to his bedroom, jerked it open, slammed it shut with an audible bang, and waited. He had not long to wait. As he heard a commotion at the door of the apartment, he opened a drawer in his desk, started rummaging through some papers. He heard Yat T’oy’s voice screaming. “No can come! No can come in!” Then the sound of swift struggle, and the door opened to disclose Inspector Malloy’s broad, capable shoulders pushing their way into the room.

Terry looked up with a start of surprise. “Why, Inspector,” he said, “what brings you here?”

Malloy was cordial as ever, but there was a glint in his eyes which belied the geniality of his manner. “Well, Clane,” he said, “it’s getting so I’m calling on you in so many different capacities I hardly know how to keep them separated, myself. Now, for instance, there’s the theft of your sleeve gun. In one of my capacities I’m trying to help you find out who stole that. And then there’s my capacity as investigator. In the one capacity I’m helping you — a friend, as it were. In the other capacity I’m causing you some inconvenience by doing my duty.”

“I see,” Clane said, “and which is it this time?”

“Oh, this time I’m a friend! I got an idea about that sleeve gun business. You know, I’d like to nail the one who stole that, and I think I’m getting close. Of course, I can’t guarantee results, but I think I’m making progress.”

“And just what did you want?” Terry asked.

“Thought I’d take a look through the place, if you don’t mind, and see just how many exits and entrances there were. Perhaps some of the doors will show evidences of having been pried open with a jimmy. You know, Clane, it’s just the usual routine investigation.”

“You’re making it at a rather late hour, aren’t you, Inspector?”

“Well,” Malloy admitted, “I’ve been a busy man. You know that, Clane. Now let’s see, suppose we begin with the bedroom? I’d like to take a look in there... and, oh, yes, tell that Chink of yours not to get so vehement when I drop in. He seems to think I’m trying to rob you or something.”

“Perhaps,” Terry said, “he doesn’t fully appreciate these different capacities in which you call.”

Malloy grinned and nodded. “That must be it,” he said. “In the meantime, how about taking a look in that bedroom, Clane?”

Yat T’oy, watching Terry, his wrinkled, inscrutable countenance as fixed in its expression as though it had been carved from old ivory, said in Chinese, “There are men in the hallway, men who search the alley, men who are watching the fire-escape. And this man is evil, First Born. His mouth speaks the words of friendship, but his hand is the hand of an enemy, clenched to strike.”

Terry answered him in the same language. “The best way to confuse a trapper is to walk around the trap, pretending, the while, that you do not know it is there.”

Malloy, his hand on the door-knob, his forehead creased in a scowl, said, “I guess I’ll have to learn Chinese if I’m going to keep up with you, Clane.”

Terry laughed. “I thought you wanted me to explain to him the different capacities in which you called.”

Malloy jerked open the door, surveyed the empty bedroom without surprise. “I’ll take a look around,” he announced, and proceeded to make a complete search of the place, while Terry, standing at the window, noticed the men who were stationed at various points of vantage about the sidewalk, and heard the tramp of feet in the corridor.

Malloy had quite evidently taken over some adjoining apartment as field headquarters. The wire from the dictograph must run into that apartment, and Malloy had been holding enough men there to “sew up the place” whenever the occasion might demand.

As it was gradually forced home upon Malloy’s consciousness that the bird had flown the cage he had so carefully constructed, his face darkened, but he still kept his genial manner.

“Now is there any possible means of getting in or out of this apartment that you haven’t shown me, Clane?” he asked. “You know, in solving a theft, it’s important to figure out just how the thief came in, and just how he went out.”

Terry, knowing the real reason for the question, achieved an inward chuckle as he said, with a perfectly serious countenance, “No, Inspector, there’s no way of getting in or out that you haven’t seen.”

Malloy frowned. “Funny about that Renton woman last night,” he said. “She certainly pulled a rabbit-in-the-hat trick on us, didn’t she?”

“Rabbit-in-the-hat?” Terry asked.

“You know what I mean. We thought she was here. We frisked the place and she wasn’t here. We went out, and there she was, right in your bedroom.”

“Did you really think she was here?” Terry asked. “I thought you were searching for the portrait, and Stubby Nash was the one who thought she was here. As it happens, she came in shortly after you went out, Inspector.”

Malloy’s eyes stared with disconcerting steadiness. “I hadn’t gone far,” he said.

“Perhaps,” Terry told him, with unsmiling gravity, “she didn’t have far to come.”

Malloy said, “I’ll just take another look in that bedroom of yours, if you don’t mind, Clane. There may be a secret exit there you don’t know anything about.”

“Exit?” Terry asked. “You mean an entrance, don’t you?”

“Same thing,” Malloy said, and strode into the bedroom, where he put in a full half-hour pounding and thumping the walls. At the end of that time, very embarrassed and angry beneath the veneer of his genial friendliness, he left the apartment.

Terry frowningly considered the situation.

Malloy wasn’t ready to spring his trap until he knew it would catch someone other than Terry Clane. He was sure of Clane, and could get him at any time. He had wanted the Chinese girl whom he had heard confess to the murder, but he wasn’t as yet ready to show his hand and admit that he had overheard that confession. He wanted to get the girl first, and, since she had eluded him, he intended to keep that dictograph under cover, hoping to enmesh Terry still further.

But Sou Ha had given Malloy plenty of material to work on. She had let it out that Terry not only knew Juanita, but had gone to call on her; moreover, she had accused him of calling once more upon Mandra’s widow, between seven o’clock and midnight! And Malloy knew that Mandra’s portrait had been stolen between those hours.

Terry might have managed to slip Sou Ha through Malloy’s clutches, but it wouldn’t take Malloy long to get busy on the leads the Chinese girl had given. And Inspector Malloy, regardless of how big a nuisance he might be, was most certainly nobody’s fool.