The Amazing Adventures of Lester Leith

A Thousand To One

Lester Leith stood before the mirror, adjusting the white tie of his evening clothes with the deft fingers of an expert craftsman. Behind him, the police undercover man, who posed as his valet, held the tailed coat with a characteristic air of obsequious servitude.

Having adjusted the tie to suit his fancy, Leith permitted the valet to assist him with his coat, and the big undercover man made a great show of whisking a brush over the shoulders in a last, deferential gesture.

“How is it, Scuttle?” Leith asked.

“Very good, sir.”

Leith yawned, consulted his wrist watch. “Well,” he said, “there’s a good half-hour before I need to leave.”

“Yes, sir. A cocktail, sir?”

“Oh, I think not, Scuttle. Just a cigarette and a book.”

The spy, moving his huge bulk upon self-effacing tiptoes, eased over to the library table, and surreptitiously folded the evening paper so that the photograph of a smiling young man, holding a white feather between his thumb and forefinger, would be visible to anyone standing near the table.

Leith strolled over to the bookcase, selected a book, and turned back toward his favorite reclining chair. He stopped to stare at the folded newspaper.

“What the devil’s this, Scuttle?” he asked.

“Oh, I beg your pardon, sir. Rather an interesting case, sir. A man who habitually carries in his wallet a white feather.”

“A white feather, Scuttle?”

“Yes, sir. He says it brings him luck because it teaches him prudence. Whenever he’s inclined to plunge in a poker game, he looks in his wallet, sees the white feather, and is convinced that it’s prudent to play a conservative game.”

Lester Leith frowned. “It sounds like a silly system to me, Scuttle.”

“Yes, sir.”

“A man never makes anything by being conservative, Scuttle. He makes his pile by plunging. After he’s made his pile, he becomes conservative.”

Lester Leith stared again at the photograph of the thin man with a sardonic smile whose thumb and forefinger held the fluffy white feather up against the dark background formed by the iron bars of a jail door. “Who is he, Scuttle?”

“Rodney Alcott, sir.”

“And what’s he done to get himself in jail and his picture in the newspaper?”

The spy’s eyes glittered as he saw that Leith was taking the bait. “The police don’t know, sir.”

“I see,” Leith said. “Typical police methods. They don’t know what the man’s done — therefore, they throw him in jail. That’s a jail door in the background of the photograph, is it not, Scuttle?”

“Yes, sir.”

Leith concentrated his attention on the white feather shown in the picture. “How long has he had this peculiar pocket piece, Scuttle?”

“He says for more than a year. It’s always in his wallet.”

Lester Leith put down his book, and walked across his apartment to stand smoking in front of the window. The big police spy watched him with glittering, anxious eyes.

“What do the police think he’s done?” Lester Leith asked at length, without taking his eyes from the view which was framed in the window — a vista of tall, lighted buildings in the foreground, a penthouse apartment, and, far below, a crawling stream of automobiles whose headlights made them seem like a procession of fireflies.

The spy said, “The police think that he changed twenty-five one-thousand-dollar bills into twenty-five one-dollar bills.”

Leith slowly turned. His eyes were whimsical. “Rather a good percentage, Scuttle,” he said. “A thousand to one. Who’d he shortchange?”

“The police aren’t certain. They think it may have been Judge August Peer Mandeville.”

Leith frowned. “Isn’t he a federal judge, Scuttle?”

“Yes, sir.”

Leith glanced at his watch. “Scuttle,” he said, “I have twenty-five minutes. Tell me the story briefly, and I’ll listen. But mind you, Scuttle, I’m just listening to pass the time. I don’t want Sergeant Ackley to think this is another time when I’m outguessing the police, depriving a criminal of his ill-gotten gains, and passing the profits on to the unfortunate.”

“I understand, sir... Judge Mandeville is presiding over the patent litigation involving the patents of the Click-Fast Shutter Company. A week ago Rodney Alcott approached Mr. Boyen, the president of the Click-Fast Shutter Company, and said that for twenty-five thousand dollars Judge Mandeville would give them a favorable decision.”

“And how did Alcott fit into the picture, Scuttle?”

“Apparently, he’s a close personal friend of Judge Mandeville.”

“I see, Scuttle. Go ahead. What happened?”

“You’ve heard of Charles Betcher, the famous private detective, head of the national agency which—”

“I’ve heard of him,” Leith said.

“Well, it seems that the Click-Fast Shutter Company was suspicious. They thought Alcott might be trying to feather his own nest, or that Judge Mandeville might take the money and fail to give them a favorable decision after all. The shutter company wanted to prove Judge Mandeville had received the money.

“Mr. Boyen called in Charles Betcher and asked his advice. Betcher decided to let Alcott go ahead, but to install detectographs so that every word of his conversation with Judge Mandeville could be taken down on v/ax cylinders.”

Lester Leith slipped a cigarette from the thin, hammered-silver cigarette case which he took from his hip pocket. He tapped the end upon a polished thumbnail and said, “Then they’d let him know they held the records, and own the judge. What happened?”

“They didn’t play it that way, sir. That’s what they should have done, but the Click-Fast Shutter Company didn’t like Judge Mandeville. They decided they’d let him accept the bribe money and then arrest him.

“Betcher took control personally. He came to town, got a suite in a downtown hotel. He and Boyen gave Alcott twenty-five thousand dollars — twenty-five one-thousand-dollar bills. They had the numbers on the bills listed, and they didn’t let Alcott out of their sight after they gave him the money. He went directly to the judge’s chambers, and the detectograph picked up the conversation.”

“Was the judge crooked?” Lester Leith asked.

“No one knows, sir,” the spy said. “The detectograph recorded conversation in which Alcott said, ‘Okay, Judge, I got the money. I had some difficulty getting them to give it to me, but it’s all here.’ And then the money was passed over. Alcott came to the door and shook hands with Judge Mandeville. The detectives and police swooped down on Mandeville. They searched him and found a sealed envelope containing twenty-five new one-dollar bills. Mandeville swore this money was the return of a personal loan which he’d made to Alcott.”

“And they searched Alcott?” Lester Leith asked.

“Oh, yes, of course, sir.”

“And what did they find?”

“Nothing.”

“And what does Alcott say?”

“Alcott swears that he gave the twenty-five one-thousand-dollar bills to Judge Mandeville, that the judge must have smelled a rat and managed to ditch the money.”

Lester Leith crossed over to stand above the table, looking down at the newspaper photograph. “I notice Alcott has a bandaged head,” he said. “Did he resist arrest?”

“No, sir. That wasn’t done by the police, sir. That’s the result of an automobile accident.”

“I see,” Lester Leith said musingly. “Well, it’s very interesting, Scuttle. The Click-Fast Shutter Company has paid out twenty-five thousand dollars. The net result has been to antagonize Judge Mandeville, whether he was bribed or not, and probably to have cost them their chance of winning the lawsuit.”

The police spy said, “Mr. Boyen, the president of the Click-Fast Shutter Company, is furious. He’s offered Mr. Betcher a five-thousand-dollar reward to prove what happened.”

Lester Leith raised his eyebrows. “Why Betcher?” he asked.

“He seems to feel that Betcher is the best detective in the country.”

Lester Leith smiled. “After his experience,” he said, “you must give Mr. Boyen credit for a great amount of blind, loyal faith, Scuttle. I take it Charles Betcher arranged the details of payment.”

“That’s right, sir.”

“Exactly how was the money paid?”

“President Boyen took the money from his pocket, said to Charles Betcher, ‘Here are the twenty-five one-thousand-dollar bills.’ Betcher and Boyen together copied the numbers, while Alcott sat on the bed, watching. Then Betcher picked up the money and handed it to Alcott. Alcott folded the bills and started to put them in his pocket. Then he asked for an envelope. He says he didn’t even bother to look at the money. He says he watched them copying the numbers from the bills and saw the money then, but that when Betcher handed him the money he just took it for granted it was the same money. He says Betcher switched it.”

“And Mandeville didn’t count the money?” Leith asked incredulously.

“The money which was given Judge Mandeville was in a sealed envelope,” the valet said. “The judge had just torn open the edge of the envelope and taken out the bills when the detectives and police made the raid.”

Leith continued to study the sardonically grinning countenance of Rodney Alcott, as depicted in the newspaper. “Any other photographs of him, Scuttle?”

“Yes, sir. The evening paper has a photograph — a snapshot taken by a young lady friend, a Gertrude Pell, with whom he was quite friendly.”

Leith frowned at the picture which the spy produced from the late evening edition. “When was this taken, Scuttle?” he asked.

“On the afternoon just prior to the call on Judge Mandeville. He and Gertrude Pell were automobile riding, and she took this photograph.”

Lester Leith bent over the photograph to study it closely. Abruptly he straightened and looked at his watch. The spy started to say something, but Lester Leith motioned him to silence.

Standing gracefully erect, Lester Leith moved his cigarette in a little series of gestures, as though tracing out the intricate pattern of some jigsaw puzzle. A slow smile twitched the corners of his mouth.

“Scuttle,” he said, “get me a package of linen bandage, a five-yard spool of two-inch adhesive tape, a long string of imitation pearls, half a dozen rings with imitation diamonds, a pair of very dark smoked glasses — the darkest you can buy. And I’ll want a white wig, a false mustache — a cane, a crutch, and a white feather — a fluffy, white feather from the breast of a pure white goose.”

The spy stared at him with wide, incredulous eyes. “Goodheavens, sir!” he exclaimed.

“And I’ll want the feather first, Scuttle. I’ll need that tonight. Have it put on my dresser in an envelope. I’ll be home early — shortly after midnight.”

The dazed spy took a pencil and paper from his pocket, scribbled a hurried memo.

“You’ve got those things written down, Scuttle?”

“Yes, sir, but—”

Leith interrupted. “But me no buts, Scuttle. Just get those things — particularly the feather. Without the feather, I can’t use any of the other stuff.”

“But I don’t understand, sir. I—”

Leith silenced him with a gesture. “My time, Scuttle, is up,” he said.

Leith started for the door, and the valet rushed to hand him his topcoat, hat, and stick. In the doorway, Leith turned. “The imitation diamond rings, Scuttle,” he said, “are for a woman.”

“Yes, sir,” the spy said. “What sort of a woman, may I ask, sir?”

Lester Leith paused long enough to slit his eyes in thoughtful concentration. Then he said, almost dreamily, “A woman who knows the world, Scuttle, a woman of around sixty-five with gray hair and twinkling eyes that haven’t forgotten how to smile, a woman with a sense of humor, a broad mind, depleted fortunes, and a background of vaudeville or stock-company acting. I want an old trouper. No, no, Scuttle. Don’t bother. I’ll find her myself.”

And Leith stepped out to the elevator, slamming the door behind him.

Sergeant Ackley stared across the table at the undercover man. “That’s all of it, Beaver?” he asked.

“That’s all of it.”

“I don’t understand it,” Sergeant Ackley said. “There must be something more which you haven’t told me, Scuttle, something that you’ve overlooked, something—”

The undercover man scraped back his chair as he jumped to his feet. “Not from you,” he shouted. “I won’t take it!”

“Won’t take what?” Sergeant Ackley said, staring in bewilderment at the undercover man’s angry countenance.

“That damn name of Scuttle,” the spy roared. “Leith calls me Scuttle because he says I look like a reincarnated pirate. He Scuttles me this and Scuttles me that. I get so damn sick of it—”

“Sit down,” Sergeant Ackley said. “That’s an order.”

Slowly the undercover man sank back in the chair.

Sergeant Ackley said, “We have no time to waste with petty personalities in this department. You’re working on a big case. It’s a case that’s taken altogether too long. We want this man Leith behind bars. He’s outwitted you on a whole string of cases. He’s going to outwit you again unless you can give me a better idea of what happened.”

The undercover man sighed wearily. “I’m the one he’s outwitted,” he said sullenly.

“Yes, you,” Sergeant Ackley retorted. “Give me the facts, and I’ll put them together, work out a solution, and catch him red-handed, but you’re always overlooking something significant.”

“Well, I haven’t overlooked anything this time,” the spy said. “I’ve given you everything.”

Sergeant Ackley puckered his forehead into a frown. “Well,” he said slowly, “if you have, there’s something about those photographs — wait a minute! I have it!”

“What?” the spy asked.

“The way Alcott is holding that feather,” Sergeant Ackley said, his voice quivering with excitement. “Can’t you see it, Beaver? The whole thing lies in the way Alcott is holding that feather!”

“What do you mean?”

“Alcott got that dough,” Sergeant Ackley said, “and ditched it. He ditched it in some place of concealment where it could be picked up by a confederate. Probably he had a hole in his pocket. He put the money in his pocket and stood over a ventilator or in a dark corner of the room, and dropped it. He knew that he’d be searched and arrested, but he figured he could get the newspapers to give him a play if he had a white feather in his wallet, and claimed that it was a lucky talisman.

“Notice what happened. When he was taken to the jail and searched, they found this white feather in his wallet. He begged them to be permitted to keep that white feather with him. Well, the sergeant at the desk was too smart for that. He kept the feather, because it’s against the rules to let prisoners keep their personal property in the cells with them, but, of course, he told the newspapers about it, and, of course, the newspapers, wanting some unusual angle of human interest on Alcott, fell for the thing, lock, stock, and barrel.

“The property clerk dug out the feather, and Alcott had his picture taken. Notice the peculiar manner in which he’s holding the feather in his thumb and forefinger, with the ring finger bent down, and the middle finger and the little finger sticking up. That’s a signal, Beaver.”

Beaver bent over the newspaper photographs which Leith had seen, and which were now lying on Sergeant Ackley’s table. His manner fell considerably short of enthusiastic assent.

“Of course, that’s it,” Sergeant Ackley said, gloatingly. “You give me the facts, Beaver, and I’ll put them together!”

The undercover man said, “If it’s a signal, it’s a signal in code, and Leith wouldn’t know that code.”

“Don’t kid yourself,” Ackley retorted. “His mind is like greased lightning.”

“But I don’t think— Well, it didn’t look to me as though he’d — It was this other picture that got him interested.”

“What other one?”

“The one that was taken from a snapshot.”

“Oh, that,” Sergeant Ackley said contemptuously. “That was before Alcott met Charles Betcher to complete arrangements for paying over the money. That picture doesn’t mean anything.”

The undercover man regarded it in thoughtful concentration.

Sergeant Ackley said, “You have to admit, Beaver, that it was something in the pictures, something Leith saw, something that the others wouldn’t see. Now this theory of mine—”

“Look!” Beaver exclaimed.

“What?” Sergeant Ackley asked.

“The bandage on the man’s head!” Beaver exclaimed.

“What about the bandage?” Sergeant Ackley asked. “He was injured in an automobile accident.”

Beaver said, “That bandage is the place where the money is concealed! Don’t you get it? He had the twenty-five one-dollar bills planted in his pocket. When they handed him the twenty-five one-thousand-dollar bills, he simply made an excuse to get his hand up near his head and slipped the bills up under the bandage. They searched him, but they didn’t think of pulling off that bandage!”

Sergeant Ackley’s piggy little eyes glittered with sudden interest. “They may not have searched that bandage at that,” he said. “But I don’t know what makes you think Leith had any clue to—”

“Don’t you see it?” Beaver shouted. “Look at the two photographs. Here’s the one that was taken after he was booked. See the bandages? Look at the strips of adhesive tape. See? There are four cross strips of adhesive on the bandage in the picture taken in the afternoon and only three in the one taken after he was booked.”

Sergeant Ackley stared at the photograph. His eyes became wide and fascinated. “Holy smoke!” he said.

“Get the sketch?” Beaver said excitedly. “Leith is planning on putting up bail and getting Alcott out of jail. He’s going to drug him or something, and while Alcott is unconscious, Leith will rip that bandage off. Then he’s going to put a new one in its place. Alcott won’t even know he’s been robbed. It will have that clever, artistic, baffling touch that characterizes all of Leith’s crimes.”

Sergeant Ackley picked up the telephone. “Get me Captain Carmichael,” he said, and a moment later, he said into the transmitter, “Captain, this is Ackley. I’ve been thinking about that Alcott case, and checking over the newspaper accounts. I noticed there were different photographs in the papers, and in studying those photographs, my eye hit upon a highly significant detail, one that I think has been overlooked... What’s that?... Yes, Captain... No, it’s apparent from the photographs... Yes, Captain. Right away.”

Sergeant Ackley hung up the telephone, and said to the undercover man, “Well, that’s all, Beaver. As I’ve told you, you get me the facts, and I’ll put them together. I’m going up to have a conference with Captain Carmichael.”

Beaver said, “You might mention to Captain Carmichael that I furnished the idea.”

Sergeant Ackley stared at him with steady hostility. “You furnished the idea!” he said. “Why, you insisted there wasn’t any clue. I was the one who kept telling you that it was in those photographs.”

“But I did mention the discrepancy between the three strips of adhesive tape in the one picture and the four in the other.”

Sergeant Ackley said, “I had noticed that and was debating whether to call your attention to it, Beaver. I pointed out to you that the key clue was contained in those pictures.”

“I see. It was all your idea.”

Sergeant Ackley folded the papers under his arm. “Of course it was my idea,” he said.

The valet entered the penthouse apartment to find Lester Leith, his head heavily bandaged, engaged in conversation with a gray-haired, rather fleshy woman in the middle sixties.

Lester Leith said to the woman, “Here’s my valet now, Mrs. Randerman. His name is Scuttle. You’ll find him very efficient. I believe he has another name for purposes of social security. What the devil is it? Woodchuck, Scuttle?”

“No, sir,” the spy said, his face flushing angrily.

“Weasel,” Lester Leith said. “That’s it. This is Mrs. Randerman, who’s going to act as my assistant in a business venture. You’ll carry out her instructions the same as you would my own, Scuttle.” The spy said, “Yes, sir. And the name’s Beaver, sir. B-e-a-v-e-r.”

Leith said, “To be sure, Scuttle. Beaver. Why didn’t I think of it?”

The spy said to Mrs. Randerman, “I shall consider it a privilege to serve you, madam,” and to Lester Leith: “May I ask, sir, what happened to your head?”

Leith raised delicately exploring fingertips to the bandage around his head. “A bit of a bump, Scuttle,” he said, “that’s all.”

“Should I call a doctor, sir?”

“Oh, dear no, Scuttle. It’ll be quite all right. I probably didn’t need the bandage, but you remember you’d purchased some bandage and adhesive tape.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I found that they came in handy,” Leith said, and then, with a smile for Mrs. Randerman, “Sort of Alice-in-Wonderland affair. My valet buys the bandage and adhesive tape, and an hour later I bump my head. Do you like soda in your Scotch, Mrs. Randerman?”

Her eyes twinkled. “Lots of it,” she said.

Leith nodded to the valet. “Two of them, Scuttle,” he said.

The spy mixed the drinks.

“Did you,” Leith asked him, “get the diamond rings and the pearl necklace, Scuttle?”

“I ordered them, yes, sir.”

Leith yawned. “Well, when they come up, send them back.”

The spy almost dropped the bottle he was holding. “Send them back, sir?” he echoed. “You mean that you don’t want them?”

“I’d hardly want them if I send them back, would I, Scuttle?”

“No, sir, but they’re already paid for. I can’t return them.”

Leith waved his hand in an airy gesture of dismissal. “In that case, Scuttle, we’ll take them, of course. Perhaps the janitor would care for them.”

“But I don’t understand, sir.”

“I’m quite sure you don’t, Scuttle,” Lester Leith said, “and I think Mrs. Randerman could stand just about one more jigger of that Scotch.”

“Yes, sir. I... it wasn’t anything I did, sir, was it?”

Leith smiled. “On the contrary, Scuttle, it was something I did. I intended to conduct a psychological experiment, using the bandage, the pearls, the diamonds, and one or two other bits of equipment, but this bump on the head caused me to use up the bandage. So we’ll just forget about the experiment.”

“But I can get more bandage, sir,” the spy said eagerly.

Leith stretched and yawned. “Oh, I don’t think it’s necessary, Scuttle,” he said. “I’ve been having so much trouble with Sergeant Ackley lately that I’m afraid he might misunderstand my purpose in conducting the experiment. And watch what you’re doing with that soda siphon, Scuttle.”

The spy, consumed with curiosity, served the drinks and sought to hover around in the vicinity of the living room where Lester Leith and Mrs. Randerman were discussing the theater, Leith listening with interest to the stories which Mrs. Randerman told of her vaudeville days.

But Leith spiked the valet’s guns by saying pointedly, “That’s all, Scuttle. We’ll ring if we want anything,” and the spy had no alternative but to withdraw to his quarters from which he immediately telephoned police headquarters, using the unlisted number through which undercover men were able to communicate directly with Sergeant Ackley.

Nor was Sergeant Ackley’s voice any too cordial as he said, “Okay, Beaver. What is it?”

The spy said, “He has the woman all right, a Mrs. Randerman, who was on the vaudeville stage at one time. You’d better look her up. But he’s countermanded the order on the imitation pearls and diamonds. He seems to have lost interest in the entire affair — and he’s used some of the bandage and adhesive tape to place a bandage around his head. He says that he had a bit of a bump.”

“Well,” Sergeant Ackley growled, “that was one screwy tip you gave me, Beaver. You’d better put a bandage around your own head.”

“What do you mean?”

Sergeant Ackley said, “Alcott hadn’t hidden any twenty-five thousand dollars in that bandage. That bandage covered a very real automobile accident. I passed that tip of yours on to Captain Carmichael, and he became as excited about it as you were. He dashed down to the man’s cell and ripped off the bandage, and then found he had to call a doctor to replace it. He told me to tell you not to jump at conclusions next time.”

The spy gripped the receiver. “You told Captain Carmichael it was my idea?”

Sergeant Ackley said tersely, “It was, wasn’t it?”

The spy thought for a minute. “Oh,” he said, “if you want to put it that way, I suppose it was.”

“It isn’t the way I want to put it,” Sergeant Ackley said. “I’m trying to get the facts, and I don’t like your attitude in trying to pass the buck, Beaver. That’s the trouble with the whole department — too many people trying to pass the buck.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“Now then,” Sergeant Ackley barked, “the only chance we stand of breaking this case is to get Lester Leith’s brains working on it. Leith will solve the case and grab the money. We’ll grab Leith. It’s up to you to see that he doesn’t lose interest.”

“But he’s already lost interest,” the spy said.

“Well, get his interest back,” the sergeant said. “You may not know it, Beaver, but this is one sweet mess. Judge Mandeville thinks the police department was trying to frame him. The Click-Fast Shutter Company is trying to blame us, and Frank Boyen, their president, turns out to be a close friend of the mayor’s. You can see where that leaves us.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“I want to catch Lester Leith,” Sergeant Ackley said, “but that’s a minor matter compared with locating that twenty-five thousand bucks. If Judge Mandeville took it, we want to know it. We want to pin it on him. If he didn’t take it, we want to Find out who did.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“I told Captain Carmichael that I’d make it a point to devote my personal attention to the problem. You understand what that means.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“As a matter of fact, Beaver, your activities have been unduly prolonged. It’s one sweet mess when you can’t find out what’s going on under your very nose. I want some action! Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“Get busy then,” Sergeant Ackley said, and banged up the telephone.

The big spy eased the receiver into place. He sat in front of the telephone, his indignant eyes staring at the transmitter. Then, after several seconds of silence, he broke into speech, a low, rumbling monologue in which Sergeant Ackley and his maternal ancestors were described with a wealth of detail.

From time to time during the afternoon, Lester Leith rang the bell which summoned the spy. With each summons, the spy noticed that the relationship between Mrs. Randerman and Lester Leith seemed to become more cordial as the level of the amber liquid in the bottle diminished. With the third drink, they had started calling each other by their first names. With the fourth drink, Mrs. Randerman’s anecdotes of the stage had become more spicy, and by the time Leith escorted Mrs. Randerman to the elevator, they seemed to be friends of long standing.

The spy, shrewdly judging that Leith’s expansive mood and the effect of the Scotch would make it advisable to strike while the iron was hot, busied himself in straightening up the living room, removing glasses and cleaning ashtrays. He hoped that Leith would feel sufficiently talkative to give him an excuse for conversation, and his eyes glistened with satisfaction when he noticed that Leith was quite evidently the victim of what, under other circumstances, would have been described as a “talking jag.”

“A very estimable woman, Scuttle,” Leith said.

“She is indeed, sir.”

“There’s nothing like the stage to give a person an interesting background, Scuttle.”

“Quite right, sir. I believe you said she was to be a business associate.”

Lester Leith shook his head sadly. “It’s all off, Scuttle,” he said, and his face became so lugubrious that the undercover man, watching him sharply, felt that the man upon whom he spied would, on the slightest provocation, transfer his talking jag into a crying jag — which did not suit the spy’s purpose at all.

“I suppose, sir, you’re too young to remember vaudeville in its prime.”

Leith, his last drink seeming to take cumulative effect, said mournfully, “A milestone in our artistic past, Scuttle, a memory... a memory which has become but monument to death of art... Shwept aside by... flickering miles of mass entertainment... movies, Scuttle... radio... blah — losha blah!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Most sad, Scuttle, a sad contemary... a sad con — con — contemporary... a sad... Scuttle, what the devil am I trying to say?”

“A sad commentary, sir?”

“Thash right, Scuttle. Good ole Scuttle, always there in a pinch. Need anything, and you get it. Sad commentary. That’s what I wash trying to say, Scuttle.”

“Yes, sir. And why aren’t you going to use the diamonds and the pearls?” the spy asked, taking advantage of Lester Leith’s condition to press his advantage.

Leith shook his head mournfully. “Can’t do it, Scuttle. Sergeant Ackley’s snooping.”

“But Sergeant Ackley wouldn’t need to know anything about it.”

“Good ole Scuttle! Sentiment reflects upon your intelligence, just as — just as your loyalty reflects upon— No, thash not right. Just as your loyalty— Well, anyhow, Scuttle, just as your concern shows your loyalty.”

“Yes, sir. Perhaps you’ve never taken full advantage of that loyalty, sir.”

“Thash right, Scuttle. Perhaps I haven’t.”

“I notice, sir, that you always play a lone hand. If you’d take me more into your confidence, I could be of even more service to you.”

Leith stared at him owlishly.

“Thash idea, Scuttle,” he said, “but you can’t get ahead of old Ackley. He’s too smart.”

The undercover man said fervently, “I’d like to have your permission, sir, to express my opinion of Sergeant Ackley.”

“Go right ahead, Scuttle. Go right ahead,” Lester Leith said.

The spy went ahead, with a fervor which left no room for doubting his sincerity, and Lester Leith listened with beaming approval.

“Scuttle,” he asked, “did you ever drive mules?”

“No, sir.”

“Never ran a tractor, Scuttle?”

“No, sir.”

Leith shook his head sadly. “Ish a gift, Scuttle. I heard a mule skinner once that was almost as good, and they shay tractor men get a pretty good voca — voca — vocabulary, but they can’t improve on yours, Scuttle.”

“You agree with me, sir?” the spy asked.

Leith said, “I think you’re an excellent judge of character, Scuttle. Know’m lika book, Scuttle.”

The spy made bold to move closer. “If you could tell me just what you had in mind, sir, I think perhaps I could arrange it.”

Lester Leith said owlishly, “Wanted to find out about that man Betcher, Scuttle... purty big private detective, Scuttle, but you can’t tell about ’im. Somethin’ fishy about th’ whole business.”

The spy said eagerly, “Yes sir. I think you’re right, sir.”

Leith nodded. “Thank you, Scuttle. Good ole Scuttle. Always stickin’ up for me.”

“And you intended to use Mrs. Randerman, sir?”

“Thash ri’, Scuttle. Thash the idea. Intended to use Miz Randerman. Going to plant her in the hotel, near Besher. Goin’ to have her flash losh of diamonds and pearls. I was goin’ to put on some false whiskers and be ’er husband, Scuttle. Gonna have a fake burglary and hire Besher to protect the shtuff. Maybe Besher’s a crook, Scuttle. You can’t tell. Nobody c’n tell who’s a crook these days, even the crooks can’t tell. Maybe we’d otta start a census of crooks, Scuttle. Get ’em all tabulated...”

Leith nodded his head drowsily.

The spy, knowing that he had to work fast, said, “You could go right ahead with that plan, sir, and I think we could find some way of outwitting Sergeant Ackley.”

Leith considered the matter with the frowning concentration of one who is having trouble getting his eyes in proper focus. “B’lieve you got somethin’ there, Scuttle. Tell you what y’do, Scuttle. We’ll make a bet. Thash the idea — make a bet. Nobody can critishize a man for makin’ a bet with his valet. Even old sourpuss Ackley couldn’t do that, could he, Scuttle?”

“No, sir.”

“Thash shwell,” Leith said. “We’ll make a bet, Shcuttle. I’ll bet you fifty dollars I can fix up a crime, and Besher would prove he wash a crook. You bet me fifty dollars he wouldn’t. Then you’d go to Sergeant Ackley and ask him if there wash any law against makin’ a bet to try and prove a guy was a crook. He’d say, ‘No,’ and you’d say, Tut it in writing,’ and then we’d have it in writin’, right there in good ole black’n white, Scuttle. Somethin’ he couldn’t wiggle out of... Scuttle, there must’a been a li’l too much in that last drink. Ssh too mush — makesh my head feel big, makesh bandashe hurt. Take th’ bandashe off, Shuttle.”

“Yes, sir,” the spy said, and set about removing the bandage.

A moment later, he said, “I don’t see any bump, sir.”

Lester Leith laughed. “There wasn’t any bump, Shuttle. Jus’ between you and me, I wash gonna use that bandasze to get that twenty-five — get tha’ twenty-five...”

As Leith’s voice trailed away into silence, the spy said, “Just how were you going to use that to get the twenty-five thousand dollars?”

Leith’s eyes suddenly glittered with suspicion. “Did I say anything about twenty-five thousand dollars, Shuttle?”

“No, sir.”

“Then don’t put words in my mouth. Watch that tongue of yours, Shuttle.”

“Yes, sir.”

The fit of suspicion passed as quickly as it had arrived. “Thash all ri’, Shuttle. Good ole Shuttle. Think I’ll lie down for a li’l while, Shuttle.”

“Yes, sir. And you want me to get that letter from Sergeant Ackley?”

Leith said, “You couldn’t do it, Shuttle.”

“I think I could, sir.”

“Oh, no, you couldn’t, Shuttle. He’sh too schmart. Besides he doesn’t like us.”

“I know he doesn’t like us, sir, but I’m rather ingenious. If you’d only have confidence in me and trust me — I’ll tell you what we can do. We could let Sergeant Ackley in on the bet, and then we could let him win. We’d give him twenty-five dollars. Don’t you see? Make him a party to it. Then he couldn’t say anything.”

Leith blinked his eyes. “Shuttle,” he said, “b’lieve... b’lieve you’ve got somethin’ there.” And his head nodded limply forward.

The big undercover man, his face suffused with triumph, picked up Lester Leith in his arms and carried him gently into the bedroom.

Lester Leith stirred, stretched his arms above his head, and then groaned in agony. He reached out a groping hand, found the call bell by his bedside, and rang for his valet.

The big spy popped into the room with suspicious alacrity. “Good morning, sir,” he said.

Leith groaned again. “Good Lord, Scuttle, what happened?”

The spy walked across the room to the heavy drapes, drew them aside and let sunlight stream into the room.

“Don’t you remember, sir,” he said, “Mrs. Randerman was here, and you... you—”

“Yes, yes,” Leith said. “We had some drinks. Then what, Scuttle?”

The spy said tactfully, “You retired early, sir.”

“I must have,” Leith said. “Where did I dine, Scuttle, at home or...”

“You didn’t dine, sir.”

“Didn’t dine?”

“No, sir.”

Leith sat up in bed and twisted his face into a wry grimace. The spy said, “I have iced tomato juice and Worcestershire sauce for you, sir.”

The big undercover operative stepped into the kitchenette, returned with a tall glass in which ice cubes were clicking refreshingly. “If I may suggest it, sir,” he said, “you’d get the best results by drinking this all at once.”

Leith sighed, and gulped down the contents of the glass. He rolled his head wearily from side to side, and said, “Scuttle, was I drunk?”

“You had been drinking, sir. By the way, sir, I have that letter from Sergeant Ackley.”

“What letter?” Leith asked.

“The letter we were talking about,” the spy said. “Don’t you remember?”

Leith frowned. “I have a hazy recollection, a distorted mirage of a memory. Scuttle, did I talk too much?”

“Not at all, sir. You confided in me, I may say, a little more freely than has heretofore been the case, and I trust you’ll have no reason to regret your action.”

Leith’s features showed anxiety and alarm. “Scuttle, what the devil did I say to you?”

“Nothing that you need regret, sir. You mentioned that you wished to set a trap for Charles Betcher.”

“Well, disregard it, Scuttle.”

“And,” the spy went on, “you suggested that you and I might make a bet, that I could get Sergeant Ackley to take a part of the bet and give us his permission to set a trap.”

“Scuttle,” Leith said sharply, “are you making that up?”

“Indeed I am not.”

Leith said, “Scuttle, I can’t imagine myself doing anything so utterly asinine.”

“I think it’s a good idea, sir, particularly since Sergeant Ackley has walked into the trap.”

“He has?”

“Yes, sir. After you retired, and I saw that you wouldn’t— Well, that you wouldn’t be apt to need me any more, I slipped down to police headquarters.”

“But I thought you and Sergeant Ackley were at sword’s points.”

“We are,” the spy said, “but the sergeant has made certain accusations reflecting on my integrity in times past, and I used that as an excuse to call on him. I told him frankly that I intended to sue him for defamation of character.”

“And what did he say?”

“He apologized, sir. He said that he had been suspicious of both of us, but that he had come to the conclusion he was wrong. He said that if you wanted to resume your amateur crime dabbling, there would be no objection, just so long as you confined yourself to an academic solution and didn’t interfere with the police activities.”

Leith said, “Scuttle, I never wanted to solve crimes. I only claimed that frequently valuable clues as to the identity of the criminal were contained in newspaper accounts, and that the police failed to appreciate the significance of certain bits of evidence set forth in the newspapers.”

“Yes, sir. Well, to make a long story short, I told Ackley about our bet, and he said that he would like to come in for half of it. You might care to read this.”

The spy handed Lester Leith a page of scrawled handwriting, and Leith read it slowly.

“You’ll notice the endorsement at the bottom,” the spy said, “in Sergeant Ackley’s handwriting. He says, ‘I think this is a good bet, and I’ll come in on a fifty-fifty basis.’ ”

Leith suddenly jumped out of bed. “Scuttle,” he said, “get Mrs. Randerman on the phone. Tell her to be here inside of an hour. Get me those dark glasses. I want a suit of ready-made clothes with my sleeve and leg measurements, but cut for a stout model. I want those pearls and diamonds — the imitations — and I want that white feather, Scuttle.”

“The white feather, sir? I gave it to you yesterday. You put it in your wallet.”

“That’s right, Scuttle. I’d forgotten.”

The spy said ingratiatingly, “Perhaps, sir, since you’ve seen fit to confide in me to such an extent, you’ll tell me what you wanted with the white feather.”

“It’s a pocket piece,” Leith said. “I’m going to carry it in my wallet for luck, Scuttle.”

“And the suit, sir?”

Leith said, in a burst of confidence, “We’ll have Mrs. Randerman register at Betcher’s hotel. Betcher’s still there, Scuttle?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And has the same suite that he had when he was working with Frank Boyen to set a trap for Judge Mandeville?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s the suite in which Rodney Alcott was given the twenty-five thousand dollars?”

“Yes, sir — only he claims it was only twenty-five dollars.”

“And as I understand it, Scuttle, Alcott was never out of sight of the detectives after he received that money and until he entered Mandeville’s office. Is that right?”

“That’s right, sir.”

“Do you know how soon they left Betcher’s hotel suite after the money was given to Alcott, Scuttle?”

“Right away, sir, although there was just a bit of delay in connection with making certain that the detectograph was properly installed.”

“And Alcott was never out of sight of the detectives?”

“No, sir.”

Leith said, “Well, Scuttle, we’ll have Mrs. Randerman pose as a wealthy woman who wants protection for her jewelry. I’ll be her husband. I’ll have to disguise myself, of course. I’ll use some padding to make me appear heavier and use the false mustache. I think the white walrus mustache will be appropriate.”

“Even so, sir, you’re a young man, and—”

“I’ll make myself up carefully,” Leith said, “and I’ll let you in on a secret, Scuttle.”

“Yes, sir,” the spy said.

“My eyes,” Leith said, “are going to be very, very weak. I can’t stand any strong light. My interviews with Betcher will be in a darkened room, a room so dark that he will barely have a good look at me. That will keep him from being suspicious. It will also keep him from spotting that the gems are imitations.”

The spy said, “By George, it does fit in, doesn’t it?”

“What, Scuttle?”

“All of those things you wanted.”

“Of course they fit in,” Leith said.

“I’ll get busy right away, sir.”

Leith sat down on the edge of the bed. “I wonder,” he said, “if I could get along as a fat man.” He stripped off his pajamas, rolled them into a ball, and placed them against his stomach.

“Too lumpy, sir,” the spy said.

Leith nodded. He took a pillow from the bed, held it up against his front. “How’s that, Scuttle?”

“Better, sir.”

Leith said, “Is there more of that adhesive tape in the place, Scuttle?”

“Yes, sir.”

Leith said, “We’ll tape this pillow to my stomach. No, never mind, Scuttle. I’ll hold it in place with my hands. You can take my waist measurement and my chest measurement. Get a tape measure and measure me for that suit.”

The spy started for the door of the bedroom with alacrity. “You’re never going to regret this, sir,” he said.

Leith, still holding the pillow against his middle, said, “I’m quite sure I won’t, Scuttle. And don’t forget the cane, the crutch, the mustache, and the wig.”

Lester Leith, standing in front of the mirror, said, “How do I look, Scuttle?”

The spy surveyed the portly form which seemed so incongruous with the finely-chiseled features of Lester Leith. The walrus mustache and the dark-lensed glasses furnished an added touch of the bizarre. “Very nice, sir, and considering the manner in which we purchased the suit, it fits you very nicely, sir.”

Leith nodded. “Now,” he said, “if you’ll get a taxicab, I’ll join Mrs. Randerman in Betcher’s hotel, and we’ll see just how good a detective he is.”

“Yes, sir,” the spy said, and moved over to pick up the telephone.

A taxi took Lester Leith to the hotel where Mrs. Randerman had already registered. Leith was escorted by a bellboy to the suite which she had reserved for herself and husband.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Ready,” she said.

Leith took the cane which she handed him, sat down in an easy chair, adjusted his dark glasses and the false mustache. She said, “I think a little greasepaint would put some lines in your face. Permit me.”

With the deft skill of one who who has studied the art of makeup, she etched wrinkles in the contours of his face.

When she had finished, she stepped back and eyed her work with approval. “Not so bad,” she said. “You’ll get by in a darkened room.”

“Under those circumstances,” Leith observed, “let’s darken the room.”

She drew the heavy drapes across the windows and switched out the electric lights.

Leith said, “Now, go ahead and call him.”

She stepped to the telephone and said, “I’d like to communicate with Charles Betcher, please. This is Mrs. Randerman in 409.”

She hung up the telephone and waited. A few minutes later, when the bell shattered the silence, she picked up the receiver and said, “Yes?... Oh, Mr. Betcher, this is Mrs. Randerman. I’m in 409 in the hotel. I understood that you were staying here. In fact, that’s one of the reasons I picked this hotel. My husband is neurotic. He’s going blind. He’s crippled with arthritis, and is commencing to get complexes of persecution. Recently he’s become obsessed with the idea that someone is going to steal my jewelry. I’ve tried to assure him that it’s all foolishness, but... What’s that?... A doctor? Oh, but you don’t understand, Mr. Betcher. I’ve already seen the doctor, and the doctor suggested that I get in touch with you. The doctor says that we should humor him as much as possible... That’s very kind of you, Mr. Betcher. We’d be willing to pay a very substantial fee if you would just drop in for a consultation and assure us that you’ll put men on the job. You won’t need to do it, of course, just promise.

“You see, my husband is in rather a peculiar mental condition. His appearance is somewhat unusual, and whenever anyone turns to look at him, he thinks that it’s a gem thief shadowing us to find the best method of getting my jewels. Now, if you could assure him that you were going to protect us, then whenever anyone turned to look at him on the street, I could tell him that it was one of your operatives, a detective who was keeping us under surveillance so that no crook could get near us... That will be very kind of you... Could you come right away, please?... Thank you... I will be most generous.”

She hung up the phone and said to Lester Leith, “Okay, he’s coming.”

Leith said, “All right. Switch on the lights. I’ll go in the bedroom. Remember your lines.”

She turned to stare at him sharply. “Look here,” she said. “This isn’t illegal, is it?”

Leith smiled. “Not if you do exactly as I tell you,” he said, “and don’t ask any questions. In that way, the responsibility rests wholly on my shoulders.”

She said, “Okay, get in that bedroom.”

A few moments later Charles Betcher, a portly, dignified man who had cultivated an air of pompous infallibility, knocked on the door. Mrs. Randerman admitted him.

“Oh, I’m so glad you came personally, Mr. Betcher. You don’t know what it’s going to mean to me. My husband, of course, has heard of your reputation. He thinks that aside from Sherlock Holmes you’re the greatest detective who ever lived.”

Betcher cleared his throat. “Sherlock Holmes,” he said, “lacked many of the qualities of a great detective. However, we’ll let it pass, madam. It is a pleasure to me to be of service.”

“Come in and sit down,” she invited.

Betcher strutted pompously across the room and settled his bulk into the most comfortable chair. His eyes drifted to Mrs. Randerman’s fingers. “I see that you believe in wearing your jewelry,” he said.

“Oh yes,” she replied. Then she laughed and said, “I don’t care a thing in the world about the jewelry. It’s an ornament. Of course, it’s valuable, but I see no reason why a person should ruin her pleasure worrying over her valuables.”

“Very commendable,” Betcher said.

“I think you understand about my husband,” Mrs. Randerman said.

“I am familiar with that type of psychosis. My work as a detective involves a knowledge of medical jurisprudence.”

Mrs. Randerman said impulsively, “How interesting it must be — how exciting!”

Betcher nodded, slipped a cigar from his pocket, cut off the end, and crossed his legs.

“How much service,” he asked, “do you want?”

“I don’t want you to do a thing about the stones,” she said, “just allay my husband’s nervousness.”

Betcher said, “I take it you want to use my name?”

“Yes.”

Betcher cleared his throat. “Experience has shown that when crooks learn I am protecting a client, the possibility of theft is greatly decreased. We would, of course, have to take that into consideration in fixing the er... er... remuneration,”

“I should expect to,” Mrs. Randerman said.

Betcher regarded her in studious contemplation. “What,” he asked, “are your gems worth?”

Mrs. Randerman patted her hair with her fingers. The imitation stones glittered into dazzling streaks of blurred light. “Oh,” she said airily, “not a great deal — that is, it wouldn’t make a great deal of financial difference if we should lose them, but it’s what they stand for. They’ve become an obsession with Mr. Randerman.”

Betcher said, “Are there just your rings?”

“Oh, no,” she said. “I have quite a few other jewels. For instance, there’s this.”

She reached into the table drawer, took out a jewel case, and from it held up a long rope of pearls.

Betcher showed that he was properly impressed. He started forward to inspect the jewels.

Mrs. Randerman coughed.

From the bedroom of the suite came the sound of a crutch and cane, pounding on the floor, and a petulant cry of, “Irene. Irene. Where the devil are you, Irene?”

“Oh,” she said, “that’s my husband. He’s just awakened. You’ll pardon me if I draw all the drapes and switch out the light. He’s just recovering from a very severe eye ailment, and can’t stand any light whatever. Just a minute, Lester. I’m coming.”

Mrs. Randerman fairly flew around the room, drawing the drapes, pulling the curtains, switching off the lights, until the afternoon sunlight, filtering through the drapes, became only a vague twilight which showed the outlines of objects in the room, but gave no opportunity for an inspection in detail.

Betcher, who had moved over toward the jewel case, thought better of it and returned to his chair. Irene Randerman moved quickly to the door of the bedroom.

“Where are you, Irene?” Lester Leith demanded in a high, cracked voice. “Who the devil are you talking with? I hate salesmen. You know that. Tell him we don’t want any.”

Mrs. Randerman’s voice was soothing. “It isn’t a salesman, dear. It’s a detective who’s going to protect our property — the best detective in the business.”

Lester Leith said, “To the devil with all detectives. They’re crooks. There isn’t any one of them that’s worth a button outside of Charles Betcher. Charles Betcher and Sherlock Holmes were the two greatest detectives who ever lived.”

“Hush, dear,” Mrs. Randerman said, in a low voice. “It’s Betcher himself.”

Lester Leith’s voice registered a respect which was akin to reverence. “Betcher himself!” he said in a half-whisper.

“Yes.”

“Let me meet him. Let me shake hands with him,” Leith said, and the sound of his cane and crutch on the floor beat a tattoo of sound as he came hobbling through the doorway into the darkened room. “Where are you, Betcher?” he called. “Where are you? I want to shake you by the hand.”

“Here I am,” Betcher said, smiling affably and arising to stand by his chair.

Leith groped his way toward the sound of the voice. Mrs. Randerman, placing the tips of her fingers on his shoulders, guided him through the darkened room.

Betcher had a vague glimpse of a man bent with age and with arthritis, of a drawn, haggard face, a body which had far too much bloated weight around the waistline, a drooping, gray, walrus mustache, a shock of gray hair, and eyes that were completely concealed behind opaque lenses.

“Where are you?” Leith asked. “I can’t see clearly — those confounded eyes of mine. Want to shake hands with the greatest detective since Sherlock Holmes.”

Mrs. Randerman said warningly, “Not too hard, please. The bones in his hands are affected.”

Betcher placed his hand in Lester Leith’s, squeezed the fingers gently. “Glad to meet you,” he said.

Mrs. Randerman guided Leith’s bent figure over to a comfortable chair, eased him down into the cushions, and said, “Now sit there, dear, and don’t try to move. You know it hurts you when you move.”

Leith said, “What’s Betcher want to see us about?”

She said, “I sent for him. I want to hire him to protect my jewelry.”

“Protect your jewelry — what for?”

“So it won’t be stolen, silly, and so you won’t worry about it.”

“I don’t give a hoot about the jewels,” Lester Leith said. “I worry about thieves. I don’t want thieves snooping around here. My eyes are bad. I can’t see people. Living in the dark that way, you don’t want to think you’re in a room where a thief may sneak up behind you.”

Betcher said, “I have undertaken the job of safeguarding your jewels, and I doubt if you will be troubled by any thieves.”

“That’s fine,” Leith admitted. “How much do you want?”

Betcher said, “The service is rather unusual. I wouldn’t know just how to go about fixing a price. It would depend somewhat on...”

“How much?” Lester Leith interrupted in his cracked, shrill voice.

“Taking into consideration the value of the jewelry and...”

“How much?”

“A thousand dollars!” Betcher snapped. “Cash on the nail.”

Leith, still keeping his high, cracked voice, said, “That’s the way I like to have a man talk. No beating around the bush. Straight out. Businesslike. We’ll talk it over. We’ll let you know in half an hour.”

Betcher said, with dignity, “I am not at all anxious to undertake the employment. I have all the work I can do. You’ll remember that the suggestion I handle this matter came from you, Mrs. Randerman.”

Leith said, “Don’t be a pantywaist, Betcher. You’re in business for money. A thousand dollars is a lot of money. I don’t care how much business you have. If you had a thousand dollars extra, it would be nice gravy.”

Betcher said to Mrs. Randerman, “There will be details to discuss in the event you decide to meet my terms.”

“You bet there will,” Leith said. “When we pay a thousand dollars, we’re going to know what we’re getting.”

“Now, dear,” Mrs. Randerman said. “Don’t get nervous about it. Mr. Betcher is quite right.” Leith said, “He’s a good detective. Best detective since Sherlock Holmes. That doesn’t mean that I’m a fool. He’s too inclined to beat around the bush. He’ll have to get over that if he’s going to do business with us.”

Betcher seemed glad of the opportunity to beat a retreat. “When,” he asked Mrs. Randerman, “will you let me know?”

“Sometime within half an hour?”

Betcher nodded. “That will be satisfactory.”

“You’ll be in your room?” she inquired in a low voice.

“Yes,” he said.

Leith pounded on the floor with his crutch. “Don’t go to him,” he said. “Make him come to us. What’s getting into you, Irene? You’re doing the buying. You—”

“I think you had better go now,” Mrs. Randerman said in a low, confidential voice to the detective.

Betcher nodded and slipped quietly out into the corridor.

“How did I do?” Mrs. Randerman asked Lester Leith when the door closed.

“Fine,” Leith said.

Charles Betcher returned to his suite to find a telephone call from Frank Boyen, President of the Click-Fast Shutter Company.

The conversation which took place over the telephone was not particularly conducive to peace of mind on the part of the detective. Frank Boyen, approached by a man who claimed to have the ear of Judge Mandeville, and who was asking twenty-five thousand dollars for a favorable verdict in the patent litigation, had approached Betcher for advice. Betcher had suggested setting a trap. In the event Mandeville took the money, Boyen, having proof of the bribery, would be in a position to write his own ticket. In the event it was a swindle, Alcott could be placed behind bars.

The net result of Betcher’s activities had been to cost the Click-Fast Shutter Company twenty-five thousand dollars which had disappeared into thin air, to antagonize Judge Mandeville, and to make the management of the corporation the laughing-stock of its competitors and the focal point of a white-hot indignation on the part of its stockholders.

Betcher terminated the conversation as quickly as possible. He assured Boyen that he was “working on the case” and “making progress,” that he expected a “satisfactory termination within a very short time — possibly a matter of hours.”

He hung up the telephone and mopped his forehead. The afternoon was not particularly auspicious for Charles Betcher.

He was just about to pour himself a good stiff drink when the telephone rang again. He answered it, and heard Mrs. Randerman’s voice on the line. She said, “My husband has insisted on seeing you privately. I’m going to bring him down the corridor as far as the door. Draw the curtains and make the room as dark as possible.”

“But, my dear Mrs. Randerman,” Betcher said, “I have nothing whatever to discuss with your husband.”

“He’s coming down,” she said, “bringing you a check. Goodbye.”

Betcher considered that last remark. A check for one thousand dollars involving no outlay of time or energy on his part was well worthwhile. If Mrs. Randerman wanted to pay him a thousand dollars merely to ease the strain on her husband’s nerves, it was quite all right with Charles Betcher.

He moved swiftly about the room, pulling drapes into position, lowering shades, switching out lights, making the room as dark as possible.

He heard the hobbledy-bang, hobbledy-bang of Leith’s crutch and cane in the corridor, and then there was a tap on the door.

Betcher put on his most affable smile. He opened the door, bowed suavely to Mrs. Randerman, and stood deferentially to one side as she piloted the bent figure into the room.

Mrs. Randerman said, “We’ve decided to accept your prop—”

“Not so fast! Not so fast!” Leith stormed in his high-pitched, cracked voice. “There are some questions I want to ask first.”

Mrs. Randerman said, “Can’t you understand, dear? Mr. Betcher is a busy man. All you need to do is give him the check, and he’ll give us the protection. You won’t be bothered any more seeing thieves who shadow us. Instead you’ll see Mr. Betcher’s operatives who will be constantly on the job. Won’t they, Mr. Betcher?”

She closed her eye in a quick wink, and Charles Betcher said with dignity, “When I undertake a job, I do it to the best of my ability. I have a wide, far-flung organization, Mr. Randerman. I—”

“No need to go into that,” Leith said. “If you weren’t the best detective since Sherlock Holmes, we wouldn’t consider employing you.”

Betcher said, with dignity, “Sherlock Holmes was a fictional character, Mr. Randerman. While his creator kindly allowed him to bring his fictional cases to a satisfactory solution, Sherlock Holmes would never have been able to handle the problems which confront me — almost as a matter of daily routine.”

Leith chuckled, and the chuckle was sardonic. “Bet he wouldn’t have got taken in on that Click-Fast Shutter deal,” he said.

Betcher gave an exclamation of annoyance.

Mrs. Randerman said, “Now, now, dear. Just hand him the check and—”

Leith said to her, “What are you doing here? I thought you’d gone back.”

“No, dear. I’m waiting to take you back.”

Leith pounded with his crutch. “Didn’t you leave the door of the room open and unlocked?”

Mrs. Randerman gave a gasp of dismay. “My heavens!” she said.

She jumped to her feet and raced down the corridor.

Leith turned his head in the general direction of Charles Betcher. “Where are you?” he asked. “I can’t see you.”

“Here,” Betcher said.

Leith said, “I wanted to get rid of her. I have a business proposition to make.”

“What is it?”

Leith said, “She controls the purse strings. She won’t let me have money for whiskey — claims drinking isn’t good for me. I have to chisel a little bit. I’m not a fool. I know that she’s giving you this dough, and that it’s all gravy for you. You won’t do anything except put a little glass sign on the door stating that the premises are protected by the Charles Betcher Detective Agency, Inc. Now then, how about a kickback?”

“Why, what do you mean?” Betcher asked.

“You know what I mean,” Leith said. “Here’s a check for a thousand dollars, signed by the wife. It’s payable to you. I give it to you. It’s gravy. You slip me five hundred bucks on the q.t. Everybody’s satisfied.”

Betcher said indignantly, “I’ll be a party to no such contemptible proceedings.”

“Well,” Leith said, “we might make a different division. I’ll be fair. You give me two hundred and fifty, and you keep seven fifty.” Betcher said, “Mr. Randerman, I am going to repeat this conversation to your wife.”

“No, you aren’t,” Leith cackled, in his high, shrill voice. “I’ll call you a liar. She wouldn’t believe it.”

Betcher said, “If she has given you a check for me, Mr. Randerman, pass it over. I’ll give you a receipt and take over the responsibility of your jewels. You can—”

He was interrupted by the sound of running steps in the corridor. Mrs. Randerman flung herself against the door, beating on the panels with her fists. “Quick! Come quick!” she cried. “We’ve been robbed.”

Betcher crossed the room in four swift strides, jerked open the door.

“Come quick!” Mrs. Randerman said. “They must have gone in through the door. They can’t have got far. Oh, my jewels! Come!”

She turned and ran back down the corridor. For a moment Betcher hesitated then started to run after her.

Leith called out in his high, shrill voice, “Don’t be a fool—”

The banging of the door cut off the rest of the sentence.

Betcher followed Mrs. Randerman down to her suite. The door was still ajar.

“Where were the gems?” he asked.

“Right here in this jewel box.”

“In the table drawer?”

“Yes.”

“Did you leave the door open and unlocked?”

“I’m afraid I did.”

“Who else knew that you kept them there?”

“No one,” she said, “except my husband — and perhaps the maid.”

Betcher said, “We’ll check up on the maid right away.”

He stepped to the telephone and asked the operator to connect him with the manager’s office. Then he said, in a gravely professional tone, “This is Betcher, the detective. One of my clients has suffered a loss here in the hotel. I’m very anxious to handle the matter quickly, efficiently, and without undue publicity so far as the hotel is concerned. Find the maid and the housekeeper who have this room on their list, and bring them to 409 at once. Don’t bring the house detective in on it. I don’t like house detectives. I can’t work with them.”

He hung up and turned to Mrs. Randerman.

“Now, then,” he said, “we want to keep that jewel box in a safe place. It probably contains fingerprints. I’ll have one of my fingerprint experts check them. Then we’ll get the fingerprints of the maid and the housekeeper, and— What’s this? It must be your husband.”

Mrs. Randerman said, “Oh, the poor man. The light will hurt his eyes.”

She rushed to the light switch, clicked off the lights, and said to the detective, “Pull down the curtain and draw the drapes. I’ll guide him in here.”

She ran down the corridor, and a moment later Leith stood in the doorway.

He hobbled into the room, muttering in an angry undertone. He walked across to the jewel case, shifted his cane from his left hand to his right hand, and fished in the side pocket of his coat. Abruptly he brought out a long string of pearls which he dropped into the jewel case.

“There they are,” he said.

Mrs. Randerman stared at him, speechless with surprise.

Betcher said, “What the devil’s the meaning of this?”

Leith raised his voice until it was a shrill scream of cackling accusation. “It means that you’re a fool,” he said. “You’re a poor excuse for a detective. I wouldn’t employ you to guard anything. I took those pearls with me because I wanted you to look them over. Personally, I don’t think they’re genuine. I wasn’t going to pay a thousand dollars to protect a lot of phony jewelry. My own idea is, my wife has pawned the originals and has taken advantage of my poor eyesight to substitute imitations. I won’t stand for it. I kept yelling at you that I had the necklace, but you wouldn’t listen. You were in too much of a hurry to go banging down the corridor. Now I suppose you’ve accused the maid and the chambermaid and will get me in a damage suit.”

Lester Leith whipped a tinted oblong of paper from his pocket and tore it into fragments. “Bosh,” he said, “I wouldn’t give you a thousand cents let alone a thousand dollars. You’re fired!”

Betcher drew himself up with dignity. “Permit me to observe,” he said, “that I wouldn’t work for clients whose mentality seems to be so eccentric, whose chiseling tactics are worse than those of the cheapest crook, and whose personality is distasteful to me. In short, Mr. Randerman, I have the honor to wish you a very good afternoon, and to congratulate myself upon having escaped the burden of having you as a client.”

Mrs. Randerman said, “Dear, you’ve hurt his feelings.”

“Hurt his feelings!” Lester Leith cackled. “I suppose now I’ll have to give fifty dollars apiece to the maid and housekeeper to square the beef with them. No wonder he cost the Click-Fast Shutter Company twenty-five thousand bucks! Greatest detective since Sherlock Holmes — Bah!”

The doorman at Lester Leith’s apartment house stared as Mrs. Randerman, alighting from a taxicab, turned to assist a bent figure attired in a white wig, a drooping walrus mustache and a bulging suit of ready-made clothes. The old man’s eyes were shielded from the light by very big dark glasses, the lenses larger than silver dollars, bordered with thick rims of white celluloid.

The two police detectives who had been shadowing the taxicab parked their car some twenty feet behind, and one of them, moving with crisp, businesslike efficiency, jumped to the curb and so timed his movements that he rode up in the same elevator which whisked Lester Leith to the floor of his penthouse apartment.

Mrs. Randerman fitted the latchkey which Leith handed her and then turned to confront the detective standing behind her. “What do you want?” she asked, her voice sharp with suspicion.

The detective said sharply, “Building inspector. A couple of fuses have blown in this apartment, and I think the wiring’s defective.”

“Well, I don’t,” Mrs. Randerman said. “I don’t think the owner of the apartment would care to be disturbed at this time.”

“I’m coming in anyway,” the detective said, pushing forward past Mrs. Randerman as the bent, white-haired figure opened the door.

Beaver, the undercover man, was waiting in the reception hallway. He flashed a quick warning wink to the detective who was posing as a building inspector.

Mrs. Randerman said to Leith, “This man insists on inspecting the wiring, Mr. Leith. I told him I didn’t think—”

“It’s all right,” Leith said dejectedly. He straightened his bent figure, dropped the crutch, threw the cane from him petulantly, ripped off the wig, dropped it to the floor, jerked off the smoked glasses and the walrus mustache. “Well, Scuttle,” he said, “I was wrong.”

“Wrong, sir?”

“Yes. It’s once I made a mistake. The man’s honest — hopelessly, stupidly honest.”

Leith raised his vest, loosened his belt, pulled out a pillow, and tossed it to the spy. “Put this back in my bedroom,” he said. “Lay out a gray suit, give these clothes to the Salvation Army. You may as well keep the imitation jewels, Mrs. Randerman. They might come in handy.”

The spy said, “Yes, sir.” He stooped to pick up the wig and the dark glasses, and said to the police detective, pointedly, “I think you’d better come back at another time, if you don’t mind. I can handle everything now — that is, if there’s anything wrong with the wiring.”

Lester Leith, the loose folds of the ready-made suit bagging about his well-knit figure, said, “Oh, let him inspect, Scuttle. Mrs. Randerman and I want a Scotch and soda.”

Leith walked into the living room, held a chair for Mrs. Randerman, then dropped dejectedly into his favorite reclining chair.

The police detective and the undercover man held a hurried, whispered conversation. Then the detective eased himself through the door, to report to Sergeant Ackley that Leith had been shadowed to the very door of his apartment.

Beaver took the pillow and articles of disguise into the bedroom, secured ice cubes from the refrigerator, wheeled the portable bar into the living room, and regarded Leith’s lugubrious countenance with shrewd, glittering eyes.

Leith said, “Use the tallest glasses you have, Scuttle.”

“Yes, sir. Your trip a failure, sir?”

Leith said, “Yes. My deductions were absolutely wrong, Scuttle. I felt certain that Betcher had switched the bills just as he handed them to Alcott.”

“Now you’ve changed your mind?” the spy asked.

“Definitely, Scuttle. I set a trap for Betcher. If he’d been inclined to chisel, he’d have given me a kickback on Mrs. Randerman’s check. He didn’t do it. The man’s honest, I tell you. Stupid, opinionated, conceited, overrated, egotistical — but honest, blast him!”

“Yes, sir,” the spy said. “Of course that’s only one possibility, sir.”

Leith said testily, “Well, we won’t discuss it now, Scuttle. Get those drinks ready.”

Leith opened his wallet and took out a sheaf of fifty-dollar bills. He passed them over to Mrs. Randerman. “Here you are,” he said, “one thousand dollars in fifties.”

She said, “Really, Mr. Leith, I feel guilty taking this money. It’s a gross overpayment, particularly since you—”

“That’s all right,” Leith said, leaning across to drop the money into her lap. “The money means very little to me. I’m chagrined to think that I was so wrong. Well, I’ll drink your health, Mrs. Randerman, and then you can be on your way, and Beaver will help me get rid of this abominable suit.”

Fifteen minutes later, when Mrs. Randerman had left, Leith again took his wallet from his pocket. “Well, Beaver,” he said, “I owe you fifty dollars.”

The spy said, virtuously, “Oh, now, sir, that bet was just for the purpose of trapping Sergeant Ackley. You can give me the twenty-five dollars which is his share of the bet and—”

“No, no, Scuttle. It was a bet, and when I lose a bet I pay off.”

He handed the spy fifty dollars, and as he took the fifty-dollar bill from his wallet, a limp, bedraggled white feather fell out into his hand.

Leith looked at it and laughed sardonically.

The spy said, “That feather doesn’t seem to have brought you any luck, sir.”

“It hasn’t,” Leith said.

“May I ask why you wanted it?” the spy inquired.

Leith said, dejectedly, “Oh, that was just a second string to my bow, Scuttle.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

Leith’s voice was flat with disinterest. “You see, Scuttle,” he explained patiently, “there were three possibilities. Either Betcher was crooked, Alcott was crooked, or Judge Mandeville actually took the bribe. Because of the crude manner in which the thing was handled, I was very much inclined to give Mandeville a clean bill of health. If he’d wanted a bribe, he’d have gone about it in a more skillful manner. After all, you know, he has a trained legal mind. I picked Betcher as being the more likely suspect. I was wrong. The feather proves it. If I’d only taken the trouble to look at this feather early this afternoon, I’d have saved myself a lot of work and a humiliating experience.”

The spy stared at the feather. “I don’t see how you reach that conclusion, sir.”

Leith said wearily, “It’s simple, Scuttle. The feather which Alcott was holding up in that newspaper photograph was nice and fluffy. This feather has been pressed together, is worn and bedraggled. Yet it’s been in my wallet less than twenty-four hours. Alcott claimed he’d been carrying that feather for more than a year. I carry my wallet in my hip pocket, but even if Alcott had his wallet in his breast pocket, within a week at the most that feather would have been pressed flat, the edges would have been worn, and it would have had this same bedraggled appearance.”

The spy’s eyes glittered with sudden understanding. “Perhaps,” he said, “they’re both crooked.”

Leith shook his head sadly. “No, Scuttle. Betcher’s on the square. He’s too stupid to be otherwise. Good heavens, Scuttle, I gave him a dozen chances to pick flaws in my story. Among other things, I pretended that I couldn’t see, and yet I called Mrs. Randerman’s attention to the fact that she’d left the bedroom door open. I complained about having people stare at me on the street, and yet I said I couldn’t stand bright light in my eyes... No, Scuttle, Betcher is a stuffed shirt, vastly overrated, a pompous, stupid individual who has achieved some measure of success, not because of his own ability, but because of the ability of men whom he has employed. He tried to handle this bribe business personally and Alcott could have swindled him right under his eyes.”

The spy’s hand quivered with excitement as he took the white feather.

“But,” he said, “knowing that Alcott is the real crook and with this feather as a clue, you could—”

“No, Scuttle,” Leith said, “I’m finished. I made a fool of myself. I’m getting as dumb as Sergeant Ackley. Come on, Scuttle, let’s get this suit off and you can bundle it up and send it to the Salvation Army... Am I dining out tonight, Scuttle?”

“Yes, sir. Mrs. Van Peltman, sir. At eight. You promised to—”

“Ring her up,” Leith said, “and tell her I’m indisposed. Convey my regrets.”

“Yes, sir,” the spy said. “But this white feather—”

“Don’t mention it to me again,” Leith said irritably. “I don’t want to hear anything more about the case, Scuttle. I’ll go in and get these clothes off and get into a shower. You’d better put through that telephone call about the dinner before you forget it.”

“Yes, sir,” the spy said, and vanished with alacrity into the booth.

But the first call which he put through was not to Mrs. Van Peltman, nor was it to Sergeant Ackley. It was a call put through directly to Captain Carmichael.

When the spy had Carmichael on the phone, he said, “I beg your pardon for calling you direct, Captain, but this is Beaver, the undercover operative working under Ackley.”

“Oh yes, Beaver,” Captain Carmichael said. “What do you want?”

“I’m sorry, Captain, but I understood that you’d been advised I had a wrong idea on that Alcott case.”

Carmichael said, “I was placed in rather an embarrassing position, Beaver. That bandage business—”

The spy made so bold as to interrupt. “Pardon me, Captain,” he said, “but I think sometimes Sergeant Ackley gets things confused. I thought I’d call you direct so as to eliminate the possibility of any misunderstanding. What I was telling Sergeant Ackley was that I thought the feather Alcott was holding in that newspaper picture was a most significant clue.”

Captain Carmichael said, “The feather, Beaver?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“What the devil kind of a clue would that be? What does it signify?” Carmichael asked.

“Don’t you see, Captain?” Beaver said. “Alcott says that feather is a pocket piece, one that he’s carried in his wallet for some time. As a matter of fact, the newspaper photograph itself proves that he’s a liar. That feather is all fluffy and in perfect condition. You’ll find that if you carry one of those light, downy feathers in your wallet for no longer than twenty-four hours, it will commence to look rough and frayed and—”

“By George,” Captain Carmichael interrupted, “you have something there, Beaver!”

“I thought so,” the spy said modestly. “I tried to explain it to Sergeant Ackley, but the sergeant occasionally jumps at conclusions. I think he had some idea about that bandaged head, and he naturally thought that anything I was trying to tell him had something to do with that.”

Captain Carmichael said, “I’m glad you called me direct, Beaver. You did quite right. That’s a most valuable clue. I should have had my wits about me. It’s obvious that feather couldn’t have been carried in the man’s wallet for any length of time. That’s very good work, Beaver, very good reasoning.”

The spy grinned as he eased the telephone receiver back into its cradle.

Down in an isolated cell at the city jail two husky detectives peeled off their coats, neatly folded them, and placed them over the back of the chair. They took off their shirts and ties.

Rodney Alcott, seated at the far end of the cell, watched them with apprehensive eyes. “What are they going to do?” he asked Captain Carmichael.

Captain Carmichael said grimly, “How about that feather?”

“What about it?”

Carmichael said, “You claim you had been carrying that for more than a year as a lucky piece.”

“That’s right,” Alcott said.

Captain Carmichael laughed sardonically. “When you carry a feather in a wallet for even twenty-four hours, it looks all bedraggled. The feather you had looked as though it had just been plucked out of a goose. All right, boys, get started.”

Captain Carmichael turned toward the cell door.

One of the big plainclothes men spat suggestively on his hands, and approached Alcott, his eyes glittering in anticipation.

Alcott screamed, “Don’t go, Captain! Don’t go! I’ll come clean!”

Captain Carmichael turned. “Well,” he said, “it’s about time. Why didn’t you say so sooner?”

“Because I thought I could get away with it,” Alcott sobbed, “but now that you’re wise to that feather, I’ll tell you all about it...”

Lester Leith, enjoying the luxury of a lazy evening at home, looked up from the magazine he was reading as the buzzer sounded an imperative signal. “Better see who it is, Scuttle,” he said.

The spy opened the door. Sergeant Ackley, accompanied by Captain Carmichael and two detectives, pushed their way through the door.

Carmichael said, “All right, Sergeant. You do the talking.”

Sergeant Ackley pounded his way across the room.

Lester Leith arched his eyebrows in mild surprise. “Why, good evening, gentlemen,” he said. “What brings you here, and why the officious manner, Sergeant?”

Sergeant Ackley said, “You know very well what I’m after, Leith.”

Leith shook his head. “I’m not much of a mind-reader, Sergeant,” he said.

Ackley said, “We’ve been working on Rodney Alcott. He broke down and confessed the whole deal.”

“Indeed,” Leith said. “What did he say?”

“He’s a chiseler and an opportunist,” Sergeant Ackley said. “He thought there was an opportunity to shake down Frank Boyen for twenty-five thousand dollars. By capitalizing on a family connection Alcott had been able to be seen in public once or twice with Judge Mandeville. He took occasion to see that Frank Boyen, the president of the Click-Fast Shutter Company, knew of his contact with Judge Mandeville. Then he approached Boyen and tried to get twenty-five thousand dollars which he supposedly was going to pass on to Judge Mandeville.

“Boyen smelled a rat and called in Betcher, the private detective. Betcher also smelled a rat. They intended to give Alcott the money and find out what he did with it. If he went south with it, they were going to arrest him. If he passed it over to Judge Mandeville, they were going to arrest both of them.”

Leith said, “I have read the papers, Sergeant, and am familiar with the superficial facts. Do I understand that you have called on me this evening to ask me to collaborate with you?”

Sergeant Ackley gave an impatient exclamation. “You know why I’ve called,” he said. “You doped it all out.”

“Doped what all out?”

“What happened,” Sergeant Ackley said.

“Indeed, no,” Leith observed. “I’d be interested to know what did happen.”

“As though you didn’t know,” Ackley said. “I tell you Alcott has confessed. They took him into Betcher’s suite in the hotel. He was given the twenty-five one-thousand-dollar bills there, and he knew, of course, they’d keep him under surveillance until he had gone to Judge Mandeville’s chambers. But Alcott’s pretty slick. He managed to get one of the pieces of adhesive tape off of the bandage on his head. He was sitting on the bed in Betcher’s suite at the time. He got his knife out of his pocket. While they were checking and listing the numbers on the bills, he pushed back the end of the pillowcase and cut a small slit in the end of the pillow. When they handed him the twenty-five one-thousand-dollar bills, he took them with his right hand, folded them, and then surreptitiously slipped them into his left hand. He had already planted twenty-five one-dollar bills in his left coat sleeve. He managed to substitute those bills and then put them ostentatiously in his pocket. He shoved the twenty-five one-thousand-dollar bills into the opening in the pillow, put the piece of adhesive tape over the cut in the pillow, and pulled back the pillowslip. He intended to watch his opportunity, return, and pick up the twenty-five thousand dollars.

“The thing that betrayed him was a white feather from the inside of the pillow. In pulling the adhesive tape from his bandage, he got some of the adhesive stuck to his fingers. That caused one of the white feathers from the inside of the pillow to stick to his fingers and get folded in with the one-dollar bills. Later on, when the one-dollar bills were found in his wallet, the white feather was among them. He knew that he had to think fast and explain away that feather. Otherwise, it would furnish a clue to the entire business. So he handed out a cock-and-bull story about it being a lucky piece that he had carried for some time.”

Leith’s eyes showed interest.

“That’s very interesting, Sergeant,” he said. “Now, would you mind telling me how it concerns me?”

“You know how it concerns you. You went to a lot of trouble to set the stage for a nice little act which you staged in Betcher’s apartment this afternoon. You went up there with a pillow under your clothes. You arranged things so that you had a few minutes alone in Betcher’s room. Those few minutes were sufficient for you to identify the pillow that had the twenty-five thousand dollars in it. You couldn’t take the time there to search around in the feathers and find the roll of bills, so you simply switched pillows! You took the one which you had used as padding and placed it on Betcher’s bed, took the one on Betcher’s bed which was sealed up with a piece of adhesive tape and put it inside of your clothes as padding, and then went down the hall to terminate your ‘employment’ of Betcher. You did the whole thing so elaborately no one suspected that your real purpose was to have a few minutes alone in Betcher’s room in the hotel.”

Lester Leith nodded. “Sergeant,” he said, “I admire much of your deductive reasoning. As it happens, this time you’re a lot closer to the true facts of the case than is ordinarily the case. To be frank with you, Sergeant, I noticed the discrepancy between the condition of that feather and Alcott’s story as soon as I saw his picture in the paper. Then when I saw the picture taken after he was booked and noticed that one of the strips of adhesive tape was missing, I thought that it was quite possible that he had concealed the money in a pillow somewhere, and that the white feather had stuck to his fingers when he pulled it out.

“However, Sergeant, my interest in crime is only academic. It’s that of a student. The practical application of my theories to a solution of the crime has no particular charm for me.

“However, it did occur to me that Betcher might perhaps be a crook, and I suggested the matter to Scuttle, my valet. He thought that Betcher was quite honest. The thing got to a point where we laid a wager on it, and I believe that you—”

“That’s enough,” Sergeant Ackley interrupted. “We’re not interested in anything about that. We have a search warrant. We’re going to search your apartment, and if we find a pillow with adhesive tape on it—”

“Just a moment, Sergeant,” Captain Carmichael said. “I think Mr. Leith’s comments constitute damaging admissions. I think we should hear him out. Do you admit, Mr. Leith, that you posed as Mr. Randerman, and that you and Mrs. Randerman went to all that elaborate buildup for the purpose of making contact with Betcher?”

“Certainly,” Leith said.

Captain Carmichael frowned. “I’m afraid,” he said, “you’re going to have some difficulty explaining that.”

“Oh, not at all,” Leith said. “It’s simply the result of a wager. Sergeant Ackley knows all about it. In fact, he’s a party to the wager.”

Sergeant Ackley said, “I can explain it all, Captain. But this isn’t the time.”

“In fact,” Leith said, “I have already paid the wager to my valet, and I have reason to believe that he’s passed Sergeant Ackley’s share on to him.”

Captain Carmichael frowned. “Is that true, Sergeant?” he asked.

“Well,” Sergeant Ackley said, “it was a private matter, and—”

“Private matter!” Captain Carmichael roared. “It would make the department the laughing-stock of the newspapers, and why the devil didn’t you report it?”

“I didn’t think it was—”

“I know why you didn’t report it,” Captain Carmichael said. “You wanted to chisel twenty-five dollars.”

“At the time,” Sergeant Ackley said, “I thought it was best. I—”

“I notice there was nothing about that wager mentioned in your reports... Get busy, men. You have a search warrant. Look through these pillows and see if you can find one which has been cut, and the cut repaired with adhesive tape.”

Lester Leith said, in a slow drawl, “Of course, Captain, you know this is an inexcusable outrage. I should resent it, only I’m rather tired tonight, and being resentful consumes a lot of energy, don’t you think?”

Captain Carmichael said nothing.

Sergeant Ackley, who had popped into the bedroom, let out a whoop of delight. He returned to the living room, holding up a pillow in one end of which a small cut had been patched up with a piece of adhesive tape. “This is it!” he shouted. “This will convict him. This is all the evidence we need.”

Leith said, “That’s nonsense, Sergeant. I told you that white feather had caused me to wonder about Alcott. In the privacy of my own apartment I made an experiment to determine whether a small hole in a pillow could be plugged with adhesive tape taken from a bandage. I found that it could.”

Sergeant Ackley said gloatingly, “You’ll have a chance to tell that to the jury. This is the same pillow which was taken from Betcher’s hotel. I can swear to it. I’ve seen the pillows. I can identify them. Now then, you supercilious crook, laugh that off.”

One of the detectives who had entered Beaver’s bedroom came running into the living room, carrying a pillow. “I’ve found it, Captain,” he said.

There was grim silence while the detective peeled back the pillowcase to show a second pillow with a cut covered with adhesive tape.

“Any other pillows?” Captain Carmichael asked dryly.

The detective said, “Gosh, Captain, I didn’t look. I found this one. It was the first one I looked at, and—”

“Look at the others,” Captain Carmichael said.

The crestfallen Sergeant Ackley and the other detectives returned to their search. In the next five minutes they uncovered six pillows. Each one had been cut, and the cut patched with adhesive tape.

Lester Leith, who had been calmly smoking during the search, picked up his magazine and started to read.

Captain Carmichael, fighting back a twinkle which persisted in creeping into his frosty eyes, said, “What’s your explanation of these pillows, Leith?”

Leith looked up from the magazine. “Those?” he said. “Oh, just a psychological experiment, Captain. You know, I’m one of these confounded amateurs who likes to read about crime in the newspapers, and then try to work out some purely academic solution.”

Captain Carmichael said, “I’m afraid, Leith, that there’s enough evidence against you this time to arrest you, even if the evidence isn’t strong enough to convict.”

Leith said, “Oh, I don’t think so, Captain. If I were arrested, it seems to me the police would be placed in rather a peculiar position. In the first place, they’d have to admit that I, a rank outsider and an amateur, uncovered a theory which solved the Mandeville bribe case simply by looking at a perfectly obvious clue contained in a newspaper illustration, a clue which the police had in their fingers, a clue which was staring them right in the face. Furthermore, as a part of my defense, it would appear that I did what I did at the instigation of Sergeant Ackley, who made a surreptitious profit of twenty-five dollars on the transaction, and who, in order to get that twenty-five dollars, assured me in writing that it would be no crime to proceed with my plans.”

Lester Leith paused and shook his head sadly. “You couldn’t convict me,” he said, “and it would put the police force in a most unpleasant light. In short, Captain, they’d appear positively ludicrous.” Captain Carmichael’s eyes lost their twinkle as they fastened themselves on Sergeant Ackley. “The man’s right, Sergeant,” he said, “and you have yourself to thank for it.”

“But these pillows!”

“Which pillow is the one that came from Betcher’s hotel?” the Captain asked.

“Well, of course,” Sergeant Ackley said, looking at the pillows on the floor, “they’ve been pretty well mixed up now, and I—”

“Oh, but you identified one of them as having been the pillow,” Lester Leith said. “You were willing to swear to it, Sergeant. Come, come, Sergeant. Can’t you pick out the right pillow now?”

Sergeant Ackley’s facial expression showed only too plainly what was going on in his mind.

Captain Carmichael turned toward the door. “Come, Sergeant,” he said. “You’re not doing yourself or the Department any good by remaining here. If you ever had a case against Leith, it certainly has been botched up so that the less publicity that’s given it the better.”

As Captain Carmichael started to close the door, he turned to Lester Leith. “I wish we had your mind on the force,” he said. “It might increase our efficiency so far as catching criminals is concerned.”

Leith said very courteously, “Thank you, Captain, but it has always seemed to me that the best way to check crime is to deprive the criminals of their ill-gotten spoils.”

Captain Carmichael stared at him thoughtfully, and then said slowly, “And there’s a chance you may be right at that.”

The door closed behind him.

Lester Leith smiled at his valet. “Your loyalty, Scuttle, is touching,” he said. “I still don’t know how the devil you ever managed to persuade Sergeant Ackley to take over half of that bet and make that endorsement on the letter.”

The spy fidgeted uneasily. “Just a matter of tact, sir,” he said.

Leith nodded and yawned. “By the way, Scuttle,” he said, “I’ll have a deposit to make in one of my charitable trust funds tomorrow — a deposit of twenty-five thousand dollars, less the usual ten per cent covering costs of collection...”