The Case of the Smoking Chimney

Chapter 8

Harvey Stanwood crossed over to the big vault, spun the knobs of the combination, pulled the huge doors open, and went inside.

The air smelled like that of a tomb.

As the walls closed about Stanwood, it was necessary for him to summon every bit of will-power he could command to hold himself steady.

That was the way a cell would feel. He would undoubtedly get ten years, perhaps twenty. Last night, with a few drinks under his belt, with the tingle of gambling in his blood, a pretty girl at his side, he had felt that he could take it — that he could take anything.

Now, with a thick feeling in his head, with nerves jumpy from too much to drink and not enough sleep, he felt that he couldn’t take anything. He would have tried flight, if it hadn’t been for one desperate last chance — that Pressman might not show up at all today.

There was the Hillhurst cheque for five thousand dollars in the vault. That cheque was as a guarantee of good faith. It wasn’t to be cashed unless certain conditions developed. But if Stanwood cashed that cheque, he could ring up Hillhurst and tell him it had been an error, and rebate the five thousand — if he was lucky.

Right at the present moment, Stanwood was short exactly $17,395.58. An extra five thousand now wouldn’t make much difference. And if he should have a winning streak—

He heard the telephone ring. Corliss Ramsay at the switchboard said: “He’s busy at the moment — in the vault. Could I have him call you back?”

Stanwood heard the musical cadences of her voice. She was blonde, twenty-two, languorous, and seductive. He knew that she was piqued because he had not paid her more personal attention.

He heard her coming toward the vault, and hastily pulled down a ledger and started examining it, hoping she would not detect his nervousness.

She said: “You’re wanted on the telephone. Do you want to take the call? He says it’s important.”

“Who is it?”

“He wouldn’t tell me his name.”

“I’ll go to my desk and take the call,” Stanwood said. “It will be just a moment. Explain that I’m in the vault.”

“I’ve done that already.”

Stanwood hurried to his desk, paused, took a deep breath. Stanwood picked up the receiver. A man’s voice inquired, “Harvey Stanwood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“When I tell you my name, don’t mention it over the telephone. I don’t want anyone to know who is talking.”

“Who is this?” Stanwood asked.

“Can anyone in the office hear what you’re saying?”

“No.”

The voice said conversationally: “Happened to run into an old friend of mine yesterday. This friend has an interest in the Three-Twenty-Two Club... You may know him. Chap by the name of Baines. He says he’s seen you up there quite a bit lately... Nice chap, Baines.”

Stanwood waited a second before he could trust himself to speak. When he finally said, “Who is this talking?” he realized that his voice lacked the assurance he wanted to put punch into a demand. He had merely asked a question, and his voice had all but quavered.

“I’m going to lunch with you today,” the voice asserted. “We have some things to talk over. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going or about this call.”

The man waited, but Stanwood could think of nothing to say.

“The Purple Cow,” the man went on. “I’ve reserved the next to the last booth on the right-hand side. Be there at twelve-fifteen. The curtain will be drawn. Walk right in.”

“Who... who is this talking?” Stanwood asked.

“You’ve got that all straight now,” the voice went on, “the Purple Cow, twelve-fifteen sharp, next to the last booth on the right-hand side?”

“I heard you, but I want to know who this is talking.”

The voice over the telephone said: “George Karper.”

Stanwood’s ears heard the sharp, unmistakable click of the receiver being hung up at the other end of the line; but it was a full three seconds before Stanwood could summon the strength to hang up his own receiver. His legs felt as limp as pieces of cotton string.