The Seven Sinister Sombreros

Chapter I. The Drugged Guard.

Lester Leith lifted the lid from the humidor of carved ivory which held his cigarettes. Gently tapping the tip of a cigarette on his thumbnail, he snapped a match into flame, sucked in a deep inhalation of fragrant smoke, and started blowing smoke rings.

Men who have lived together in months of intimate association learn to know each other’s habits with an almost clairvoyant perception; and Edward Beaver, the police undercover man, who had so long been masquerading as Lester Leith’s valet, watched him with glittering eyes. Experience had taught him that if Lester Leith should start tracing the perimeters of those smoke rings with the tip of his extended forefinger, the time would be ripe to trap the man upon whom he spied. That trap had already been set. It remained only for the spy to bait it by interesting Leith in a crime problem which had been carefully selected by Police Sergeant Ackley as the pitfall which would lead the unsuspecting victim to his undoing.

Twice, three times, Lester Leith blew smoke rings, and contented himself with watching their upward progress as they twisted and writhed on themselves, finally to disperse in a blue haze.

“Scuttle,” he said.

The undercover man had a particular aversion to this nickname which Leith had given him because of a fancied resemblance to an ancient pirate. Swift irritation showed on his face, then vanished as Lester Leith’s right hand claimed his beady-eyed fascination.

The well-manicured tip of Leith’s extended forefinger meditatively traced the perimeter of one of the writhing smoke rings, unmistakable indication that his chain-lightning mind, bored with matters of everyday routine, was groping for some exciting new stimulus.

“Scuttle,” Lester Leith said the second time.

“Yes, sir,” the spy answered quickly, stepping from the table he had been dusting to be where he could face the slender, well-knit figure that was seated in the big, overstuffed leather chair.

“Scuttle,” Lester Leith said, “I’ve never fully interrogated you concerning your last escapade with Sergeant Ackley. Tell me, Scuttle. Did he really suspect me of hijacking those gems?”

The spy grasped the opportunity. “I’m afraid he did, sir. If I might be pardoned for making the suggestion, sir, Sergeant Ackley is altogether too petty a person to interfere with your plan of life.”

“Interfere with my plan of life, Scuttle!” Lester Leith exclaimed, half turning in his chair. “What the devil are you talking about? Sergeant Ackley is like an irritating housefly in drowsy weather — an annoyance, to be sure; an obstacle never.”

“Yes, sir. But since you have such an extraordinary ability to read the newspaper accounts of crime and spot the criminals from the facts reported, it seems such a shame to give up your hobby just because— Well, pardon me, sir. Perhaps I shouldn’t mention it.”

Leith nodded slow affirmation. “You’re right, Scuttle,” he said.

“You mean about letting Sergeant Ackley interfere with your plan of life?” the spy asked eagerly.

“No,” Lester Leith said, blowing another smoke ring. “About the fact that you shouldn’t mention it.”

The spy’s face darkened, but since he had been particularly commissioned by Sergeant Ackley to direct Lester Leith’s attention to the strange case of the drugged guard, he dared not let any distraction divert Lester Leith’s mind from the channel on which the spy knew it was about to embark.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “I beg your pardon. It was presumptuous of me, a resentment against Sergeant Ackley, because there are so many interesting crimes in the papers these days.”

Leith glanced up quickly. “Scuttle, you tempt me.”

“Pardon me, sir. I had no intention of doing so.”

“Damn it,” Lester Leith said irritably. “Why can’t Sergeant Ackley quit his confounded suspicions? I have repeatedly explained to him that my interest in crime is only academic. Yet he thinks my charitable donations are sustained by funds adroitly hijacked from criminals. I presume Ackley feels criminals should be allowed to retain their ill-gotten loot. I don’t. Personally I think this mysterious hijacker is a public benefactor, regardless of whether the hijacked funds eventually find their way into charitable causes or not. I suppose it’s illegal, but, damn it, it’s poetic justice.”

“Yes, sir. I quite agree with you, sir.”

“Hang it, Scuttle,” Lester Leith said. “You’re catching me a most inopportune moment. Perhaps it’s my mood. Perhaps it’s the weather. Damn it, Scuttle! To what specific crimes are you referring?”

For a moment, the undercover man regarded Lester Leith with the expression of an angler surveying a choice pool of water in which he knows there lurks a very large and wary trout. Experience had taught him that Lester Leith seldom rose to the first lure which he offered. But, now, there was something in Leith’s mood which made the spy feel it might be possible to launch at once into the affair of the drugged guard.

“There have been several crimes,” he hedged.

“Well, pick the most interesting, Scuttle. I’m not going to permit my mind to dwell on it, but I can at least hear about it.”

“Yes, sir,” the spy said, and his big hand, pushing down into the inside pocket of his coat, dragged out a sheaf of newspaper clippings.

Leith said irritably: “Scuttle, you’re still clipping crime news and carrying the clippings around with you. I told you not to do that any more.”

“Yes, sir. If you’ll pardon me, sir, these were not clipped for your consideration. You’ve got me started, if you don’t mind my saying so, sir.”

“Got you started, Scuttle?”

“Yes, sir. Of course, I realize I can never attain even a fraction of your efficiency, but the crime news has come to exercise a fatal fascination for me. I can’t help thinking of how easy it is for you to study the facts in a newspaper, spot the real criminal, and then outline a scheme by which that criminal might be apprehended; a scheme by which unusual objects betray the criminal to his own destruction.”

Lester Leith stared at the huge figure of the police spy with thought-slitted eyes. “Scuttle,” he said, “you’re almost stealing my thunder.”

“Oh, no, sir! Not at all, sir! My own efforts are most clumsy and utterly inadequate. I was merely explaining how I happened to have these crime clippings so readily available.”

“But you’re duplicating my methods, Scuttle.”

“Oh, no, sir, not duplicating! It’s a feeble imitation, sir.”

“Oh, well, let it pass,” Lester Leith said. “What crime did you have in mind as being so interesting, Scuttle?”

“The affair of the missing heiress, sir.”

“Who’s the heiress. Scuttle?”

“Miss Blodson-Hess.”

“And what about Miss Blodson-Hess, Scuttle?”

“She vanished. No one seems to know what has happened to her, but it’s generally known that shortly before her disappearance she drew out large sums of cash.”

“A man in the case, Scuttle?”

“Yes, sir. She was engaged to be married next week, and the man is naturally all broken up over it.”

Lester Leith yawned. “Naturally, Scuttle,” he agreed, “one would expect him to be, but his interest robs the case of its fascination for a student of crime. There’s altogether too much emotion in it, Scuttle. Your perfect crime is one of coldblooded deliberation, of cool, calm reasoning — speaking, of course, from the standpoint of a connoisseur of crime, Scuttle. What else do you have?”

“There’s the matter of the Blossom robbery, sir. Mrs. Blossom had — well, sir, to put it mildly, she had deceived her husband. She had told him she was going to visit her sister in Pittsburgh for a week. In place of that, she had gone somewhere else. She had quite a bit of cash, and some diamonds—”

“How old, Scuttle?” Lester Leith interrupted.

“You mean the diamonds, sir?”

“No, no, Scuttle. Damn it, the woman, Mrs. Blossom.”

“Thirty-three, sir, according to the newspaper account.”

“That means forty-two,” Lester Leith said with conviction. “When a woman enters the roaring forties, Scuttle, she becomes somewhat unpredictable. She certainly should be entitled to have her little fling. Why the devil couldn’t her husband have taken her word for it that she was at her sister’s in Pittsburgh?”

“Because she was robbed, sir.”

“And so what, Scuttle?”

“So she was forced to call the police.”

Lester Leith yawned. “Uninteresting, Scuttle,” he said. “Had the woman any real character, she would have either recovered her gems herself, have tricked the man who victimized her into some compromising position by which she could have regained her property, or else have kept entirely quiet about the matter. Doubtless she was vain enough to think that only her beauty was responsible for the interest of the dashing young blade who undoubtedly acted as a professional lure for a criminal organization. No, no, Scuttle, gems partake of the characteristics of the owner. I’m hardly interested in considering the gems of a fatuous woman who couldn’t stand up on her two feet and take it when the going got rough. Well, Scuttle, I’m afraid that you’ve overestimated the interest-compelling quality of the crime news.”

“Yes, sir,” the spy said eagerly. “I can understand that now you’ve pointed it out. It was because I lacked your quick ability to analyze that I blundered into the trap. Perhaps that’s why I wasn’t able to do more with the solution of the cases myself. But there’s just one more thing I’d like to call to your attention, the affair of the drugged guard.”

“Drugged, Scuttle?”

“Yes, sir, and while he was drugged, some one hundred thousand dollars in cash mysteriously disappeared.”

“What was he guarding,” Lester Leith asked, “the mint?”

“No, sir. It was a private safe.”

Lester Leith smiled and shook his head. “Just another newspaper story, Scuttle. Give it no thought. Newspapers are inclined to magnify the amount of loot in order to make the case sound more spectacular. People don’t keep one hundred thousand dollars in ordinary safes, Scuttle. It simply isn’t done. Banking institutions, yes; but private individuals, no.”

“Yes, sir,” the spy said, “and I wouldn’t, of course, presume to contradict you, sir, but the circumstances in this case are different.”

Lester Leith raised his eyebrows in silent interrogation.

“You see, sir, Karl Bonneguard was rather expecting—”

“Bonneguard, Bonneguard,” Leith interrupted. “I’ve heard the name before. Isn’t he interested in some way in a camp or something?”

“Not exactly,” the spy said. “Bonneguard is trying to interest people in the formation of a political party — a sort of cult, to change our form of government.”

“Oh, yes,” Leith said. “I remember now. There was some sort of investigation, wasn’t there, Scuttle?”

“The grand jury were about to act, and apparently Bonneguard had been tipped off.”

“What were they going to act on, Scuttle?”

“I don’t know exactly. Ostensibly, Bonneguard was simply trying to promote a sort of new political party. It was all done open and aboveboard in accordance with our principles of freedom of speech and the press.”

“Oh, yes,” Leith said. “I remember now. He insisted upon the right of freedom of speech so he could organize his party and deny freedom of speech to others. It was claimed he’d taken an oath of allegiance to some foreign organization. There was something of a stir about it, as I remember.”

“Yes, sir. So, you see, Karl Bonneguard, not knowing just what was going to happen, hardly dared to keep his funds in a bank.”

“One hundred thousand dollars, Scuttle?” Lester Leith asked.

“That’s the best information the police have been able to obtain, sir.”

Leith said: “Dammit, Scuttle. You’ve got me interested now. Tell me more about this drugged guard.”

“Yes, sir. Karl Bonneguard maintained headquarters at 924 Wilmeier Avenue. It’s a huge rambling house. Bonneguard’s private offices occupied the south wing. The windows are heavily barred. There are vicious police dogs roaming the grounds, and an armed guard was kept on constant duty in the corridor just outside the door of the room in which the safe was located. And the guard didn’t even have a key to that door.”

“The guard was there on account of the money, Scuttle?”

“Yes, sir, and because some cranks had threatened Bonneguard with personal violence.”

“Yes, yes. Go ahead, Scuttle.”

“The organization was nationwide. All funds were collected and forwarded secretly to a Job Wolganheimer. Ostensibly he was the national treasurer for the organization. Wolganheimer, however, was just a figurehead for Bonneguard. As soon as funds were received, he turned them over to Bonneguard.”

“And Bonneguard put them in the safe, Scuttle?”

“No, sir. Bonneguard kept them in various banking institutions under various names: the Bonneguard Cleaning & Dyeing Works, the Bonneguard Real Estate Investment Association, and accounts of that sort.”

“Why did he take them out of the bank, on account of this grand jury investigation?”

“Yes, sir. He was afraid that something might happen, and the funds of the organization would be impounded.”

“Proceed, Scuttle.”

“The money was reduced to one-thousand-dollar bills. There were quite a few of them. Some witnesses say a hundred. Some say more than that.”

“The organization must have been profitable, Scuttle.”

“It was quite mercenary. Regardless of what principles it espoused, it was strict in the matter of dues.”

“And the guard, Scuttle?”

“A man named Bettler, a Hanz Bettler, a man with a fine record. He had been employed by one of the large banking institutions as a messenger for many years and had given perfect satisfaction.”

“He was drugged, Scuttle?”

“Yes, sir.”

“When did this happen?”

“Three nights ago. Bonneguard and Wolganheimer had been to the place and deposited another package of currency. No one except Wolganheimer and Bonneguard knows how much was in it, and neither of them will say anything. At any rate, they deposited the money. Wolganheimer drove Bonneguard to the office of the attorney who was handling Bonneguard’s affairs. Then Wolganheimer went to call on his flame of the moment, a young hula dancer who—”

“A what, Scuttle?”

“A hula dancer, a Hawaiian hula dancer.”

“Do you by any chance mean a professional hula dancer, Scuttle?”

“Yes, sir. Her name is Io Wahine. She’s a member of a troupe performing at night clubs and on the radio. She plays the ukulele, sings, chants, and dances.”

“One would say she was a very accomplished young woman, Scuttle.”

“Yes, sir. Yes, indeed, sir. I’ve seen her dance.”

“So Bonneguard went to see his lawyer, did he?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, let’s get to the drug business, Scuttle. That’s what interests me.”

“Yes, sir. I was just giving you the picture, sir. You see, Wolganheimer was driving the car. He ran out for a visit with Io Wahine. He left her apartment about five minutes to nine. He was to pick Bonneguard up at the lawyer’s at nine. He was there on the dot. He picked Bonneguard up, and the two of them went to the home of Emil Bradercrust, a mutual friend. They were talking over matters of business when the phone rang. It was Hanz Bettler on the phone. He happened to know that Bonneguard was going to spend the evening with Bradercrust. Bettler said that he thought something was wrong, said he was feeling so sleepy he couldn’t hold his head up, that he thought perhaps he’d been drugged, although he had been there alone all evening. He could hardly talk, he was so stupefied with the drug. Bonneguard said they’d come right over and to try and keep awake until they arrived.

“He, Wolganheimer, and Bradercrust climbed in the car and started at once for the Wilmeier Avenue headquarters. When they arrived, they found Hanz Bettler fighting off sleep. He stayed awake long enough to let them in, then dropped to the floor and was asleep before they could even ask him any questions. So Bradercrust volunteered to stand guard while Wolganheimer and Bonneguard took Bettler home.

“Naturally they didn’t want to have any notoriety or do anything which would attract the newspaper reporters. So they drove Bettler out to the house of a friend, an outlying house some distance out in the country. And when they got there, there was a telephone from Bradercrust telling them to come at once. His voice sounded very thick and dopey. They left Bettler to sleep it off and started at once to the Wilmeier Avenue headquarters. But they were delayed nearly half an hour in getting there. When they did, Bradercrust was lying on the floor sound asleep. Near him, in a drugged stupor, was one of the police dogs. But apparently the door to the inner office hadn’t so much as been touched.

“While Bonneguard was trying to arouse Bradercrust, Wolganheimer unlocked the door, and then discovered that the safe had been entered, probably within the last twenty minutes. The combination knob had been wrenched off and the spindle driven back. The inner door of the safe had been forced open and the contents were missing.”

“And did they find out how the drug was administered, Scuttle?” Lester Leith asked, his voice showing his interest.

“No, sir. That’s the mysterious part of it. They didn’t. When Bettler regained consciousness, he swore that he hadn’t talked with a single person, and Bradercrust had the same story.”

Leith said thoughtfully: “Well, let’s consider that the thief had some ingenious method of administering the drug, Scuttle. It’s quite apparent that he hadn’t had an opportunity to complete the job of safe cracking when Bettler took the drug. Therefore, it became necessary for him to drug Bradercrust, and in doing that, he drugged the police dog. Now tell me, Scuttle; was that the only police dog or were there more?”

“No, sir. There were half a dozen of them prowling around the grounds.”

“Then why did the criminal consider it necessary to drug one of these dogs and not the others?”

“I’m sure I couldn’t say, sir.”

“Give me the clippings,” Leith said. “This is, indeed, interesting.”

The spy, striving to hide the triumphant expression on his face, passed over the newspaper clippings. Leith read them thoughtfully, studied the illustrations.

“This photograph of Bettler shows him as a very thin individual, Scuttle. One would hardly associate him with being a guard.”

The spy laughed. “He may be small, but he’s dynamite,” he said. “And if you think he’s small, take a look at that picture of Job Wolganheimer, and then contrast it with the picture of Bonneguard.”

Leith regarded the two photographs and burst into laughter.

“What the devil, Scuttle!” he exclaimed. “This is like a Hollywood comedy; Karl Bonneguard, broad-shouldered, husky, well nourished, Hanz Bettler so slender you’d think he was a professional dancer, and then Job Wolganheimer so thin he looks like a lead pencil dressed up in a double-breasted suit. Dammit, Scuttle, perhaps the man gets thin carrying that long-winded name around with him.”

“Yes, sir,” the spy said with a broad smile.

“You said they were delayed a half hour in getting there when Bradercrust called.”

“Yes, sir. That’s right. It seems that there was a slow leak in one of Wolganheimer’s tires, and when he went to change the tire, he found that the nut which holds the spare tire in place had been put on against the threads and was screwed on so tight they simply couldn’t loosen it. So Wolganheimer had to repair the flat by taking off the casing, pulling out the tube, patching, and then inflating the tire by hand.”

“Couldn’t they have done something better than that?” Leith asked. “Surely they could have got a taxi, or one of them could have stopped a passing motorist and ridden in. If I had a hundred thousand dollars in a safe and the guard was drugged, I’d get there.”

“Yes, sir, but you forgot they took Bettler to a very lonely isolated spot in order to keep the newspapers from finding out what had happened. Coming back, they were on a road where there was no traffic.”

“I see,” Leith said moodily. “Look here, Scuttle. In this photograph it shows a water cooler standing there in the corridor. As I remember it, it was very warm three nights ago. Isn’t it possible that both Bettler and Bradercrust drank water from the cooler; also the dog—”

“You’ll pardon me, sir,” the spy interrupted diffidently, “but that’s already been gone over.”

“What has?”

“The water cooler.”

“What about it?”

“Bonneguard thought, of course, that was how the drug had been administered, because Bradercrust remembered taking a drink of water from the cooler. But Bonneguard turned the cooler over to the police who made a detailed examination and found not the slightest trace of any drug whatever in the water.”

“Was there anything different about that one police dog which was drugged?” Leith asked. “Was his history exactly the same as the others?”

“Yes, sir, absolutely the same. The dogs were all purchased from an agency which makes it its business to supply watchdogs. They are trained to recognize only certain people, and as watchdogs, they’re very superior.”

“And those dogs were all furnished at the same time?”

“Yes, sir.”

Lester Leith frowned at the tips of his bedroom slippers. “Let me take a look at that picture of the Wilmeier Avenue house, Scuttle.”

The spy silently passed over the clippings. Leith studied them for several minutes; then, whistling a little tune, placed his thumbnail over one of the barred windows, completely blotting it from sight.

“Pardon me, sir. May I ask what you’re doing?” the valet asked.

“Yes, Scuttle,” he said, still absent-mindedly. “I was wondering when the house was remodeled as a fortress, those bars and so forth. Was that part of the house changed after Bonneguard purchased it?”

“Yes, sir. When Bonneguard purchased the house, he fixed it up the way he wanted it. The steel doors and iron bars were installed by Wolganheimer and Bonneguard. They’re both carpenters and contractors and did the work themselves.”

“Had these bars been tampered with, Scuttle?”

“No, sir, the bars were firmly in place, and the windows were closed and locked on the inside. Wolganheimer had locked them the last thing before he and Bonneguard had left, and they both inspected them again as soon as they realized the money had been taken from the safe.”

“And Wolganheimer’s young lady friend is the hula dancer, Scuttle?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Of course, Scuttle, spies from time immemorial have been recruited from the ranks of dancers and glamour girls.”

“Yes, sir, but this young woman is hardly a professional spy. She has a record back of her of several consecutive years in the theatrical world.”

Leith nodded absent-mindedly, sat in silent concentration for a matter of some fifteen minutes. Once or twice his head moved thoughtfully in an almost imperceptible nod. His pet parakeet, venturing through the open door of its cage, fluttered around the room and then settled to rest on Leith’s shoulder where it began preening the hair around the base of his neck.

Leith said: “Scuttle, it occurs to me that one might reach an academic solution of this crime if he had certain things.”

“Yes, sir,” the spy said eagerly.

“One of the first things he would want,” Leith declared, “would be a hula dancer, one of those girls whose form is as quiveringly tremulous as jelly on a plate. One would want a large-sized monkey wrench, a secondhand automobile, a ukulele, seven cowboy hats, and a ‘human-skeleton’ broncobuster. In addition, Scuttle, he’d want a small replica of a surfboard stamped from solid gold. The border would be embellished with several small diamonds. You know what I mean, Scuttle, a small replica of a surfboard such as is used on the beach at Waikiki. And I think that would about cover the situation. Oh, yes, one thing more. It would be necessary to organize the Hawaiian-American Aesthetic Art Association. It would be necessary for the association to have offices in a downtown office building, and the association would, of course, need a president. I would say offhand, Scuttle, that you’d make a very excellent president.”

The spy stared at Lester Leith with eyes in which there was a sudden hostility. “You’re making a joke of it,” he said with dignity. “You’re trying to ridicule the whole matter, make me feel like a fool for having tried to help you find an interesting crime.”

Lester Leith shook his head. “No, I’m not, Scuttle,” he said. “Given those things, I see no reason why the case shouldn’t be carried to a satisfactory conclusion — by a private investigator, of course. The police could never do it. The trouble with the police, Scuttle, as I have pointed out to you on so many occasions, is that they are completely lacking in imagination.”

“Yes, sir,” the spy said, regaining his assumed servility with an effort. “Of course, sir, I realize that you don’t expect to be taken seriously.”

Leith said: “The devil I don’t, Scuttle! Here, take a couple of ads for the newspaper, something like this: ‘Wanted — educated, talented, beautiful hula dancer of Hawaiian extraction. Must be slender, active, graceful and supple. Wanted — thin broncobuster who can ride them when they buck, should be between five foot seven and five foot eight and weigh under a hundred pounds, wear a seven-and-a-quarter hat and be experienced in riding broncos. Excellent pay for the right party.’

“And now, Scuttle, if you’ll see about getting me a very large monkey wrench, and seven cowboy hats, I’ll attend to the rest of it myself.”

“Seven cowboy hats, sir?”

“Yes, Scuttle. Now, there are several varieties of cowboy hat. There is what is known as the two-gallon hat, the five-gallon hat, and the ten-gallon hat. I want the ten-gallon hat, Scuttle, and it should be lined with silk.”

“Any particular size, sir?”

“Seven and a quarter.”

“Do I understand, sir,” the spy asked, his enthusiasm dampened by his incredulity, “that you’re planning to solve this case of the drugged watchman by any such a collection as this?”

“Good heavens, no, Scuttle! I’m merely getting these things together so I can convince you that by using them to advantage, a person could solve the crime, that’s all.”

The spy sighed patiently. “You really wish me to put these ads in the paper, sir?”

“Yes, Scuttle. Phone them in right away. No, never mind. I’ll attend to the ads myself. And now I’m going to have a fast set of tennis with an estimable young lady. You may get out my tennis things, and I’ll hop into them and get started.”