The Seven Sinister Sombreros

Chapter II. Beaver’s Theory.

Sergeant Ackley sat in police headquarters, his feet elevated to the edge of a somewhat scarred and battered desk. Careless cigarettes had left charred, black marks until it looked as if the edges of the desk were festooned with caterpillars. Sergeant Ackley was reading the morning paper. As he read, his lips moved soundlessly, forming the words.

He turned to the classified ads and read them mechanically. Not that he expected to find anything startling, but since Lester Leith’s surreptitious activities so frequently found a manifestation in the classified ad columns, Sergeant Ackley made it a point to glance through the “Help Wanted,” on the off-chance that he might stumble onto something.

Suddenly his eye lighted on an ad which read:

Sergeant Ackley spread the newspaper down on the table, marked the place of the ad with a heavy spadelike thumbnail. While he took a knife from his pocket and cut around the edges of the ad, he jabbed a call bell; and when an officer opened the door in response to his signal, he said:

“As soon as Beaver reports, I want to talk with him.”

The officer said, “Yes, sergeant; I’m expecting him any minute now,” and withdrew.

Sergeant Ackley, fishing a black cigar from his waistcoat pocket, clamped the end between his teeth, closed down his powerful jaw muscles, wrenched the cigar free, spat out the conical end tip of tobacco, wrapped his lips around the cigar, and groped for a match. While he was looking for the match, he read through the “Help Wanted Female” column.

Suddenly he stiffened to attention, pushed his extended forefinger against the paper, and moved it slowly back and forth along the lines of the ad which read:

Sergeant Ackley once more placed the paper flat on the table, imprisoned the ad with the spatulate end of his stubby thumb, and cut around it with the blade of his knife.

He had just finished pinning the two ads together, when the officer advised him that Beaver was in the outer office, and a moment later, the huge figure of the police undercover man insinuated itself through the doorway.

“Beaver,” Sergeant Ackley said, “he’s at it again.”

“At what, sergeant?” Beaver asked.

Sergeant Ackley handed him the two ads clipped together.

“Oh, I know all about these,” Beaver said.

“Oh, you do, do you?” Sergeant Ackley observed with ponderous sarcasm. “Oh, well, then, that’s all that’s necessary. Never mind making reports, Beaver. After all, our work up here at headquarters isn’t particularly important, just so you keep fully posted on what’s happening. There’s no necessity for letting me know.”

Beaver flushed, stiffened, and said: “I’m sorry, sergeant. I didn’t think there was any use reporting these two ads.”

“And why not?”

“Because they’re just a runaround.”

“Tell me about it,” Sergeant Ackley said. “And tell me all about it. Dammit, Beaver, when you’re planted on a job, you’re supposed to keep your superiors posted about what’s going on. These ads must have been sent in to the paper yesterday afternoon.”

“That’s right. They were.”

“And why the devil didn’t I know about it? I could have arranged to plant a couple of applicants. I suppose it’s too late now.”

“The other things that he wants,” the spy said wearily, “are seven ten-gallon cowboy hats, a huge monkey wrench, and a secondhand automobile which he prefers to buy himself. There are several other minor matters such as a gold surfboard incrusted with small diamonds, the organization of the Hawaiian-American Aesthetic Art Association, the renting of office room for same, and the selection of a president. At last reports, I was to be that president.”

“Then he is nuts,” Sergeant Ackley said.

“Not that,” the undercover man said quietly, “but I’m afraid he’s wise to us.”

“What do you mean? You didn’t tip your hand, did you?”

“Well, no — not exactly, no, I’m quite sure I didn’t, but I did try to get him interested in that matter of the drugged guard, just as you suggested.”

“That damn thing’s an impossible case,” Sergeant Ackley grumbled. “I don’t think there ever was any robbery. I think the whole thing is a frame-up.”

“Why’s it impossible?” Beaver asked, his voice showing his interest.

“It’s impossible because it couldn’t have happened the way it did happen,” Sergeant Ackley said. “We’ve checked that case with a fine-tooth comb, and the facts just don’t fit together. Not only is somebody lying, but I think everybody is lying.”

“I’d like to know,” Beaver said, “because I’ve been trying to get him interested in that case. I thought I really had him sold on it. He was sitting right up on the edge of his chair, listening to details, and then he pulled this stuff about the skinny broncobuster and the hula dancer and—”

“Whatever gave him the idea of the hula dancer?” Sergeant Ackley asked.

“Because Bonneguard’s right-hand man, Wolganheimer, is going with a hula dancer. You’ll remember that he has Io Wahine on the string. In fact, he was with her—”

“That’s right,” Sergeant Ackley said. “I remember now.”

“I’d like to know as much as you’ve found out about the case, sergeant,” the undercover man said. “It may make quite a difference in getting him really interested in it.”

Sergeant Ackley raised his hand to his face, scraped the edge of his thumbnail along the stubble at the angle of his jaw. “Well,” he said, “there was a bunch of money in that safe all right. We’ve been in touch with various police officers, and the government secret service gave us a tip-off. There’s no question that money has been pouring into headquarters, and from all we can find out, that money has gone. Someone made a good haul. But it never on earth could have been made the way they claim it was made.”

“Why not?”

“Well, let’s start in with Bettler. Now, Hanz Bettler has a pretty good record. Of course, that may or may not mean anything. He calls up Bonneguard, tells him he’s been drugged and to get some relief down to him right away, because he can’t stay awake. Bonneguard, Wolganheimer, and Bradercrust start for the place. When they get there, Bettler has managed to keep awake, and has been awake all the time. Drugged as he was, if he’d ever dropped off to sleep, he’d have slept straight through. It would have been impossible for anyone to have opened that door without his knowing it. And there’s no evidence the lock had been tampered with.”

“Leith got that all figured out,” Beaver said. “The thief didn’t have an opportunity to pull the job while Bettler was drugged. That’s why he had to drug Bradercrust.”

“Drug Bradercrust, my eye,” Sergeant Ackley said. “How the hell did he have a chance to drug Bradercrust?”

“Well, he did it, didn’t he?”

“Get this,” Sergeant Ackley said. “It was a hot night. Hanz Bettler took a drink out of the water cooler.Bradercrust took a drink out of the water cooler, and gave the dog a drink out of the water cooler. Now, that means the water in the cooler was doped, doesn’t it?”

The undercover man nodded.

“Well,” Sergeant Ackley said, “we grabbed that water cooler just as soon as our men got on the job, and it wasn’t doped. There’s absolutely no trace of any drug in that water or in the cooler.”

“They must have got it from somewhere,” Beaver persisted.

“Sez you,” Sergeant Ackley said. “Now, get this straight, Beaver. The guard watches the inside of the house, but in order to get to the inside of the house, you have to cross a strip of lawn. Widths of that strip vary from thirty-two feet at its narrowest point to seventy feet at its widest. Those grounds are patrolled by savage police dogs. Our detectives made a series of tests. Even conceding they could get over the fence or pick the lock in the gate, they were never able to get so much as a foot on the ground before the police dogs had nailed them.

“Now, there were just four people whom those dogs obeyed: Bonneguard, Bettler, Wolganheimer, and Bradercrust. The time of all those men is accounted for; therefore, none of them could have pulled the robbery. And yet no one else could have done it. Now, you figure that out and—”

The undercover man suddenly sat bolt upright.

“What is it, Beaver?” Sergeant Ackley asked, as he saw the expression on the man’s face.

“Bradercrust,” Beaver said, in a low tone.

“What about him?”

“The dogs knew Bradercrust,” Beaver said.

“Well, what if they did? Bradercrust was drugged. There’s no question about that. He was taken to the hospital, and his stomach was pumped out. There was enough dope in his system to—”

“Don’t you see?” Beaver exclaimed. “It was a cinch. That burglary wasn’t committed while anyone was drugged. Bradercrust managed to dope Bettler, knowing that Bettler would telephone Bonneguard at his house. Well, then Bradercrust went up and volunteered to take over. What happened? He picked the lock and burglarized the safe as soon as the other two had left. Since the dogs knew him, he had no difficulty whatever in going to the fence and slipping the package through the iron bars to a confederate. Then Bradercrust went back and took a drink of water from the cooler, dropped some drug into it, drank it, and gave a dose of the same drug to one of the police dogs, just to make the whole thing look convincing. Because Bettler had been drugged earlier in the evening, the whole thing made a perfect background so that no one would suspect Bradercrust.”

Sergeant Ackley’s eyes narrowed. For a matter of more than two minutes, he was silent. Then he said: “I hadn’t meant to tell you about that, Beaver.”

“Hadn’t meant to tell me about what?” the undercover man asked.

“About that theory of the case.”

“You weren’t telling me about anything,” the undercover man said. “I was telling you.”

“Yes, it’s true,” Sergeant Ackley said, “that you hit upon the only theory which explains what actually happened. It’s rather a peculiar coincidence, because it’s something I’d figured out about an hour ago and had just written it in my report to Captain Carmichael. Naturally, I hadn’t intended to mention it to anyone until after the captain had passed on it.”

The undercover man slumped down in his chair, regarded his superior with sullen hostility.

“Oh, I see,” he said. “You thought of it first.”

Sergeant Ackley met his gaze without so much as the quiver of an eyelash. “Yes,” he said. “I had written my report about an hour ago.”

“I see,” Beaver said, scraping back his chair. “Well, I should have known better— Do I outline any of this to Lester Leith?”

“You do not,” Sergeant Ackley said positively. “Let him pull his own chestnuts out of the fire.”

“I thought I had him interested in that case,” the spy said. “Gosh, I don’t know why he wouldn’t be interested in it! There’s a cold hundred thousand dollars to be picked up for the asking. The numbers on the bills aren’t listed, public sympathy is against the whole movement, Bonneguard is on the defensive, and will probably be brought before the grand jury, and I understand the government is figuring on deporting him. It’s an ironclad cinch for a hijacker; and then Leith goes ahead and gives me the runaround with this gold surfboard and all that stuff.”

“You never can tell,” Sergeant Ackley said thoughtfully. “He may not intend to use the skinny broncobuster with the cowboy hat; in other words, he may have padded out his order to keep you from figuring what he really has in mind.”

There was new hope on the spy’s face. “There may be something to that,” he conceded. “I would have sworn he was interested.”

“You should have reported those ads to me at once.”

“They sounded so foolish that I figured he was just giving me a runaround,” the spy said, “and thought it was better to pay no attention to them.”

Sergeant Ackley motioned toward the door with his thumb. “You get back on the job, Beaver,” he said. “I’ll do the thinking, and you’d better start now because I’ve got a lot of important work to do.”

Beaver scraped back his chair, lumbered toward the door. His face was a mask of sullen rage. In the doorway, he turned and said savagely:

“All right, I’ll get out, and let you write your report to Captain Carmichael.”

Sergeant Ackley pushed back the chair, and got to his feet.

“What was that, Beaver?” he demanded.

For a long moment, the two men locked eyes. Then the big spy shifted his.

“Nothing,” he said.

“It sounded like insubordination, Beaver. I’d hate to report you.”

“It was nothing. Forget it,” the spy said, and oozed through the door.

As soon as the door had closed, Sergeant Ackley whipped a piece of paper from the drawer of his desk, and started scribbling feverishly:

He paused to read the paragraph he had written and nodded with approval as he squared away and started writing the rest of the report, scratching his pen feverishly over the paper.