The Seven Sinister Sombreros

Chapter V. The Green-Eyed Monster.

Io Wahine was sprawled in velvety-skinned comfort on the chaise longue. Her features were relaxed in the effortless smile which is the natural heritage of the Hawaiian. Pearly teeth showed between red lips. The clear olive skin of her face served as a fitting background for the smoky hue of her limpid eyes. There was something completely at rest about her, a relaxation which spoke of perfect muscular co-ordination, reminiscent of a cat sprawled on a hearth.

Job Wolganheimer, on the other hand, was the exact antithesis. So thin that he seemed to be nothing but skin and bones, bowlegged, restlesseyed, he paced the floor, walked over to the window, looked down into the alley, walked over to the wall, stared moodily at a picture, went to the kitchen, had a drink of water, and called raspingly over his shoulder:

“How about it, Io? Want a drink?”

“No, thanks,” she said, in lazy tones of perfect contentment.

Wolganheimer walked back into the living rooms, snapping his fingers nervously. For the tenth time within the last twenty minutes, he looked at his watch.

“Bonneguard was to be here,” he said, “ten minutes ago. I wonder what’s keeping him.”

Io Wahine saw no reason for trying to answer the question.

Wolganheimer again walked over to the window, looked down into the alley.

“When I tell Bonneguard what I’ve got on Bradercrust, there’s going to be a big blowoff,” he said. “You and I probably will have to lie low for a while. It’s going to make a stink.”

“What do you have on Bradercrust?” she asked, with a curiosity which was so indolent that, when he didn’t answer the question, she merely yawned, stretched her superb figure, raised her arms and clasped her hands behind her head.

The doorbell rang.

Wolganheimer jumped as though a shot had been fired, whirled and raced toward the door.

Io Wahine unclasped her hands, made the gesture of pulling her skirt down over her smooth limbs. Then deciding that it was too much effort, dropped her arms so that the backs of her fingers rested lightly on the carpet.

Wolganheimer flung open the door.

“Well,” he said, “it took you long enough to get—” He broke off to stare in surprise at a messenger in the conventional uniform of the Western Union Telegraph Co.

“Telegram for Io Wahine at this address,” the messenger said. “She here?”

The Hawaiian dancer swung from the couch with the smooth, easy rhythm of a trout gliding through the depths of a cool mountain pool. She took the telegram as well as the pencil which the messenger held out, signed for the telegram, tore it open, and then laughed with the sheer enjoyment of life.

“What is it?” Wolganheimer asked, instantly jealous.

She smiled her thanks at the messenger, closed the door, and handed Wolganheimer the oblong of yellow paper.

Wolganheimer read:

Job Wolganheimer, his narrow-set, nervous eyes peering greedily down his bony nose at the telegram, reacted commercially. “Why the hell don’t they say what the first prize is?” he asked.

Io Wahine, slipping down the zipper of her short house dress as she walked toward the closet, said:

“I don’t care if it’s nothing but a box of matches. It’s a recognition of merit. And think of the publicity value.”

“But look here. We can’t walk out on Bonneguard. We have to wait for him.”

“You wait,” Io Wahine called from the closet where she was dressing. “I’ve waited twenty minutes already, and that’s enough to wait for any man.”

“Well, you’re not going up there alone,” Wolganheimer protested. “How the devil do I know this isn’t another trick to ditch me so you can have a date with that Hawaiian boy friend?”

Io Wahine was always short-tempered when she tried to imprison her legs in stockings, her feet in shoes. She said: “Come if you want to, or stay if you want to. I’m going, and you’ve got five minutes to make up your mind. Leave a note for your friend and let him follow us.”

The telephone rang.

With an exclamation, Wolganheimer jerked the receiver from its cradle to hear a masculine voice say:

“Don’t forget, sweetheart, five o’clock.”

“Hello, hello!” Wolganheimer shouted into the telephone. “What the devil—”

He heard the soft click at the other end of the line as the party who had burst into such extemporaneous conversation gently, almost surreptitiously, hung up his telephone.

His face twisted with rage, Wolganheimer slammed the receiver back on the hook so violently that it almost pulled the telephone loose from the wall.

“You’re damn right, I’m going!” he shouted at Io Wahine.