Drury Lane’s Last Case (18 page)

“He must have planned it from the start.
If
something went wrong, as it apparently has. We've got to search now for a Dr. Ales, a bookworm or something, and how we're to begin——”

“Easy,” said the Inspector with an absent look. “That's my job, Patty. He said if he didn't call something would have happened to him, didn't he? That means that besides having a description of him, his name, his business or profession, we also know he's either disappeared from his regular haunts—he must hang out somewhere!—or been pipped.”

“Bravo, Inspector,” murmured Lane. “You've hit it exactly. You must procure an official report of all murders, kidnappings, and other disappearances from May twentieth, the day he 'phoned you, until a few days ago.”

The Inspector scowled. “I know, I know. Realize what a job it is?”

“Not quite so formidable as it seems, Inspector. You've very specific information to go on, as Patience has pointed out.”

“All right,” said Thumm gloomily. “I'll do it, by God, but what I'm getting out of it is beyond me. I've got to live, too, don't I?—I'll get Grayson and Geoghan on the job right away.… I s'pose you kids are goin' to run off somewhere?”

When Mr. Drury Lane deposited Inspector Thumm at his office and Miss Patience Thumm and Mr. Gordon Rowe in the leafy haven of Central Park, he signalled Dromio silently and sat back with a wonderfully thoughtful look on his face. Now that he was unobserved a multitude of faint quick expressions chased one another across his mobile features and he sat dead in the tonneau, clutching the knob of his stick and staring sightlessly at Dromio's neck. Unlike most old men he had never acquired the habit of speaking aloud to himself, perhaps because his pale stony ears forbade even the birth of the habit. Instead he thought in pure pictures, and some of them were so extraordinary that he shut his eyes to see them better.

The Lincoln catfooted its way uptown, bound for Westchester.

The old man opened his eyes after a long while and started at the sight of crisp green trees and a curving, park-bound driveway. He leaned forward and tapped Dromio's shoulder.

“Didn't I tell you, Dromio? I want you to stop at Dr. Martini's first.”

Dromio, that faithful dragoman, stiffened and half-turned his red head so that his employer might see his lips. “Anything the matter, Mr. Drury? Don't you feel well again?”

The old gentleman smiled. “Perfectly well, my boy. This is a visit in the interests of pure science.”

“Oh,” said Dromio. He scratched his left ear, shrugged, and pressed the accelerator.

He brought the car to a stop near Irvington, before a small cottage half-hidden by trees and smothered with vines and late June roses. A portly man with white hair smoked a pipe at the gate.

“Ah, Martini,” said Lane, alighting and stretching his legs. “Lucky to have found you in this time of day.”

The portly man stared. “Mr. Lane! What are you doing down here? Come in, come in.”

Lane chuckled and swung the gate to behind him. “Don't look so startled, you old bone-setter. I'm in perfect health.” They shook hands. Dr. Martini's tired eyes swept over him with professional penetration. “Look all right, do I?”

“Splendid. How's the heart?”

“Pumping magnificently. I can't say as much for the stomach.” They entered the physician's cottage; a woolly dog sniffed at Lane's ankles and then walked away indifferently. “I can't understand why, in my senescence, it should give out——”

“A lifetime of theatrical menus, my dear Malvolio,” said Dr. Martini dryly, “isn't conducive to clockwork digestion in the latter years. Sit down. I managed to sneak off from the hospital for a few hours. Maddening routine. I haven't had a really interesting case——”

Lane chuckled. “I have one for you.”

The physician took the pipe out of his mouth. “Ah, I might have known. Not yourself?”

“No, no.”

“For something really knotty,” remarked Dr. Martini with a dreamy smile, “I'd forgo even this afternoon's bucolic pleasures——”

“Needn't.” The old man leaned forward. “This is a case which—I trust—can be diagnosed from the armchair.” He looked about suddenly. “I think you had better close the door, Martini.”

The physician stared. Then he rose and shut out the sunlight.

“You're acting horribly mysterious,” he said, returning to his chair. The pipe dangled unheeded from his jaws. “Confidential, eh? A criminal case, I suppose. But there's no one about to hear——”

Lane fixed him with a stern and glittering eye in his best Ancient Mariner style. “When a man is deaf, Martini, even walls have ears.… Old friend, I've become involved in one of the most incredible adventures that ever fell across the path of man. A great deal hinges upon a certain point.…”

Dromio, who had been nodding at the wheel, flicked a bee off his lapel and started. The heavy scent of the roses had drugged him. The door of Martini's cottage, which had remained shut for half an hour, had opened, and the tall spare figure of his employer had appeared. Dromio heard Dr. Martini say in an absent tone: “I'm afraid that's the only solution, Mr. Lane. I must see the paper before I can give you an opinion. And even then, as I've told you——”

“You scientists!” Dromio heard Lane say in a lightly impatient voice. “I had hoped that the issue would be clearer. However——” He shrugged and extended his hand. “Kind of you to show this interest. I fancied there might be something in my inspiration. I shall have the paper for you this evening.”

“Hmm. Very well. I'll be at The Hamlet tonight.”

“Oh, rubbish! That's really putting you to too much trouble. I'll come back here——”

“Nonsense. The drive will do me good, and then I want to have a look at Quacey. Last time I saw him I didn't like the antics of his arteries.”

Dromio, puzzled, held the door open. His employer walking quickly down the path, stopped short. He eyed Dromio with a sudden bunching of white brows and said sharply: “Have you seen any one prowling about here?”

Dromio gaped. “Prowlin', Mr. Drury?”

“Yes, yes. Did you see any one?”

Dromio scratched his ear. “I guess I did snooze for a couple of minutes, sir. But I didn't think——”

“Ah, Dromio,” sighed the old gentleman, climbing into the car, “when will you learn that vigilance … I suppose it doesn't matter.” He waved his hand at Dr. Martini cheerfully. “Stop in Irvington, Dromio. The telegraph office.”

They drove off. In Irvington Dromio found a Western Union office and Drury Lane went in. He stared thoughtfully at the wall clock, and then sat down at one of the tiny tables and reached for a yellow pad and the chained pencil. For an instant he regarded the lead tip; it was well sharpened; but he did not see it, for his level eyes were fixed on something far beyond the range of physical sight.

He pencilled a message on the blank slowly, pressing hard under the vitality of his thought.

The message was addressed to Inspector Thumm at his office:

IMPERATIVE HAVE PAPER WITH SYMBOL TO-NIGHT COME FOR

D.L.

He paid for the telegram and returned to the car. Dromio was waiting, faint excitement in his Irish eyes.

“We may go home now, Dromio,” sighed the old gentleman, and relaxed with gratefulness against the welcoming cushions.

As the long Lincoln disappeared in the direction of Tarrytown, toward the north, a tall man in a dark topcoat with the collar turned up to his ears—despite the hot sun—detached himself from the shadow of a long black Cadillac sedan parked at the kerb across the street, looked about quietly, and then with quick strides headed for the telegraph office.

He looked about once, his hand on the door-knob, and then went in.

He made directly for the table at which Lane had written his wire, and sat down. Out of the corner of his eye he looked beyond the counter. Two clerks were busy at desks. He returned his attention to the yellow pad. There were faint impressions on the top sheet, impressions made by Lane's unconsciously heavy strokes on the sheet on which he had written the message to Inspector Thumm. The tall man hesitated; then, picking up the chained pencil, he held it between his fingers almost horizontally to the paper and began to draw light even lines from side to side. Under the grey mass Lane's message began to appear in clear yellow strokes.…

After a moment the tall man rose, ripped the yellow blank off the pad, crumpled it, put it into his pocket, and quietly walked out of the office. One of the clerks gazed after him, puzzled.

He made directly for the big Cadillac, across the street, got in, released his emergency brake, and with a powerful purr of gears made off toward the south … toward New York City.

15

Alarums and Excursions

It was late afternoon when Miss Patience Thumm returned to the Thumm Detective Agency from a modest but highly satisfactory shopping tour to find Miss Brodie in a state mildly bordering upon insanity.

“Oh, Miss Thumm!” she cried, causing Patience to drop all her bundles, “I've had the most
dreadful
time! I'm so glad you've come back! I was going almost
frantic
——”

“Brodie, I'll shake you,” said Patience firmly. “What on earth's happened? Why the hysterics?”

Miss Brodie, wordless, pointed dramatically at the open door of the Inspector's sanctum. Patience dashed in. The office was empty, and on the Inspector's desk lay a yellow envelope.

“Where's my father?”

“Somebody came in with a case, Miss Thumm. Jewel robbery or something, and the Inspector said to tell you he didn't know
when
he'd be back. But the telegram——”

“Brodie,” sighed Patience, “you've the common bourgeois fear of telegrams. It's probably an advertisement.” Nevertheless she frowned as she ripped open the envelope. She read Mr. Drury Lane's laconic message with wide eyes. Miss Brodie hovered in the doorway, wringing her stubby-fingered hands like a professional mourner.

“Stow it, Brodie,” said Patience absently. “You always act like the living figure of Tragedy. Go out and get properly kissed or—or something.” And to herself she said: “I wonder what's happened
now
. What
could
have happened? It's only
hours …
”

“Has—has something happened?” asked Miss Brodie fearfully.

“Don't know. At any rate, it's nothing to get in a stew about. Relax, child, while I dash off a note to father. Relax, darn you!” and she slapped Miss Brodie vigorously upon a buttery buttock. Miss Brodie blushed and retreated to her desk in the ante-room to relax.

Patience sat down in the Inspector's chair, seized a sheet of paper, moistened a pencil-point on the tip of her red tongue, and proceeded to engage the muse of creative composition:

Dear Roughneck: Our beloved friend the Sage of Lanecliff has wired you in most peremptory fashion to bring the Papuh to The Hamlet this evening. It seems that something's brewing, but he doesn't say what. Poor Brodie's had a conniption here this afternoon dithering about the fringes of the telegram, not daring to open it and not knowing where either of us was. She tells me that you are now engaged in earning some more money for me to spend; and indeed after Mr. Rowe took me walking in the Park and regretfully—I hope—went back to work at the Britannic, I proceeded to Macy's in pursuit of the most fascinating investigation into a new scanty (pants to you, darling); so you see I
am
co-operating. I shall of course carry on in the best Thumm Detective Agency manner during your absence. I am taking the Scooter now, and I promise to take very good care of the Papuh, too. Call me at The Hamlet when you get in. Dear old Drury's extended a dinner invitation and if worst comes to worst I'm sure he won't mind my wrinkling the sheets of one of his nice old beds. Be careful, darling.

P
AT

P.S.—That's a lonely ride up through them thar hills. I do believe I shall ask Mr. Rowe to accompany me. Now doesn't that make you feel better?

She folded the sheet with a flourish, slipped it into an envelope, and tucked the envelope into one of the flaps of the Inspector's desk blotter. Then, humming, she went to the safe, tinkered with the dials for a moment, pulled the heavy door open, rummaged about, came out with the broken-sealed manila envelope, and shut the safe. Still humming she made sure that the contents of the manila envelope were intact; and then she opened her linen handbag, a large and mysterious receptacle quite crammed with feminine gewgaws, and tucked the envelope safely away inside.

She dialed a number. “Dr. Choate? … Oh, I see. Well, it doesn't make any difference. I really wanted to speak to Mr. Rowe.… Hallo, Gordon. Do you mind my bothering you again so soon?”

“Angel! Bother me? I'm—I'm
overwhelmed
.”

“How's the work?”

“Progressing.”

“Would you greatly mind slowing the wheels of progress for the rest of the day, sir?”

“Pat! You know what I'd do for you.”

“I've got to make a rush trip up to The Hamlet with—with something, Gordon.
Could
you come along?”

“Please attempt to stop me, lassie.”

“Very well. In front of the Britannic in ten minutes or so.” Patience replaced the receiver, tucked a vagrant curl behind her ear, and went into the ante-room. “Brodie,” she announced, “I'm off.”

“Off, Miss Thumm?” Miss Brodie was alarmed. “Where to?”

“To Mr. Lane's in Westchester.” Patience examined herself very critically in a mirror behind Miss Brodie's desk. She powdered her little nose, touched her lips with rouge, and investigated her person thoughtfully from above. “Oh, dear,” she sighed, smoothing her white linen suit, “and I haven't time to change. Linen gets
so
wrinkly!”