The gray-haired captain of detectives said softly, “Something like that.”
“Put into words, Wentworth isn’t coming up to let us talk to him, and you are not assigning him to this case!”
“Something like that,” repeated Dunand, smiling broadly. He watched Haynes scrawl a few words on paper, and then said, “And that isn’t news, is it?”
“Want to hear what I’m phoning to my office? ‘Dunand refuses to assign Detective-Sergeant James Wentworth to Whitcomb case. Detective bureau apathetic.’ And what will the Police Commission say to that, cap?”
“I haven’t refused to assign Wentworth to this case, have I?”
The oldest of the police reporters took charge.
“Captain,” he said, “we aren’t getting anywhere. We aren’t getting any news, and you aren’t getting the abductors of Whitcomb and his youngsters—”
“Who said we weren’t?” demanded the captain.
Every reporter put two and two together. Several of them stood up.
“Where’re you going now?” Dunand asked.
“To telephone our papers that Wentworth has uncovered a clew!”
Dunand said urgently, “Boys, he… he hasn’t uncovered anything. Be reasonable!” The honest eyes of the captain clouded, and then he went on glibly, “Wentworth’s only checking on some data just brought in—”
“What data?”
And so the wise chief of the detective bureau began to lie for one of the few times in his life: “We picked up a vag, just a little while ago, boys. I’ll give you his name in a minute. He was standing outside the Whitcomb Building, and he saw a big green touring car with the side curtains all on, and while the machine was in front of the building he thought he heard a child cry, and then Whitcomb came down, very excited, and got in the green touring car, and…”
Three full minutes it took the captain to complete his fairy story. When he had finished, and the reporters had hurried out to get in touch with their various city desks, Dunand lifted the telephone again.
He was connected with the Chinatown squad room, and said to his sergeant of detectives in charge of the Chinatown detaiclass="underline"
“I’ve done more lying this evening than I’ve ever done before, Jimmy. It’s safe for you to come up now, boy. And if you haven’t picked up a real clew — which is why I lied, to keep you and whatever you’ve found out away from the papers until we get a chance to act — I’m going to send you out to the Sunset district where you can pick buttercups!”
Chapter II
Wentworth’s Clew
It was only a few minutes before a lean young man in the uniform of a patrolman stepped quietly into the captain’s office. It was only a few minutes, but in that time Dunand had firmly denied the pleas of two city editors, who wanted pictures of the “vagrant” who was supposed to have seen the abduction, and who promised all sort of influence being brought to bear on the captain’s gray head when the requests were refused.
The Whitcomb case had been on the front page for just a day short of a week. The city was aroused, not only because of the disappearance of the wealthy Whitcomb, head of the brokerage house bearing his name, but also because of the obvious abduction of the small Whitcomb children. Rumors — terrible rumors — were on every lip. In the meantime the police were not able to produce the man Cravens, who had threatened Whitcomb the morning of the disappearance, nor to find the Whitcomb automobile and its chauffeur. There was flaming talk, aided and abetted by the newspapers, which the administration did not find pleasing. Coals were constantly being dropped on Dunand’s head — and he could do nothing about it save keep after his men. Almost the entire department was on the Ronald Whitcomb case, but not a man had learned a single essential fact, nor picked up the trail of the clerk Cravens.
It was freely admitted that Cravens had just cause for anger against Whitcomb. The millionaire broker had advised Cravens to buy several varieties of stocks — or Whitcomb’s office had advised it, which was the same thing — and Cravens had lost his savings. But that was not unusual. Many others were in the same fix, and through no real fault of Whitcomb’s. Had Cravens taken a good punch at the broker, San Francisco would have said, “Served him right!” and laughed about it. But kidnapping three children, as well as Whitcomb himself, was a different matter.
The department was baffled. Here was what appeared an obvious crime, with the criminal known, and yet they were unable to produce the man.
All of this was in Dunand’s mind as he said, “Sit down, Jimmy. I’ve lied hot and heavy to give you time, lad. Now, let’s hear what you’ve picked up.”
Wentworth said soberly, “Yes, sir. It isn’t much, but it’s a clew—”
“It’d better be,” Dunand snapped. “Or the department’ll be in a fine mess. I’ll be the judge. What is it?”
The youthful sergeant of detectives reached into his trousers pocket, and as he withdrew his hand said gravely. “I’m afraid I’ll have to be the judge, sir. It’s in my line… this is it.”
“That? What’s that?”
Dunand stared at the object in Wentworth’s hand.
It was small, no larger than an apple, which, at first glance, it resembled. A closer look showed that it was the body of an idol of some strange god, with the arms folded, and the legs drawn up. The image was of carved wood, and very old; so old that the surface was smooth, brown, and polished.
Wentworth slowly turned the curious little talisman between his fingers, so Dunand could see where the head had been. Here the wood was much lighter in color, as if it had not been exposed long to the air, nor been handled much. And where the head of the idol had been severed, there was painted three tiny white flowers, no larger than the heads of matches, but delicately, beautifully done.
“That’s your clew?” Dunand said wearily. “That’s why I lied for you?”
Wentworth said swiftly, “That’s it, chief.”
“I suppose,” the captain went on bitterly, “you found it in Chinatown, rolling along the gutter? Or—”
“I took it away from a bo’ how doy who was hop-crazy, sir. If you’d seen him fight when I found it—”
“You mean fight because he was full of hop!”
“—you’d have known yourself that it was important,” Wentworth finished.
The captain stared at him, and then laughed shortly.
“I’ll get you a radio job, Jimmy,” he said. “Bed-time stories. But tell it to me. Maybe I can give it to the reporters! It’s a wilder yarn than I gave ’em, and I didn’t think that was possible.”
Wentworth stroked the image.
“An idol is beheaded only when a kidnapping has been accomplished,” Jimmy said softly. “The kidnapper himself does it, for several reasons. It prevents the god of Life from seeing where the kidnapped person is taken. It prevents the gods of evil from enacting vengeance on the kidnappers. And, lastly, it’s supposed to protect the kidnappers from capture, which, in China means they’ll be beheaded with dull knives, because everyone in China wants to see kidnappers harshly and painfully treated—”
“And because of this you want me to believe that Whitcomb was abducted by Chinese!”
“I don’t know about Whitcomb,” said the sergeant of detectives who had spent his youth in China, “but I’ll swear anywhere that the three little white flowers painted on the neck of the idol represent three children, and three white children at that.”
For a long moment Dunand stared at the curious, outlandish headless idol in Jimmy Wentworth’s hands, and then he snapped to action:
“What’s the Chink say?” he roared. Forgetting that he knew no word of Chinese, and that only Wentworth spoke the dialects like a native, Dunand shouted, “Bring him up here! I’ll talk to him! I’ll find out where the Whitcomb children are! I’ll… I’ll…. what’d he say?”