Beaver said doggedly, “Well, the furrier’s in a loft building, and the fourth floor of that building might be on a level with the sixth floor of the office building.”
Sergeant Ackley’s eyebrows leveled. “You may have something there,” he admitted. Then he added hastily, “But I doubt it.”
Lester Leith, over a breakfast of coffee, toast, and crisp bacon, listened to the valet’s report.
“Very interesting, Scuttle, and I should say quite complete. How did you get your facts?”
The spy coughed. “A young woman in whom I’m interested is keeping company with a police detective,” he said.
“Oh, that’s right. You’ve mentioned that before. I’m not certain that I approve of the ethical aspects of the situation, Scuttle, but the relationship seems to have been signally productive of information.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you’re quite certain that Jason Bellview consulted the police?”
“Yes, sir. After midnight.”
“Let’s run over the story once more, Scuttle.”
“Yes, sir. Bellview placed the master blueprints in his vault. The big door is kept open during the day but is closed and locked at night. Nicholas Hodge, the inventor of the device, and Bellview had just finished a preliminary conference. The blueprints had been placed in the vault. Bellview had an important matter to attend to and excused himself for a few moments, leaving Hodge waiting in an office which adjoined his private office. Bernice Lamen, Bellview’s secretary, had opened and sorted the early afternoon mail in her own office and was just bringing it to Mr. Bellview’s private office — so she said. She had just entered the office when she heard the screaming from across the street. Naturally, many of the employees ran to the windows to look out. Bernice Lamen says she heard the door slam in the private office — the exit door as though someone had hurriedly run out. She assumed at the moment it was Mr. Bellview. That’s what she says.”
“It wasn’t Bellview?”
“No, sir. Mr. Bellview says he was in another part of the building. Whoever it was got the plans out of the vault. He seemed to know just where to go for them.”
“Any chance someone entered the offices from the outside?”
“No, sir. Frank Packerson, who has charge of the firm’s house organ, had been trapshooting over the weekend. He’d brought his gun to the office and, as soon as he heard the commotion across the street, he grabbed the gun, loaded it, and jumped out into the corridor. Hodge, the inventor, was the only man who appeared who wasn’t connected with the company. And, of course, I lodge would hardly steal his own blueprints.”
Lester Leith frowned thoughtfully. “How about Bernice Lamen?”
“The detectives watched the building last night. Miss Lamen returned to the offices. She said she was behind in her work. The detectives regarded that as being highly suspicious, so they nabbed her. You see, sir, a guard was instantly placed at the door to see that no one took the blueprints out. They must still be concealed in the offices. The thief removed them from the safe and hid them.”
Leith said, “The detectives searched Miss Lamen and found nothing?”
“No, sir.”
Leith smiled.
“You’re planning to do something about it, sir?” Beaver asked. Leith raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Do something?”
“Well, sir, that is, I was wondering if you had any more theories you wanted to check.”
“I think not, Scuttle. I find myself irritated by the stupidity with which the police have handled the entire matter, but there’s no call for me to do anything. My interest in these matters, Scuttle, is purely abstract — merely an academic speculation.”
The woman who ran the theatrical employment agency looked up at Lester Leith. At first her smile was merely a professional blandishment, but as her eyes took in the well-knit figure, the keen, alert eyes, the straight nose and smiling lips, her manner suddenly became more personal.
“Good morning,” she said, in a tone which had far more cordiality than was customarily given to unknown visitors.
Lester Leith smiled down at her. “I would like to write stories,” he said.
The smile struggled against a frown and lost. “There’s absolutely no opening for writers,” she said. “We don’t handle literary stuff ourselves, but unless you’ve had some experience—”
“Feature writing,” Lester Leith went on, “writing from an unusual angle — the human interest behind the news.”
The frown faded somewhat. “It sounds quite interesting, but I’m afraid we couldn’t—”
“Oh,” Leith interposed airily, “it’s just a hobby. I don’t care to make any money out of it, and I’m not asking you to place my work.”
“What did you want then?”
“An actress who would not be adverse to publicity.”
The woman at the desk said, “None of them arc adverse to publicity.”
“I want an actress,” Leith said, “who has what it takes, a trouper, a—”
“You won’t find those anymore,” the woman interrupted wearily. “Young people these days think only in terms of Hollywood. They regard the stage only as a springboard to help them jump into the movies.”
Lester Leith said, “My actress doesn’t necessarily need to be youthful. I want someone who has character and that something which is known as being a good sport.”
She regarded him somewhat quizzically. “There’s one waiting in the outer office,” she said, “who has done everything from stock companies to vaudeville. She really has talent, but — well, she isn’t young any more.”
“How old?” Leith asked.
She smiled. “She says thirty and looks thirty-three. I would say she was around forty. I have to admire her for the way she keeps up her courage.”
“What’s her name?”
“Winnie Gail.”
“Would she be interested in doing a job for me — as a model?”
“I don’t think so. She wants to be an actress or nothing, but you can talk with her.”
Leith said, “Let’s get her in.”
Winnie Gail proved to be a woman who was impatient of subterfuges and wanted to know exactly where she stood. She interrupted Lester Leith’s preliminary talk with a curt question. “Have you ever done any writing?”
“No,” Lester Leith said. “This is a new venture.”
“Listen, you haven’t the chance of the proverbial snowball,” she said impatiently.
“Tut, tut. I was afraid of that. Don’t go, Miss Gail.”
“Why not?”
“Fortunately, I am not dependent on my writing as a source of income.”
“Well, I’m dependent on my time as a source of income, and I haven’t any to waste.”
Leith said, “I want you to pose for photographs and a story with a human interest slant. The compensation would be two hundred and fifty dollars for two hours’ work — plus, of course, a fur coat.”
“Plus a what?”
“A fur coat — a silver fox cape.”
Winnie Gail abruptly sat down. “Now listen,” she said, “is this on the up-and-up?”
Leith nodded.
“You’re not wrapping a proposition in a cellophane package?”
He shook his head.
“I get this dough in cash?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“What do I have to do?”
“Throw a fur cape out of a window, and then tell me exactly how you felt when you did it.”
Winnie Gail glanced at the startled woman behind the desk, then looked up at Lester Leith. “You’re crazy,” she said. “But if you have two hundred and fifty dollars in cash on you, I’m with you.”
Lester Leith opened his wallet and counted out five fifty-dollar bills. As the currency fluttered to the desk of the woman who ran the theatrical employment agency, Winnie Gail said softly, “I haven’t seen confetti like that since I played Mother Was a Lady in the old Pelman House.”