Rick liked the man from Kansas. He appeared to be an outspoken, blunt sort of fellow who liked to have a good time and knew where to go for it. Lucky thing to have met up with him. Mighty pleasant to have for a companion a chap from the right side of the Mississippi.
The show was in fact a good one, and Rick enjoyed it hugely. Pretty girls, catchy music, funny lines, clever dancing. Rick applauded with gusto and laughed himself weak. The only drawback was that Mr. Henderson appeared to have an unconquerable aversion to going out between the acts. It was incomprehensible. The man actually seemed to prefer sitting in the stuffy, crowded theater to stepping out for a little air. But then he was a most amusing talker and the intermissions were not so very long.
After the final curtain they pushed out with the crowd to the sidewalk. Rick felt exhilarated and a little bewildered in the whirlpool of smiling faces and the noise of a thousand chattering tongues.
“This is certainly New York,” he was saying to himself, when his thoughts were interrupted by his companion’s voice:
“What do you say we go downtown for a little supper? I know a good place. Unless you’d rather turn in—”
“I should say not,” declared Rick. “I had my supper at six o’clock, but I’m always ready for more. Lead me to it. This is on me, you know.”
So they found a taxi at the curb and got in, after Mr. Henderson had given the driver the name of a cabaret and supper room downtown. A little delay, and they were out of the crush in front of the theater; a minute later the cab turned into Broadway, with its glaring lights and throngs of vehicles and pedestrians, and headed south.
Suddenly Mr. Henderson pulled himself forward, thrust his hand into his hip pocket and brought it forth again holding something that glistened like bright silver as the rays of light through the cab window reflected on it. Rick’s curious glance showed him that it was a nickel-plated whisky flask. He watched with a speculative eye as the other unscrewed the top, turned it over and poured it full of liquid.
“Some stuff I brought with me from Kansas,” explained Mr. Henderson. “The real thing, this is. I always keep it in the sideboard. If you’d care to join me, sir—”
Rick hesitated. Then he blushed for the base thought that had entered his mind. It was all right to be cautious and all that, but it was carrying it a little too far to be suspicious of a man like Henderson. Still—
“Sure,” said Rick. “After you. I’d like to sample it.”
The other proffered the tiny nickel-plated cup.
“After you,” Rick repeated with a polite gesture.
“Here’s how, then,” replied Henderson, and emptied the cup at a gulp. “Nothing to rinse with, you know,” he observed as he filled it again from the flask. “The stuff’s too good to waste it washing dishes.”
“That’s all right.” Rick took the cup, brimful, in his fingers. “Here’s looking at you.”
And, following the other’s example, he swallowed it with one draught.
About three hours later, a Little after three o’clock in the morning, the lieutenant at the desk of the Murray Hill Police Station was conducting an investigation. The chief witness was a taxicab driver, whose face was flushed with indignation at the iniquity of a wicked world, and whose tone was filled with injured protest.
“I was in front of the Century,” said the driver to the police lieutenant, “when two guys took me. One of ’em, a short, red-faced guy, told me to hit it up for Shoney’s cabaret. I got ’em there as quick as I could, of course bein’ careful, but when I pulled up in front of Shoney’s the red-faced guy leaned out of the window and said they’d changed their minds and guessed they’d drive around a little. ‘Maybe an hour,’ he said, and told me to go up the Avenue to the Park. So I beat it for the Park.
“I drove around till I got dizzy, nearly two hours, and it seemed funny I wasn’t hearing sounds of voices inside. They had the front curtains pulled down. Finally I slowed down and took a peep around the corner through the side window. I couldn’t see no one. I stopped and jumped down and opened the door. The red-faced guy was gone and the other guy was sprawled out half on the seat and half on the floor. I yelled at him and shook him around, but he was dead to the world. So I brought him—”
“All right, that’ll do,” the lieutenant interrupted. “You’ve got a license, I suppose?”
“Sure I have. I’ve been three years with the M. B. Company—”
“And you don’t know when the red-faced man left the cab?”
“No. Unless it was at Sixth Avenue and Forty-second Street. They was a jam there and we was held up a long time; He might of ducked then—”
“All right.” The lieutenant turned to a policeman. “See if that man is able to talk yet.”
As the policeman turned to obey, a door leading into an inner room opened and Rick Duggett, champion roper of Eastern Arizona, appeared on the threshold. His face was pale and his eyes were swollen and dull, like those of a man roused from a long sleep; his necktie was on one side and his hair was rumpled into a tangled mass.
“Here he is now,” said the policeman.
“Oh, so you’ve come to.” The lieutenant looked the newcomer over. “What’s the matter with you? What kind of a game is this?”
Rick Duggett approached the desk.
“Listen here,” he said, gazing at the lieutenant with a melancholy eye. His voice was slow and labored, but he made it distinct. “Listen here,” he repeated. “I see by the clock yonder that it’s after three. So I’ve been knocked out for three hours. I came to in there fifteen minutes ago, and they told me where I was. I guess I’m straightened out now. A gazabo named Henderson gave me a drink of something from Kansas, and when I closed my eyes because I enjoyed it so much he lifted a roll of eight hundred dollars and a return ticket to Arizona from my pants pocket. You got to watch everybody in New York. It was Henderson said that. Perhaps he meant—”
“Wait a minute.” The lieutenant arranged the blotter and dipped his pen in the ink. “What’s your name?”
Rick achieved a weary smile. “My name is Billy Boob. Write it down and let me see how it looks. That’s all you’ll get, because I’m not exactly anxious to get myself in the papers in this connection. My name is Billy Boob, and I come from Ginkville on Sucker Creek. If that’s all I guess I’ll trot along.”
“I guess you won’t,” said the lieutenant sharply. “How do you expect us to get your money back for you if you don’t tell us anything? What kind of a looking man was this Henderson? Where did you meet him?”
“Nothing doing.” Again Rick smiled wearily. “Strange to say, I forgot to brand him. He wore a gray suit of clothes, and he had a red face and white teeth, and I met him somewhere talking about nonrefillable bottles. No use writing anything down, because I’m not making any holler. I’ve always had a theory that if a man can’t take care of himself he’s not fit to have anyone else do the job. The boys would run me off the ranch if they heard of this. I guess I’ll trot along.”
The policeman grinned. The lieutenant expostulated and argued. But Rick was firm.
“No, Cap, nothing doing on the complaint. You wouldn’t catch him, anyway. I’m going home and get some sleep. So long and much obliged.”
He made for the door. But on the threshold he hesitated, then turned.
“There’s one thing I’d like to know,” he said slowly. “Henderson took a drink just before I did, and it didn’t seem to make him sleepy. Is it a general practice around here to carry two kinds of booze in one horn?”
At that the lieutenant grinned, too. “Oh, that’s one of our eastern refinements,” he explained. “You see, the flask is divided in the middle. If you press the button on the right side you get Scotch and if you press the one on the left you get something else. Men like Mr. Henderson have them made to order.”