“All right, boys,” Sergeant Ackley said wearily. “Let ’m go.”
One of the detectives had a bright idea.
“The woman accomplice,” he said, “the one that posed as his niece. She was away...”
Sergeant Ackley hastily interposed an interruption.
“Let her out,” he growled. “She’s got an ironclad alibi, one that don’t need to enter into the case. I checked it up myself. That’s what delayed me getting here.”
The detective’s voice held a trace of admiration.
“Gee, Sergeant, you sure work fast!”
“That’s the way to work!” he said. Then his eye fell on the canary in the huge cage.
“Say,” he demanded, “what the hell’s the idea of that bird?”
“A very valuable bird,” said Lester Leith. “A Peruvian bloodhound-canary. I was hoping to try him out.”
Sergeant Ackley stared at the cage.
“False bottom, maybe,” he said.
The detectives shook their heads.
“Nothing doing, Sergeant,” said Joe. “Every inch of it has been checked.”
Sergeant Ackley fixed his moody eyes upon the canary.
“Birds have craws, boys, and maybe there’s a fine stone stuffed down this bird’s craw. Wring his neck and let’s have a look!”
Lester Leith’s voice suddenly became ominous.
“Sergeant, I’ve let you ride rough-shod over my rights long enough. If you take the life of that canary, I’ll have you arrested for cruelty to animals, and, by George, I’ll spend a hundred thousand dollars prosecuting the charge! That’s a very rare species of canary, and very delicate. It’s worth thousands!”
Sergeant Ackley’s face broke into a smile.
“Now,” he gloated, “we’re getting close to home. Pull that bird out here and let’s see what he’s got inside of him.”
One of the detectives was more humane.
“We’ve got the house physician’s X-ray machine,” he said. “We can use that just as well, and then this guy won’t have any squawk.”
“Okay,” said Sergeant Ackley. “Give ’m the once-over.”
The bird was held under the X-ray. The result was the same as the rest of the search — negative.
“All right,” said Sergeant Ackley, “we’ve solved the Cogley murder. That’s a good night’s work. Let’s get home, boys, it’s getting along—”
He fished mechanical fingers in his watch pocket, then let his jaw sag, his voice trail into silence as those searching fingers encountered nothing.
“My watch!” he said.
The men stared at him.
His hand darted to his necktie.
“And my pin! Good heavens! What’ll my wife...”
He paused.
In the moment of tense silence which followed, Lester Leith’s drawling voice carried a cryptic comment.
“I’m glad the young lady has an alibi,” he said.
Sergeant Ackley’s face purpled. “Shut up!” he bellowed. “I remember now, I left my pin and my watch on my dresser at home. Let’s go, boys. Get out of here. Leave the damned slicker and his canary!” And Sergeant Ackley pushed his men out into the hall, showing a sudden haste to terminate the entire affair.
Edward H. Beaver, undercover operative of the police department, detailed to act as valet to Lester Leith, suspected hijacker of stolen jewels, held up a grayish feather between his thumb and forefinger, and stared reproachfully at Ackley.
“I told you, Sergeant, that he never did anything without a reason. That canary, now...”
Sergeant Ackley banged his feet down from the desk. His face was distorted with rage.
“Beaver, you’re detailed on that suspect. You live with him, hear everything he says, know everything he does, and yet the guy keeps pulling things right under your nose. It’s an evidence of criminal incompetency on your part.”
“But,” interpolated the spy, “I suggested this about the canary before, sir. I suggested that the solution of the whole affair might be...”
“You’re all wet, Beaver. I even X-rayed the blasted canary. He couldn’t have had a thing to do with it!”
“Yes, Sergeant,” said the spy, meekly, a little too meekly, perhaps; “but I found this feather in the bottom of the cage.”
“Well, what of it?”
“It’s not the color of the canary, sir. It’s not a canary feather.”
Sergeant Ackley stared, his eyes slowly widening.
“Well, what sort of feather is it?”
“I had it classified at the Zoo. It’s a feather from a pigeon, one of the sort known as a homing pigeon. It’s barely possible that covered cage contained half a dozen homing pigeons, besides the canary, trained to go to a certain particular spot immediately upon being released. And then Lester Leith could have picked out a dozen of the most valuable stones, slipped them into sacks that were already attached to the birds’ legs, tossed the birds out of the window, and then later on, gone to the place where they had flown and picked up the diamonds. After all, we have no assurance except what Leith said that the cage contained only a canary. The cage was always covered. It may have contained homing pigeons, and...”
Sergeant Ackley glowered, bellowed his comment.
“Well, that was your business! You’re a hell of a spy if you can’t tip us off to what’s going on!”
“I warned you, Sergeant, that the canary was the key to the crime. But you overlooked the bird in the hand to go chasing off after...”
Sergeant Ackley’s chair scraped back along the floor as the big bulk of the sergeant got to its feet, as the sergeant’s face glowered down upon his subordinate.
“That’ll do, Beaver! Your suspicions are absurd, your statements incorrect, and your deductions too late. This department is interested in getting results, not in diagnosing failures. Get out!”
“Yes, Sergeant,” said Edward H. Beaver.
“And keep your mouth shut, Beaver!” warned the sergeant as the spy’s hand was on the doorknob.
The retort was a grunt, inarticulate, but hardly respectful.
Then the door banged.
Sergeant Ackley raised a hand to his necktie. His fingers caressed the smooth expanse where his diamond stickpin had formerly glistened. That spot was now bare.
Sergeant Ackley’s face was twisted into an expression which was neither prepossessing nor pleasant.
A Thousand To One
Lester Leith stood before the mirror, adjusting the white tie of his evening clothes with the deft fingers of an expert craftsman. Behind him, the police undercover man, who posed as his valet, held the tailed coat with a characteristic air of obsequious servitude.
Having adjusted the tie to suit his fancy, Leith permitted the valet to assist him with his coat, and the big undercover man made a great show of whisking a brush over the shoulders in a last, deferential gesture.
“How is it, Scuttle?” Leith asked.
“Very good, sir.”
Leith yawned, consulted his wrist watch. “Well,” he said, “there’s a good half-hour before I need to leave.”
“Yes, sir. A cocktail, sir?”
“Oh, I think not, Scuttle. Just a cigarette and a book.”
The spy, moving his huge bulk upon self-effacing tiptoes, eased over to the library table, and surreptitiously folded the evening paper so that the photograph of a smiling young man, holding a white feather between his thumb and forefinger, would be visible to anyone standing near the table.
Leith strolled over to the bookcase, selected a book, and turned back toward his favorite reclining chair. He stopped to stare at the folded newspaper.
“What the devil’s this, Scuttle?” he asked.
“Oh, I beg your pardon, sir. Rather an interesting case, sir. A man who habitually carries in his wallet a white feather.”