Leith continued to study the sardonically grinning countenance of Rodney Alcott, as depicted in the newspaper. “Any other photographs of him, Scuttle?”
“Yes, sir. The evening paper has a photograph — a snapshot taken by a young lady friend, a Gertrude Pell, with whom he was quite friendly.”
Leith frowned at the picture which the spy produced from the late evening edition. “When was this taken, Scuttle?” he asked.
“On the afternoon just prior to the call on Judge Mandeville. He and Gertrude Pell were automobile riding, and she took this photograph.”
Lester Leith bent over the photograph to study it closely. Abruptly he straightened and looked at his watch. The spy started to say something, but Lester Leith motioned him to silence.
Standing gracefully erect, Lester Leith moved his cigarette in a little series of gestures, as though tracing out the intricate pattern of some jigsaw puzzle. A slow smile twitched the corners of his mouth.
“Scuttle,” he said, “get me a package of linen bandage, a five-yard spool of two-inch adhesive tape, a long string of imitation pearls, half a dozen rings with imitation diamonds, a pair of very dark smoked glasses — the darkest you can buy. And I’ll want a white wig, a false mustache — a cane, a crutch, and a white feather — a fluffy, white feather from the breast of a pure white goose.”
The spy stared at him with wide, incredulous eyes. “Goodheavens, sir!” he exclaimed.
“And I’ll want the feather first, Scuttle. I’ll need that tonight. Have it put on my dresser in an envelope. I’ll be home early — shortly after midnight.”
The dazed spy took a pencil and paper from his pocket, scribbled a hurried memo.
“You’ve got those things written down, Scuttle?”
“Yes, sir, but—”
Leith interrupted. “But me no buts, Scuttle. Just get those things — particularly the feather. Without the feather, I can’t use any of the other stuff.”
“But I don’t understand, sir. I—”
Leith silenced him with a gesture. “My time, Scuttle, is up,” he said.
Leith started for the door, and the valet rushed to hand him his topcoat, hat, and stick. In the doorway, Leith turned. “The imitation diamond rings, Scuttle,” he said, “are for a woman.”
“Yes, sir,” the spy said. “What sort of a woman, may I ask, sir?”
Lester Leith paused long enough to slit his eyes in thoughtful concentration. Then he said, almost dreamily, “A woman who knows the world, Scuttle, a woman of around sixty-five with gray hair and twinkling eyes that haven’t forgotten how to smile, a woman with a sense of humor, a broad mind, depleted fortunes, and a background of vaudeville or stock-company acting. I want an old trouper. No, no, Scuttle. Don’t bother. I’ll find her myself.”
And Leith stepped out to the elevator, slamming the door behind him.
Sergeant Ackley stared across the table at the undercover man. “That’s all of it, Beaver?” he asked.
“That’s all of it.”
“I don’t understand it,” Sergeant Ackley said. “There must be something more which you haven’t told me, Scuttle, something that you’ve overlooked, something—”
The undercover man scraped back his chair as he jumped to his feet. “Not from you,” he shouted. “I won’t take it!”
“Won’t take what?” Sergeant Ackley said, staring in bewilderment at the undercover man’s angry countenance.
“That damn name of Scuttle,” the spy roared. “Leith calls me Scuttle because he says I look like a reincarnated pirate. He Scuttles me this and Scuttles me that. I get so damn sick of it—”
“Sit down,” Sergeant Ackley said. “That’s an order.”
Slowly the undercover man sank back in the chair.
Sergeant Ackley said, “We have no time to waste with petty personalities in this department. You’re working on a big case. It’s a case that’s taken altogether too long. We want this man Leith behind bars. He’s outwitted you on a whole string of cases. He’s going to outwit you again unless you can give me a better idea of what happened.”
The undercover man sighed wearily. “I’m the one he’s outwitted,” he said sullenly.
“Yes, you,” Sergeant Ackley retorted. “Give me the facts, and I’ll put them together, work out a solution, and catch him red-handed, but you’re always overlooking something significant.”
“Well, I haven’t overlooked anything this time,” the spy said. “I’ve given you everything.”
Sergeant Ackley puckered his forehead into a frown. “Well,” he said slowly, “if you have, there’s something about those photographs — wait a minute! I have it!”
“What?” the spy asked.
“The way Alcott is holding that feather,” Sergeant Ackley said, his voice quivering with excitement. “Can’t you see it, Beaver? The whole thing lies in the way Alcott is holding that feather!”
“What do you mean?”
“Alcott got that dough,” Sergeant Ackley said, “and ditched it. He ditched it in some place of concealment where it could be picked up by a confederate. Probably he had a hole in his pocket. He put the money in his pocket and stood over a ventilator or in a dark corner of the room, and dropped it. He knew that he’d be searched and arrested, but he figured he could get the newspapers to give him a play if he had a white feather in his wallet, and claimed that it was a lucky talisman.
“Notice what happened. When he was taken to the jail and searched, they found this white feather in his wallet. He begged them to be permitted to keep that white feather with him. Well, the sergeant at the desk was too smart for that. He kept the feather, because it’s against the rules to let prisoners keep their personal property in the cells with them, but, of course, he told the newspapers about it, and, of course, the newspapers, wanting some unusual angle of human interest on Alcott, fell for the thing, lock, stock, and barrel.
“The property clerk dug out the feather, and Alcott had his picture taken. Notice the peculiar manner in which he’s holding the feather in his thumb and forefinger, with the ring finger bent down, and the middle finger and the little finger sticking up. That’s a signal, Beaver.”
Beaver bent over the newspaper photographs which Leith had seen, and which were now lying on Sergeant Ackley’s table. His manner fell considerably short of enthusiastic assent.
“Of course, that’s it,” Sergeant Ackley said, gloatingly. “You give me the facts, Beaver, and I’ll put them together!”
The undercover man said, “If it’s a signal, it’s a signal in code, and Leith wouldn’t know that code.”
“Don’t kid yourself,” Ackley retorted. “His mind is like greased lightning.”
“But I don’t think— Well, it didn’t look to me as though he’d — It was this other picture that got him interested.”
“What other one?”
“The one that was taken from a snapshot.”
“Oh, that,” Sergeant Ackley said contemptuously. “That was before Alcott met Charles Betcher to complete arrangements for paying over the money. That picture doesn’t mean anything.”
The undercover man regarded it in thoughtful concentration.
Sergeant Ackley said, “You have to admit, Beaver, that it was something in the pictures, something Leith saw, something that the others wouldn’t see. Now this theory of mine—”
“Look!” Beaver exclaimed.
“What?” Sergeant Ackley asked.
“The bandage on the man’s head!” Beaver exclaimed.
“What about the bandage?” Sergeant Ackley asked. “He was injured in an automobile accident.”