Leith considered the matter with the frowning concentration of one who is having trouble getting his eyes in proper focus. “B’lieve you got somethin’ there, Scuttle. Tell you what y’do, Scuttle. We’ll make a bet. Thash the idea — make a bet. Nobody can critishize a man for makin’ a bet with his valet. Even old sourpuss Ackley couldn’t do that, could he, Scuttle?”
“No, sir.”
“Thash shwell,” Leith said. “We’ll make a bet, Shcuttle. I’ll bet you fifty dollars I can fix up a crime, and Besher would prove he wash a crook. You bet me fifty dollars he wouldn’t. Then you’d go to Sergeant Ackley and ask him if there wash any law against makin’ a bet to try and prove a guy was a crook. He’d say, ‘No,’ and you’d say, Tut it in writing,’ and then we’d have it in writin’, right there in good ole black’n white, Scuttle. Somethin’ he couldn’t wiggle out of... Scuttle, there must’a been a li’l too much in that last drink. Ssh too mush — makesh my head feel big, makesh bandashe hurt. Take th’ bandashe off, Shuttle.”
“Yes, sir,” the spy said, and set about removing the bandage.
A moment later, he said, “I don’t see any bump, sir.”
Lester Leith laughed. “There wasn’t any bump, Shuttle. Jus’ between you and me, I wash gonna use that bandasze to get that twenty-five — get tha’ twenty-five...”
As Leith’s voice trailed away into silence, the spy said, “Just how were you going to use that to get the twenty-five thousand dollars?”
Leith’s eyes suddenly glittered with suspicion. “Did I say anything about twenty-five thousand dollars, Shuttle?”
“No, sir.”
“Then don’t put words in my mouth. Watch that tongue of yours, Shuttle.”
“Yes, sir.”
The fit of suspicion passed as quickly as it had arrived. “Thash all ri’, Shuttle. Good ole Shuttle. Think I’ll lie down for a li’l while, Shuttle.”
“Yes, sir. And you want me to get that letter from Sergeant Ackley?”
Leith said, “You couldn’t do it, Shuttle.”
“I think I could, sir.”
“Oh, no, you couldn’t, Shuttle. He’sh too schmart. Besides he doesn’t like us.”
“I know he doesn’t like us, sir, but I’m rather ingenious. If you’d only have confidence in me and trust me — I’ll tell you what we can do. We could let Sergeant Ackley in on the bet, and then we could let him win. We’d give him twenty-five dollars. Don’t you see? Make him a party to it. Then he couldn’t say anything.”
Leith blinked his eyes. “Shuttle,” he said, “b’lieve... b’lieve you’ve got somethin’ there.” And his head nodded limply forward.
The big undercover man, his face suffused with triumph, picked up Lester Leith in his arms and carried him gently into the bedroom.
Lester Leith stirred, stretched his arms above his head, and then groaned in agony. He reached out a groping hand, found the call bell by his bedside, and rang for his valet.
The big spy popped into the room with suspicious alacrity. “Good morning, sir,” he said.
Leith groaned again. “Good Lord, Scuttle, what happened?”
The spy walked across the room to the heavy drapes, drew them aside and let sunlight stream into the room.
“Don’t you remember, sir,” he said, “Mrs. Randerman was here, and you... you—”
“Yes, yes,” Leith said. “We had some drinks. Then what, Scuttle?”
The spy said tactfully, “You retired early, sir.”
“I must have,” Leith said. “Where did I dine, Scuttle, at home or...”
“You didn’t dine, sir.”
“Didn’t dine?”
“No, sir.”
Leith sat up in bed and twisted his face into a wry grimace. The spy said, “I have iced tomato juice and Worcestershire sauce for you, sir.”
The big undercover operative stepped into the kitchenette, returned with a tall glass in which ice cubes were clicking refreshingly. “If I may suggest it, sir,” he said, “you’d get the best results by drinking this all at once.”
Leith sighed, and gulped down the contents of the glass. He rolled his head wearily from side to side, and said, “Scuttle, was I drunk?”
“You had been drinking, sir. By the way, sir, I have that letter from Sergeant Ackley.”
“What letter?” Leith asked.
“The letter we were talking about,” the spy said. “Don’t you remember?”
Leith frowned. “I have a hazy recollection, a distorted mirage of a memory. Scuttle, did I talk too much?”
“Not at all, sir. You confided in me, I may say, a little more freely than has heretofore been the case, and I trust you’ll have no reason to regret your action.”
Leith’s features showed anxiety and alarm. “Scuttle, what the devil did I say to you?”
“Nothing that you need regret, sir. You mentioned that you wished to set a trap for Charles Betcher.”
“Well, disregard it, Scuttle.”
“And,” the spy went on, “you suggested that you and I might make a bet, that I could get Sergeant Ackley to take a part of the bet and give us his permission to set a trap.”
“Scuttle,” Leith said sharply, “are you making that up?”
“Indeed I am not.”
Leith said, “Scuttle, I can’t imagine myself doing anything so utterly asinine.”
“I think it’s a good idea, sir, particularly since Sergeant Ackley has walked into the trap.”
“He has?”
“Yes, sir. After you retired, and I saw that you wouldn’t— Well, that you wouldn’t be apt to need me any more, I slipped down to police headquarters.”
“But I thought you and Sergeant Ackley were at sword’s points.”
“We are,” the spy said, “but the sergeant has made certain accusations reflecting on my integrity in times past, and I used that as an excuse to call on him. I told him frankly that I intended to sue him for defamation of character.”
“And what did he say?”
“He apologized, sir. He said that he had been suspicious of both of us, but that he had come to the conclusion he was wrong. He said that if you wanted to resume your amateur crime dabbling, there would be no objection, just so long as you confined yourself to an academic solution and didn’t interfere with the police activities.”
Leith said, “Scuttle, I never wanted to solve crimes. I only claimed that frequently valuable clues as to the identity of the criminal were contained in newspaper accounts, and that the police failed to appreciate the significance of certain bits of evidence set forth in the newspapers.”
“Yes, sir. Well, to make a long story short, I told Ackley about our bet, and he said that he would like to come in for half of it. You might care to read this.”
The spy handed Lester Leith a page of scrawled handwriting, and Leith read it slowly.
“You’ll notice the endorsement at the bottom,” the spy said, “in Sergeant Ackley’s handwriting. He says, ‘I think this is a good bet, and I’ll come in on a fifty-fifty basis.’ ”
Leith suddenly jumped out of bed. “Scuttle,” he said, “get Mrs. Randerman on the phone. Tell her to be here inside of an hour. Get me those dark glasses. I want a suit of ready-made clothes with my sleeve and leg measurements, but cut for a stout model. I want those pearls and diamonds — the imitations — and I want that white feather, Scuttle.”
“The white feather, sir? I gave it to you yesterday. You put it in your wallet.”
“That’s right, Scuttle. I’d forgotten.”
The spy said ingratiatingly, “Perhaps, sir, since you’ve seen fit to confide in me to such an extent, you’ll tell me what you wanted with the white feather.”
“It’s a pocket piece,” Leith said. “I’m going to carry it in my wallet for luck, Scuttle.”