Lester Leith nodded. “The police, of course, telephoned Proctor & Peabody — to find out if an ambulance had been stolen?”
“Naturally.”
“And found out that none had. The ambulance was a complete imitation all the way through. Right?”
“How did you guess that, sir?”
“Simple, Scuttle. It’s as simple as the solution to the whole affair. The police simply failed to see the obvious thing, Scuttle.”
The valet teetered back and forth on his large feet.
“You mean to say you have deduced a solution to the crime — that, is, a knowledge of the identity of the parties who are guilty — from a mere recital of the facts?”
Leith shrugged his shoulders.
“Let us say, a tentative solution, Scuttle. Now, for instance, the social secretary of Mrs. Demarest?”
“Was instantly suspected of complicity, sir. She was taken to headquarters and grilled. It appears that she had been very careless with the engraved invitations. She’d shown them to several people in advance of mailing, although she had been instructed not to do so. And the list of engraved invitations sent out and those remaining in her hands didn’t tally. There were two unaccounted for. She said she had spilled ink on them and destroyed them, but didn’t tell Mrs. Demarest. She got the artist to fix new ones.”
Leith nodded again.
“You think it’s the social secretary who’s guilty?” asked the undercover man. “The police do. They’ve let her out, but they’re shadowing her.”
Lester Leith pursed his lips, blew a smoke ring, traced its perimeter with a well-manicured forefinger.
“Tell me, Scuttle. This social secretary. Is she very thin, perhaps?”
“No, sir. She’s rather inclined to beauty of figure, sir. She has wonderful curves, and her eyes are quite expressive. She’s the sort of a girl the newspapers like to photograph. Her name is Louise Huntington. There’s her picture, sir.”
Lester Leith stared at the newspaper picture of a beautiful girl. The face was smiling, happy. The well-turned limbs were crossed in such a manner as to show a tantalizing expanse of silken hose.
“Taken before the accusation?”
“So I believe, sir. I understand she was all broken up over the affair. She seems to think she’ll never be able to get another position.”
“Mrs. Demarest discharged her?”
“Of course, sir. She would, you know.”
“Yes, indeed, Scuttle, she would.”
“Was there anything else about the crime you wished to know, sir?”
Lester Leith did not answer for several minutes. He blew a succession of smoke rings.
“No,” he said, at length, “nothing else,” and then he chuckled.
“Something amuses you, sir?”
“Yes, Scuttle.”
“May I ask what it is, sir?”
“Yes, indeed. I was thinking how perfectly ludicrous you would seem teaching a fat woman how to faint.”
The valet’s mouth opened and closed several times before his tongue got traction on the words that he sought to utter.
“Me! Teaching a fat woman how to faint! Good lord, sir, what an idea!”
“It is an idea, isn’t it, Scuttle? Do you know, I think I should get a deep mattress to place on the floor. Then I’d have her fall over there in the corner.”
“But... but... sir... I don’t understand. Who is this fat woman, and where do we get her?”
“Ah, Scuttle, there you’ve placed your finger upon the point I wished to discuss. We advertise for her, of course. I would suggest a more mature woman, one who is about forty years of age, Scuttle. Experience has taught me that women of that age have adjusted themselves to the wear and tear of life. In short, Scuttle, such a woman would be much more likely to wear tights.”
“Wear tights, sir!”
“Precisely. I would suggest green tights particularly if you are able to get a blonde. The advertisement should be worded something like this:
“WANTED: Fair, Fat, and Forty. Good-Natured Woman Who Weighs at Least Three Hundred and Fifty Pounds. Should Know Something About Horses.”
“Know something about horses! Have you gone stark, raving crazy, sir?”
“I think not, Scuttle. Evidently you have failed to consider certain elements of the Demarest robbery.”
“Yes, sir. Such as?”
“Such as the fact that a woman who weighs three hundred and fifty pounds and deliberately falls downstairs, knowing in advance she won’t be hurt, must have had some circus or stage training. Then, when you add the fact that she is rather handy with a gun... well, Scuttle, the answer is obvious. She has probably done work with a Wild West show.”
“I’m not sure I follow you, sir.”
“She fainted and fell, Scuttle. Yet they all knew — that is, those on the inside of the scheme — that she wouldn’t be hurt.”
“How do you reason that, sir?”
“Because the conking of the detectives was an important part of the scheme. The reasonable time to conk them was when they were bending over to assist the lady to a stretcher, and the person who could most effectively start the conking process was the woman herself.”
The police spy stroked his mustache with what was intended to be a thoughtfully meditative gesture. But his washboarded forehead and twisted lips gave evidence of deep perplexity.
“And you want to put in an advertisement, get a fat woman?”
“Precisely.”
“Because you think the same woman might answer the ad?”
Lester Leith shrugged his shoulders.
The valet pressed the point.
“Yet that’s why you mentioned horses. A circus woman would know horses. You must admit that.”
Lester Leith smiled. “Skip along, Scuttle, and insert that want ad. We should start getting replies almost at once.”
“But what’s the idea of teaching her how to faint?”
“That, Scuttle, is one of the things I must keep absolutely secret. It’s between the lady and myself.”
“But you don’t even know who she is yet... Is it that you want to see from the way she acts if she’s accustomed to faint? Is that it? A trap?”
Lester Leith glanced at his watch.
“Do you know, Scuttle, there are times when your reasoning powers absolutely surprise me?”
The valet flushed. “Is that so, sir?”
“Absolutely,” remarked Lester Leith in a tone of finality. “And, may I add, Scuttle, that this is not one of those times.”
Scuttle inserted the ad, but not until he had made an appointment with Sergeant Ackley. Scuttle, known as Beaver on the force, walked from the newspaper offices to find the sergeant, parked in his official red roadster, waiting for him.
“Well, Beaver, you got him working on that Demarest affair. That’s fine! We’ll tail along and let him lead us to the culprits, if he solves the crime. And then we’ll nab both him and them. If he misses fire, nothing will be lost.”
Beaver grunted.
“I got him started all right; but no one knows where he’ll finish. He gets my goat with his Scuttling me this and his Scuttling me that.”
“There, there, Beaver,” soothed Ackley. “It won’t be but a short time more and then we’ll have the goods on him. When we do, you can start in working him over. I promise you fifteen minutes alone in the cell with him. If he resists an officer that’ll just be too bad.”
“There won’t be enough left of him to arraign in court.”
Ackley nodded.