Hargrave looked at Sidney Zoom, grinned, a wry twisting of the features.
Sidney Zoom fastened his eyes speculatively on the pacing form of the manager.
Of a sudden that form stopped with an abrupt cessation of motion, almost in mid stride.
“Got it,” he said. “Remember Goldfinch said once that he had to have the floor fixed in his bedroom. He wanted a certain carpenter to come in for the job. I had to get that carpenter. He was an old man, a crab, but a friend of the old gent. I couldn’t see anything wrong with the floor. Betcha he put something in there. Let’s take a look.”
He spun on his heel, worked his short legs like pumping pistons, and steamed through a doorway into an adjoining chamber. Zoom and the detective followed. The fat man dropped to his knees, started exploring the boards with his eyes and the tips of his fingers, keeping up a running fire of conversation meanwhile.
“Must be somewhere — bound to have a will — must have account books — funny old codger — but I can’t afford to donate everything I’ve got to the estate — what a break! — what a break — ought to’ve known better — me, a lawyer, too!”
There were heavy steps. Phil Brazer stood in the doorway.
“Whatcha doin’?” he asked.
Hargrave jerked a thumb toward the figure of the fat man, crawling around on the floor.
“Thinks he can find something,” he said, and fished a package of cigarettes from his pocket.
Jed Slacker crawled about the floor, making odd puffing noises as the fat pushed up against his lungs. He fumbled with his right hand.
“Here,” he said.
Hargrave stepped forward. Brazer bent over the figure. Sidney Zoom stood aloof.
The fat man pointed to a section of the boards.
“Feels funny. Put your fingers on it.”
Hargrave bent forward. He pushed his hand against the place Slacker indicated. There was a slight click. A section of the floor lifted up on cunningly concealed hinges. There was disclosed an oblong opening in which appeared papers tied together with a pink ribbon.
The fat man sat back on his haunches, gasping for breath. A smile of serene satisfaction appeared on his features.
“That’ll be the will,” he said.
Hargrave reached for the papers.
“Just a minute,” said Brazer, and his broad shoulders and bull neck pushed Hargrave aside as he reached a thick arm down into the cavity. “I’m in charge here now.”
He pulled out the package of papers.
Slacker was wheezing, getting his breath back.
“Get the will — the will!” he said.
The detective thumbed through the papers.
“Lot of receipts, letters, cancelled checks,” he said. “Here’s some sort of a legal paper. Let’s take a look at it.”
He unfolded the oblong document, read it with corrugated brows, his lips moving soundlessly as they laboriously formed the words of the document. Jed Slacker peered over his shoulder, let out a whoop of delight.
“The will?” asked Hargrave.
Slacker answered the question.
“No. But it’s a statement that we hold the stocks in trust as a joint venture and that I’m to be reimbursed for any expenditures I make. Dated only a couple of days ago, too. I don’t care about any of his money, only I don’t want him to take mine.”
Brazer grunted.
“What,” asked Sidney Zoom, “is this?”
Hargrave muttered an exclamation of surprise.
“By gosh it’s a dodger,” he said.
The fat man looked his relief, also his lack of comprehension.
“Dodger?”
“Yes. The sort that describes criminals, the type that’s tacked up in post offices in the small towns and mailed to peace officers.”
He unfolded the grayish sheet of printer’s paper. It showed a front and profile view. Above it, in large letters appeared the words Diamond Thief! Below the photographs was a description. “Robert Reelen, alias Sid Whalen, alias Charles Gillen, super crook of the diamond industry. Age, forty-seven; height, five feet ten and one-half inches; weight, one hundred and ninety-four pounds. Scar on left hand running from base of thumb to wrist. Almost bald. Eyes gray, slight blemish scar on left cheek. This man steals rings and stickpins, also acts as fence for crooks dealing in such articles. He pries stones from settings and sells. Never been able to find his market, but he is able to handle stones for cash. When arrested will probably have diamonds concealed in lining of vest. I hold a warrant, detain and wire. I will extradite.”
Below appeared the printed name and address of a sheriff.
“Humph,” said Hargrave.
“Huh,” snorted Brazer, “I don’t remember no Reelen — but a guy can’t remember every crook in the country. What else is in here?”
He finished going through the papers. Then he leaned over the opening in the floor, plunged his thick arm in to the shoulder, groped about. A slow smile wreathed his features.
He withdrew his hand.
Within the cupped palm were diamonds, half a dozen of them. They glittered in the light of the gloomy bedroom.
“More?” asked Hargrave.
“Yeah.”
The bull-necked detective made another lunge down into the dark interior. Sidney Zoom watched him with narrowed eyes. Hargrave’s expression was a mask. Slacker re-read the typewritten document and grinned.
“Let’s me out,” he breathed with that degree of satisfaction which is only seen in men who are fat.
Chapter V
Madison, the Butler
Brazer straightened up after a few seconds. His face was very red from the strained position in which he had been lying. His huge hand cupped perhaps seven or eight diamonds. These were smaller than the others.
“That,” he said, “is about all.”
Slacker rotated his flabby head upon the thick neck.
“Can’t be. There’s a lot — somewhere.”
“Not here,” said Brazer.
Sidney Zoom lit a cigarette in silence.
“Let me feel,” said Hargrave.
Zoom tapped him on the shoulder.
“I wouldn’t,” he remarked.
The detective regarded him in surprise.
“Wouldn’t what?”
“Feel in there.”
Brazer laughed.
“No traps in there. I’ve felt all around it. It’s some sort of a metal box.”
Sidney Zoom nodded.
“Quite certain there aren’t any more, eh?”
Brazer grunted, got down on his knees again and groped around.
“Here’s one,” he said.
He brought out a stone smaller than any of the rest, a mere pebble of a diamond, looked at it, grinned.
“Wouldn’t bend down for another one that size.”
“Let’s give headquarters a ring,” suggested Hargrave.
Brazer grunted, walked to the corridor. “Telephone up here somewhere. Here it is.”
He called headquarters, reported, listened while the receiver rasped forth metallic sounds, and then turned to Hargrave.
“That’s a break,” he said, slamming the receiver back on the hook.
“What is?”
“Some of those latents have been checked. They’re the finger-prints of Shorty Relavan. Remember him? He’s the gem man that got out of stir two years ago and vanished. We haven’t been able to get him located. He hasn’t pulled a job that we know of. Now he turns up on this thing. He must have been layin’ low for a job that’d be big enough to make it worth his while.
“He’s the guy higher up all right. He’s the brains back of the thing. See the lay? He got the housekeeper planted, got her to spot where the sparklers was. Then he gets her to croak the old man and grab the rocks. Maybe he does the sticking himself... No, I guess the housekeeper did that, because we’ve got her. An’ it’s always better to have the guilty guy in jail than to have him outa jail. It makes a difference with the newspapers, see?” And Brazer winked one eye in a portentous and solemn manner.