Harper was still sitting upright on the bed, bracing himself with his hands, when the girl returned. She carried a glass and a square brown bottle. She drew the cork and poured an inch of whisky into the glass.
Harper tossed it off in one gulp. He coughed once, then reached for the bottle. The girl gave it to him, and he poured another third of a glassful. This he drank quickly and drew back his lips as the alcohol burned the cuts.
The girl dropped into a straight-backed chair, her eyes still on Harper. He returned the gaze, looking through the bloodied eyebrow without lifting his head. Finally he said, “How long have you been tied up here?”
“Over an hour. I was downstairs reading. When I went to answer the doorbell the three of them rushed in.”
“Where's the housekeeper?”
“She stays with her mother one night a week. Tonight's the night.” She leaned forward in the chair, rubbing her wrists absently. “Is—is uncle all right?” There was fear in her voice.
“I don't know.” Harper told what had happened, and as he finished the girl uttered a frightened cry, as though some forgotten memory had accused her, and sprang toward the dresser.
“They left a note,” she said, at the same time picking up a piece of paper propped against the mirror. She glanced quickly at it, handed it to Harper.
He looked at her for a moment without reading the note. One hand strayed to his face, explored with gentle fingers the bruises and cuts. Then he dropped his eyes, read:
If your uncle's life means anything to you, don't call the police. We will get in touch with you later. Don't be alarmed if you don't hear from us for a week or ten days.
Harper tossed the note to the bed. His mustache twitched above a bitter smile and his voice was hoarse, unemotional. “I'm going back to your uncle's room, get fixed up. I'll want to talk to you.”
The girl got to her feet. “Let me—bathe those cuts—”
“Afterward.” Harper moved toward the door, paused with his hand on the knob. “I'm going to take a cold shower. When I come back you can stick some adhesive tape where it'll do the most good.”
WALT HARPER'S appearance was considerably improved when he finished dressing after his shower. There was no longer any blood on his face and the cuts were clean. He gave a final tug to his tie, lighted a cigarette, turned away from the chest of drawers, and looked slowly about the room.
He inhaled deeply, blew out smoke in a thin stream. He righted the overturned chairs, walked over and opened a closet door. He pawed over a half-dozen suits, looked down at the shoes, the portmanteau and Gladstone bag in the far corner. Coming back to the chest he began at the top and examined the furnishings that filled the drawers.
There was a leather-covered wastebasket at the foot of the bed. He stepped to it, pulled out a newspaper, picked up the single envelope that lay beneath. It was empty and postmarked
Boston, Mass. June 17 1933. 6:30 P.M.
Harper turned over the envelope in his hands. He stuffed it into his pocket, stood motionless, his brown eyes thoughtful. He rubbed his mustache with the index finger of his right hand, reached back into his pocket, took out the envelope and stared at it.
“Mailed Saturday,” he said softly, “and today's Monday.” He grunted, turned on his heel, and went back to Aileen Reynolds's room.
She had recovered her composure now. Her blond hair was neatly done and her skin was pink and fresh-looking without makeup. The corners of her mouth were still red where the pressure of the towel had left its mark. She had a bottle of iodine, some cotton, gauze, and adhesive tape, and she started to work as soon as Harper sat down.
When she had finished there was a strip of plaster across Harper's eyebrow, another across his cheek bone, a third on his forehead. His left eye, blue-circled, was about half-open.
Harper poured another drink, stepped over to the straight-backed chair and eased into it. “How are you fixed for money?” he asked. And when the girl's eyes widened he added, “I mean, were you dependent on Dunlap?”
“No. When father died he left me about two hundred thousand in trust.”
Harper's figure stiffened in the chair and his voice was sharp as he spoke. “In George Dunlap's bank?”
“No. The City National.”
Harper leaned back in the chair. “Your uncle's had some threatening letters from depositors since his bank closed. You know, of course, that I've been hired to see that none of these threats are carried out.”
“But what will we do now?”
Harper surveyed the tips of his shoes. Then he looked at the girl and said, “I don't know—yet.” He hesitated and his voice was level as he continued, “As far as I know, George Dunlap was not to blame for the crash. Was he hard up?”
Aileen Reynolds caught her underlip with firm teeth, loosed it. “I let him have some money a week ago.”
The plaster on Harper's eyebrow lifted. “Much?”
“A thousand.”
The plaster dropped back in place. “He was paying us a hundred a week to act as his bodyguard. But he was afraid of those letters and he offered a bonus of a thousand if he got through this first month without being smeared.” Harper's eyes clouded. “I'd like to find out what it's all about.”
“I'll pay you whatever you ask if you will,” said the girl. “I hardly know what to do. The police— that note—”
“Never mind the police just now.” Harper stood up and his voice was frigid, deliberate. “You sit tight until I tell you different. And there will be no charge for my work—just expenses. If I get him back I'll hit him for that thousand bonus.”
CHAPTER II. THE SECOND BODY.
WALT HARPER was an enigma even to his partner. When pressed for information about Harper, Tom Munn had to admit his ignorance. The two had been together in Belleau Woods, had been given adjoining beds in the base hospital. Four years previous Harper had drifted into town as an agent for the Department of Justice. Munn had been a sergeant of detectives with the local police. Two years later Harper came back. He had some money. He propositioned Munn, and the two had set themselves up as private detectives.
That was all Tom Munn knew about Walt Harper except that he liked the game, that he was without sentiment, and that once on a case he stuck to it with the dogged determination of a bulldog.
At eleven o'clock of the morning following the kidnapping, the partners sat in their private office. The puzzled frown which creased Munn's wide, weathered forehead bore testimony to the fact that Harper was still an enigma.
Harper slouched in his chair, crossed his legs, and blew out a cloud of smoke he had been cuddling in his mouth. “What'd you find out about Dunlap?” he asked.