The seventh shot A detective story
somewhat acidly. He felt the loss of sleep more and more, and was
fretful. Also, he was hungry. “What wild-goose chase are you off on
now?”
“None; I’m going round in circles.”
“You said it!”
“It’s a fact,” continued Barrison, unheeding, “that the little woman
back there was genuinely shocked and upset by hearing of Mortimer’s
death.”
“Rather!”
“But it is also a fact—also a fact, Tony—that that evening coat of hers
is damp this morning, and it didn’t begin to rain till after midnight!”
CHAPTER XVII
BLIND TRAILS
“Mind you,” Barrison went on hastily, “there are a hundred explanations
of a thing like that; it isn’t, strictly speaking, evidence at all.
Only—I couldn’t help noticing! Now, Tony, I want you to go home and go
to bed—see?”
“It’s lucky you do!” said Tony.
“Shut up! Go to bed and sleep your fool head off; and then—get back
there to the Golden Arms, and find out who saw Miss Legaye come in last
night; what time it was, whether she seemed excited, and—_what she
wore_! That last is the most important. Make up to the maid. You can
bribe, torture, or make love to her; I don’t care which. Only find out
everything you can. Get me?”
Tony grunted, and departed.
Jim turned his face toward Forty-fourth Street. He knew that John
Carlton usually breakfasted at the Lambs’ Club, and he needed his help.
Also, he thought tenderly of the prospect of a mixed grill. Barrison
could get along with very little sleep, when he was on a case, but
he had to have food. Carlton was at breakfast, devouring, with about
equally divided attention, bacon and eggs and the morning papers. He
welcomed Jim with much excitement and a flood of slang.
“Well, what do you know about this, Barrison? I can’t seem to get a
line on myself to-day. Am I the whole cheese, or am I an also ran? Do
I stack up as the one best bet, or do I crawl into a hole and pull the
hole in after me? Sit down!”
“Talk English!” suggested Barrison good-naturedly as he obeyed. “Order
me some breakfast, first, and then tell me what you’re talking about.”
Carlton, having with difficulty been prevented from ordering a meal
adequate to the needs of a regiment on march, condescended to translate
his emotions.
“You see, it’s this way,” he explained, munching toast and marmalade.
“That poor guy going out like that—I never liked him, but it was a
rotten way to finish, and I’d like to broil whoever did it alive—leaves
me, so to speak, guessing. My play is off, for the present anyway, and
I’ve been spending my royalties already. On the other hand, I’m getting
some simply priceless advertising! Everybody will be after me, I
guess, and all the beautiful leading men will be thirsting to play the
part in which poor Mortimer achieved eternal fame by getting killed.
I may sound flippant, but I’m not; it’s the only way I can express
myself—except on paper! Now, where do I get off? Am I a racing car or a
flivver?”
“You’ll probably find out soon enough,” Jim told him. “Meanwhile, I
want your help.”
“Nothing doing!” said Carlton energetically. “Meanwhile, I want yours!
I can live just long enough for you to drink that cup of coffee without
talking, but after that it’s only a matter of seconds before I cash in,
if you don’t tell me everything that happened last night. Beastly of
you and the governor not to let me back, so I could be in on what was
doing.”
Barrison told him what had happened. He was not too completely
communicative, however; he liked the playwright, and had no reason
to distrust him, but he knew that this case was likely to be a big
one, and a hard one, and he had no mind to take outsiders into his
confidence unless it was strictly necessary.
“And now,” he said, “I’ve done my part, and, I hope, saved you from an
early grave shared by the cat who died of curiosity. Come across, and
do yours!”
Carlton grinned. “Talking slang so as to make yourself intelligible to
my inferior intelligence? All right; fire away! What can I do for you?”
Barrison told him that he wanted to find out about a wild West show
called by the name of its manager, Blinkey or Blankey.
Carlton scowled at him wonderingly. “Now, what sort of a game’s that?”
he demanded. “What has a wild West show to do with my perfectly good
play——”
“Never mind. Can you find out for me?”
The writer shook his head.
“Not in a million years. I don’t know anything about the profession
except where it happens to hit me. Why don’t you tackle the governor?
He knows everything and everybody.”
“I may yet. But it isn’t anything that really concerns him. And I don’t
imagine he’s very cheery this morning.”
“I believe that little thing! It’s beastly hard lines for him! Tell
you what I’ll do, Barrison. I’ll give you a card to Ted Lucas. He’s
a decent sort of chap, on the dramatic department of the New York
_Blaze_. If he can’t help you, maybe there’ll be some one in his office
who can.”
“Thanks. That’s just what I want.”
Armed with the card, Barrison said good-by and departed. He met two or
three men whom he knew on his way out. One and all were talking about
the murder. He was not known to have any connection with the case, so
he escaped being held up for particulars, but he heard enough to show
him that this was going to be the sensation of the whole theatrical
world.
It was not yet ten o’clock, and Dukane would not be in his office, so
he went downtown to hunt up Ted Lucas in the roaring offices of the
_Blaze_.
He had to wait a bit, with the deafening clatter of typewriters, and
the jangle of telephones beating about his ears. Then a keen-faced but
very quiet young man rather foppishly dressed, and with sleek hair
which looked as though it had been applied with a paint brush, appeared.
“I’m Lucas,” he explained politely. “Wanted to see me?”
Barrison knew reporters pretty well, and this one was typical. The
detective wasted as few words as possible, but stated what he was
after. Lucas shook his head doubtfully.
“Never heard of any such show,” he said. “I’ll have a look at the
files, though. My chief is rather a shark for keeping records of past
performances. Will you look in a bit later—or phone?”
“I’ll phone,” said Barrison, preparing to leave. He had not expected
any rapid results, yet he felt vaguely disappointed. Or was it because
he was tired? “See here,” he said impulsively. “You cover a lot of
theatrical assignments, don’t you?”
“Quite a lot,” said the reporter indifferently, eying him.
“Isn’t there anything playing here in town now with a—a wild West
feature? Anything that includes a shooting stunt, or cowboy atmosphere,
or—or that?”
Barrison could not help clinging to that faint clew concerning
Mortimer’s connection with the “daredevil” outfit, out West.
Ted Lucas considered. “Why, no,” he said. “I don’t know of any. You
wouldn’t mean a single act, like Ritz the Daredevil, would you?”
“Ritz the Daredevil!” Barrison leaped at the name. Of course, it might
be nonsense, but there was something that looked like just the shadow
of a coincidence. “Who is she?”
“Just a crack shot, a girl who plays at a bum vaudeville theater this
week. I don’t know why she calls herself a ‘daredevil.’ It isn’t such
a daring stunt to shoot at a target. But she’s clever with a gun, I
understand. I’m to ‘cover’ her act to-night.”
Barrison thought quickly. It was only the ghost of a trail, but——
“You’re going to see her to-night?”
“Yes. Going to see the show from the front and interview her afterward.
She’s through with her stunt, I hear, about nine thirty. It isn’t a
usual thing, but Coyne—who owns the theater—has a bit of a pull with
us; advertising, you know; and we usually give one of his acts a
write-up every week.”
“Might I come along?”
“You? Sure thing! But I warn you, it’ll be an awful thing! It’s one of
those continuous affairs. Well, have it your own way. If you’ll meet me
at the theater, I can get you in on my pass. Eight?”
“Eight it is.”
Barrison waited for directions as to the whereabouts of Coyne’s Music
Hall, of which he had never heard, and took his departure. He went into
a telephone booth to call up Lowry, but found that the inspector would
not be at his office until the afternoon. Then he went uptown again,
and, taking a deep breath and a big brace with it, went to call on Max
Dukane.
He had no real reason for dreading an interview with him; the manager
had always been most courteous to him. Yet he did feel a shade of
apprehension. Something told him that the Dukane of yesterday would not
be quite the Dukane of to-day. And it wasn’t only the tragedy which
had brought him so much financial loss which was to be considered.
Ever since Willie Coster had intimated that Dukane had a secret
reason for keeping dark the conditions under which he had come across
Mortimer, Barrison had felt uneasy in regard to him. He had always
recognized in the manager a man of immense power and authority. If he
had a sufficient reason, he could guess that he would be immensely
unscrupulous as well.
However, at a little after half past eleven o’clock, he presented
himself at the great man’s office.
This time, though there were half a dozen people ahead of him, he did
not have to wait at all. The fact surprised him, but when he had been
admitted to Dukane’s presence, he understood it better. He had been
thus speedily summoned in order to be the more speedily dismissed.
“Hello, Barrison,” said Dukane crisply. “Anything I can do for you?”
He sat at his desk like an iron image; his face was hard and cold. He
did not look so much angry as stern. It was clear that, in his own
stony fashion, he had flung yesterday into the discard, and was not any
too pleased to be reminded of it.
Barrison was not asked to sit down, so stood by the desk, feeling
rather like a small boy reporting to his teacher.
“Yes, Mr. Dukane,” he said quietly, “there is. I’ve come about the
case.”
“Case?”
“The murder of Alan Mortimer.”
Dukane raised his heavy eyebrows. “I am not interested in it.”
“Mr. Dukane, I can scarcely believe that. Mortimer was your star, under
your management; I should imagine that the disaster to him must concern
you very closely.”
Dukane laid down a paper cutter which he had been holding in his hand.
“Concern me?” he said, in a hard, disagreeable tone. “Yes, it does
concern me. It concerns me to the tune of several thousands of dollars.
The part was especially worked up for him; there is no one available to
take it at a moment’s notice. But there my concern begins and ends. So
far as his murderer goes——”
“Yes, that is what we are chiefly interested in.”
“_I_ am not interested in it. Mortimer was an investment, so far as
I was concerned. It is an investment which has failed. I have other
things to think of that seem to me more important—and more profitable.”
“But you engaged me, professionally, to——”
“You will receive your check.”
Barrison flushed indignantly. “Mr. Dukane! You cannot think I meant
that. But if you were sufficiently interested to engage me——”
Dukane raised his hand and stopped him. “Barrison,” he said, in short,
clear-cut accents, “let us understand each other. I engaged you to keep
Alan Mortimer alive. Alive, he was worth a good deal to me. Dead, he is
worth nothing. I was perfectly willing to pay to protect my property;
but having lost it, I wash my hands of the matter.”
“Don’t you really want to see his murderer brought to justice?”
“I really care nothing about it.”
“Then you are not even willing to help the authorities?”
“Help?” The manager raised his head haughtily, and stared at him with
cold eyes. “What have I to do with it? What should I have to say that
could help?”