CHAPTER V

ARNOLD C. CAMERON put the telephone back in its cradle and walked slowly halfway across the room. He stopped for a moment in front of a pier-glass mirror set in a closet door.

From the depths of an easy chair in the corner an attractive brunette watched him from under languorous lids as he brushed imaginary dust from the shoulders of his well-tailored sharkskin suit and pushed back a lock of his graying hair.

“It sounded like a woman.” The girl crossed slender legs and looked at her toe.

Arnold Cameron studied her reflection in the mirror before him and smiled. He was a man in his late thirties and was always reminding people who met him of someone they knew.

“It was,” he said.

“Who?”

He left his place at the mirror and stood for a few seconds looking down at the girl before he settled himself in another chair.

“You’re the jealous type, Hilda, my dear.” He took a cigarette from a jar on the table beside him and rolled it between his palms. Small yellow specks of tobacco fell to the floor.

The girl swished the remains of a highball around in the bottom of her glass and finished it. “Do I know her?”

“No,” said Cameron. “Neither do I. I’m trying to figure out what the hell she telephoned me for.”

“When you get mysterious,” said Hilda, “you’re an awful bore.”

She held the glass out toward him. “Make another one, will you, darling? I’m dry.”

“You’re saturated,” said Cameron, “and I think you’d better go.”

Hilda’s soft, full lips curled in a smile. “Afraid of me?”

“Yes.” He got up quickly, bent over her, and kissed her on the mouth. When he straightened up again, his strong hands slipped under her elbows and lifted her to her feet.

“Do I really have to go?”

“Yes,” he said. “I have some work to do.”

“Something to do with the call?”

He opened the mirrored door and took her heavy plaid ulster from the closet, holding it out before him to help her put it on. She thrust her arms angrily into the sleeves, snatched her small stylish hat from the shelf of the closet, and arranged it on her head with trembling fingers.

“This is the last time you’ll ever put me out of here!”

“I’m sorry, Hilda, really.” His gray eyes were expressionless. “After all, I’ve only done it once before.”

“Twice is too much. I’m afraid I like men who aren’t always subject to the interruption of mysterious phone calls.” She stopped with her hand on the door. “I went down to your office the other day.”

“You did?” he inquired politely. “It’s too bad I missed you.”

“You’d have missed anybody who came,” said Hilda. “The door was locked and there wasn’t anyone there at all.”

She set her chin firmly and faced him challengingly. “Just what do you import, Arnold? I’d like to know.”

“Eggs,” he said soberly. “From Australia. The business has been badly affected by the war.”

He kissed her again before she could answer and adroitly eased her out through the door. He watched her down the single flight of stairs and called, “I hope you’ll change your mind and come back again. I’m really fond of you, and sorry if I’ve been a bore.”

He was answered by the slam of the front door.

Back again in the apartment, he picked up the phone and dialed a number. “Jack,” he said when the answer came, “is it true that there’s no way of tracing a dial call?”

“None,” a voice replied from the other end. “It’s a washout when the call’s once through. What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing particularly,” Cameron replied a bit testily. “I’m tired of having my evenings spoiled, that’s all.”

He hung up and went back to look at himself in the mirror again, brushing more imaginary dust from his shoulder. After staring at himself irresolutely for a few seconds, he turned with the quick decisiveness of a man who has made up his mind, crossed the room swiftly, and took a heavy Luger automatic pistol from the table drawer. He half opened the breech with an expert hand and glanced at the loading.

The gun was sagging in his side coat pocket when he stepped out into the hall, closed the apartment door behind him, and went down into the vestibule to ring Paul Gerente’s bell.

He waited for a short interval, staring out at the driving sleet and snow, but no answer came. He let himself back in with a latchkey and climbed the five flights of stairs to the top floor, where he knocked lightly on Paul Gerente’s door.

Not a sound came from inside. Cameron took a leather-bound key container from his pocket and selected a key. It fitted the lock perfectly. With the assured confidence of a man entering his own home, he stepped in. The door clicked shut behind him.

The lights were on, and in the fireplace embers burned low. Seconds ticked away on the busy pendulum of the cuckoo clock before he knelt beside the dead man in the cherry-colored dressing gown. A shadow which might have been pity touched his face, and faded into a mirthless smile.

He picked the blood-marked poker up, holding it in the center with a folded handkerchief. A couple of minutes later he was back downstairs in his apartment on the second floor.

Shut in, he went to work with precision. Concealed from casual view behind the many suits in the spacious closet, a small safe stood on the floor. Cameron shoved the impeding clothes to one side and opened the safe door. He took out a small metal box and a tiny camel’s-hair brush.

Back in the living room he placed the brass poker on a newspaper spread out on the table. He was humming tunelessly when he opened the metal box, dipped the tiny brush into the contents of light aluminum powder, and brushed the shining poker handle daintily.

The dust adhered in a light unbroken film.

Cameron took a lens from the table drawer and frowningly studied his work. “Damn waste of time!” he muttered, and went into the kitchen to mix himself a highball.

He came back carrying a glass in one hand and a square of paper towel torn from a roll in the other. He took an appreciative drink, set the glass on the table, and using the paper towel wiped the handle of the poker clean.

For the space of two cigarettes he sat in a chair sipping his drink and staring at the poker reflectively. When his highball was finished he picked up the poker again and took it back upstairs.

The fire was almost out.

Cameron replaced the weapon on the floor beside the dead man and began to search the room. He went over it skillfully and swiftly, making sure that he left no signs of disorder. Fifteen minutes satisfied him, and he transferred his search to the adjoining room.

A table lamp glowed softly as he pushed the switch. It disclosed a bedroom furnished in simple masculine fashion with a double bed, a combination bookcase and desk, and two comfortable chairs.

Without hesitation Cameron opened the desk. The front swung down to make a writing table. He reached inside and opened the right-hand drawer, pulling it out entirely. Groping inside the cavity, he located a niche large enough to receive the end of his finger. A slight tug swung out the center of the desk, disclosing a hidden drawer.

The shallow compartment was empty. He closed it slowly, tried it once to make sure it was fastened, and replaced the desk drawer. Answering promptly, as though shutting the desk had released some controlling spring, the cuckoo clock struck half-past eleven.

Cameron’s gray eyes turned toward the curtains separating the two rooms. He sucked in his lower lip and bit it lightly, then slid his right hand into his coat pocket and closed it about the butt of the Luger 7.65. Following close on the noisy strike of the cuckoo clock someone had knocked demandingly on the apartment door.

He stood motionless, breathing easily, his thumb pressed against the safety catch of the gun. The knock sounded again, more insistent. Cameron’s eyes widened and his serious face was lightened by a perversely mischievous smile.

Moving effortlessly, and with the quiet ease of muscles kept in perfect trim, he brushed the curtains aside, stepped into the living room, and bent over the still form on the floor. Quickly he seized the poker, and with a rolling motion pressed the shiny brass handle against the fingers of the body’s stiffening right hand. When that was done, he grasped the brass handle with his own right hand and for a split second brandished the weapon threateningly in the air.

From the hall, a voice called “Mr. Gerente!” The summons was followed by another knock. Cameron replaced the poker beside the body, strode across the room, and opened the door.

A dark, strikingly handsome man in a sleet-spattered tan mackintosh stood across the threshold. He gave a friendly grin which brought the whole of his rugged face to life, except his eyes. They gave Cameron an uneasy illusion that the newcomer was looking through him, concentrating on some indefinite spot on the opposite wall.

“It’s beastly of me to disturb you again tonight.” The man stepped inside. “I’m overcautious, I guess—” He stopped just inside the door.

“Come in, Captain Maclain.” Cameron fell back precipitately. Two German shepherd dogs had preceded Maclain from the hall. The one on the Captain’s left stared about the room with kindly inquisitiveness. Maclain’s left hand rested lightly upon a U-shaped brace attached to her harness. It was the dog to the Captain’s right which kept Cameron’s feet leadenly still.

There was danger in the set of the white teeth, strength in the broad jaws and forechest, unflinching courage in the stance of the full, erect tail. Menacing almond eyes turned their unwavering gaze from Cameron to the corpse on the hearth. The heavy leather leash tightened around the Captain’s hand as the dog stepped forward with a threatening growl.

“Stand, Dreist!” Maclain snapped out. The affability of his voice was gone. “This dog is extremely dangerous,” he continued in a flat warning tone. “I won’t be able to control him and he’ll tear you to pieces if you try to pull a gun. Move very cautiously, please, and seat yourself in a chair.”

Cameron obeyed without answering. His forehead was damp and a muscle showed tight along the length of his jaw. When he was seated, he said, “Perhaps you don’t mind explaining your reasons for coming here, Captain Maclain.”

“Not at all. Lie down, Schnucke!” the dog in the Seeing-Eye harness obeyed. The Captain tightened his hold on Dreist’s leash and walked toward the sound of Cameron’s voice. “Sit quietly, please, and keep your arms out from your sides.” An instant later he produced Cameron’s gun, and quickly stowed it away in his mackintosh.

“You’re very efficient,” Cameron remarked sarcastically.

“I’ve been told so,” said Maclain. “My chauffeur, Cappo, is waiting for me downstairs in my car. Either you’re not Paul Gerente, or your voice has changed since you were in my office an hour ago.”

“How did you get in here without ringing?” Cameron carefully changed his position in the chair.

“My chauffeur found the superintendent. If you’re not Paul Gerente, I think you’d better tell me who you are.”

“I’ll tell you even more,” said Cameron. “Arnold Cameron’s my name. I was a good friend of Gerente’s. I live in the back apartment on the second floor.”

“ ‘Was’ a good friend?” repeated Maclain.

“That’s right,” said Cameron levelly. “He wasn’t in your office an hour ago, either. He’s very much dead behind you on the floor. Your dog was growling at his body when you came in the door.”

“Schnucke!” Maclain called.

The Seeing-Eye dog came up and placed herself at the Captain’s side. “Guard, Dreist!” he ordered the other dog, and dropped the leash from his hand. “If you don’t move,” he said coldly to Cameron, “Dreist won’t molest you.”

“Then he won’t molest me,” said Cameron. “That’s okay by me.”

Under Schnucke’s guidance the Captain stopped close by the body. Down on one knee, he ran his agile fingers over the features and lightly touched the clotted blood in the hair.

“He’s been dead for some time,” he announced thoughtfully, rising from the floor.

“Since seven forty-five,” said Cameron.

“You place it with great exactness.” Maclain stood holding his chin between thumb and finger. “How do you know?”

“I looked at the clock right after I hit him with the poker,” Cameron declared with a nervous laugh. “He came at me with it and I wrested it away. It was self-defense.”

“I’ll have to phone the police.”

“Go ahead,” said Cameron. “I can’t stop you with this dog slavering over me. I have a witness who can clear me.”

“That’s probably lucky for you. Who is it?”

“The girl we were quarreling over,” said Cameron. “Hilda Lestrade’s her name. She’s a good-looking baby, too!”