Death from Nowhere (19 page)

Delaney wasn't quite so dumb that he missed catching the anger in Church's voice. He decided he'd better speed it up a bit.

“Sorry, Inspector,” he said. “I—I was standing there listening to her run off at the mouth and I heard a phone start to ring down here in this room. And nobody answered it. That seemed sort of funny because I was pretty sure I'd heard somebody moving around in here when I went past the door. So I thought maybe the old girl hadn't imagined the whole thing and I came over and tried the door. It was locked.”

Delaney stopped a moment, took another lungful of air and rubbed his head gingerly.

Church, sizzling with impatience, glared at him and started to swear just as Delaney got going again.

“I knocked on the door and said I wanted in. I said it a couple of times, and then a man's voice said, ‘Yes, just a minute. I was bathing.' The phone had stopped ringing by that time. Then this guy unlocked the door, and I started in. I saw right away that 720's idea of hiding under a bed hadn't been such a bad one because there was a man lying on the floor just inside the door.

“There was a knife sticking out of his side and a lot of blood on his shirt. I was just reaching for my rod when something hit me on the head.”

“That was a good idea, too,” Church muttered. “But it was certainly a long time coming to you. You didn't see the guy that hit you, naturally?”

“No.”

“And the guy with the knife in him. Ever see him before?”

“Yes. I was down at the desk this morning when he signed in. His name is T.G. Alexander. From Chicago.”

“I wish I could be sure of that,” the Inspector said skeptically. “If his name really does turn out to be Alexander, I'll give you a job on the force.”

Don Diavolo asked a question. “What about his luggage, Inspector? No clues there?”

“He didn't have any. He sent a bellboy out after some underwear and socks just after he checked in. He took a shower and probably changed to the clean ones. The ones he took off must have had laundry marks on them because they've disappeared too.”

“It looks,” Don said. “as if the murderer didn't want us to find out who his victim was.”

“It looks,” Church added disgustedly, “as if he was going to get his wish. Look what I've got to go on! Some blood, a bullet in the wall, a house dick who doesn't think very fast, and a magician who can't say anything but I don't know!”

Delaney came to bat again. “There was one other thing, Inspector. I got half a glimpse at it just before I got socked. On the corner of that table there was a package somebody had just opened. An oilskin wrapping and on it, a queer looking dagger. It was about a foot long, with a squiggly edge, and it was yellow like brass. It had a funny raised design along the blade, a cockeyed drawing of some bearded dopes with bows and arrows and a bull.”

“A bull?” Sergeant Brophy asked curiously. “You mean a cop?”

“No,” Delaney said. “I mean a bull. A gentleman cow, like Ferdinand — only this one had wings!”

Inspector Church's pained expression seemed to indicate that he was just about to have kittens. Wildcats probably, Don judged. But the marines arrived in the nick of time, in the person of the detective who had been sent to get the hotel register.

Church took it from him, flipped it open, and shoved it under Don's nose. “Well,” he wanted to know, “do you recognize the handwriting?”

Don Diavolo frowned hard at the neat script. After a bit he looked up at the Inspector. There was a scowl on his bronzed face and a deeply puzzled look in his black eyes.

“No,” he said slowly. “I don't. But I never saw much of his anyway. And—”

“His?” Church asked quickly. “Whose?”

“I'm beginning to get ideas, Inspector. Several things in the last few minutes have been gradually adding up and Delaney's bull puts the finishing touch on it. I don't like my idea much either.”

“Maybe I'll like it better,” Church prodded. “After you've told me about it.”

“The winged bull, Inspector, was a sacred animal among a lot of the early civilizations, especially the Persian. Theodore VanRyn, a young archeologist whom I knew rather well, started out three years ago on a field expedition into the East. He was going through Persia toward India following the route the armies of Al — so that's it!” Don blinked. “Alexander the Great — T.G. Alexander!”

“Theodore VanRyn,” Church said. “What else do you know about him? Where can I get a line on him? Who—”

“You might try the Explorer's Club,” Don said, “and the Museum of Natural History, but I call tell you one very interesting fact that you'll discover as you phone them.”

“What?”

“They'll tell you that Theodore VanRyn died in southern Persia over a year ago!”

C
HAPTER
VI

The Window Trick

I
NSPECTOR
C
HURCH
tried the Explorer's Club and the Museum of Natural History and that is exactly what he was told. News of Theodore VanRyn's death in a sandstorm had reached them from Isfahan, Persia, in July of the preceding year.

The Explorer's Club was also puzzled over the fact that several pieces of luggage, bearing VanRyn's name, had been delivered there that morning from the airport.

The Inspector's eyes grew round as he heard that.

“Luggage,” he said as he hung up. “There might be a lead in that. Yes, Muller?” He turned toward a detective who had just come in and whose satisfied expression seemed to indicate that he might have news.

Muller had news. News that pleased Church though it didn't help a lot. But news that made Don Diavolo sit up and take notice, blinking.

“I got two more witnesses down in the lobby,” Muller said, “that seen that Hindu when he came in.”

Church nodded. “Okay. Keep them on file. Brophy, you take over here until I get back. I'm going up to the Explorer's Club.”

Thoughtfully, Don Diavolo dropped the lighted cigarette he had been smoking into his left fist, made a hasty mystic pass over it, and opened his fingers to discover that the cigarette, as usual, had vanished. Then he reached for his hat.

“Do you mind if I keep you company, Inspector?” he asked.

Church gave him a sour look. “I'm not going your way,” he said flatly. “This is one case you don't work any magic on. It's bad enough now, what with mysterious Hindus in turbans floating around through it. If you had any more to do with it than you've had already I couldn't stand it. You can go, but don't go any place that I can't reach you.”

The Inspector started for the door, stopped there a moment, and then warned, “And
don't
let me catch you trying to amuse yourself with any of your amateur detecting! You understand?”

Don smiled. “The directions seem to be simple enough. I'll try hard.” Under his breath he added: “Not to let you catch me.”

The Inspector, when he arrived in the lobby, was snowed under and almost lost to sight beneath an avalanche of reporters. Don Diavolo circled the mob scene, caught Woody's eye, and beckoned him.

“If you want a story,” the magician said, when Woody had extricated himself, “don't ask him. Follow me.”

Woody Haines grinned. “I expected to see you come down wearing the usual handcuffs. What's the matter? The Inspector fresh out of them this morning?
Oh, no, you don't!
”

The reporter's last remark was addressed to a colleague from the
News
who had caught sight of Woody's companion and decided that interviewing a magician about a vanishing body was a sound idea. He, with three companion newshawks, were circling Woody and Don with the evident intention of cutting in between them and the door.

Woody grinned and said, “Take the ball, Don. I'll run interference.”

He did too. He opened up a hole in the opposition as wide as a barn door and Diavolo sped through it to make a touchdown at the nearest taxi stand.

The driver gave them a nervous glance, hoped they hadn't just robbed a bank, and stepped on the gas.

“Fox Street,” Don ordered. Then he turned to Woody. “Did you gather any little items of information about a mysterious Hindu who has something to do with this case?”

Woody's face fell. “That is what I was going to ask you.”

“You heard about him then?”

Woody nodded. “He popped up in front of the information-desk clerk earlier this afternoon and asked for Mr. Alexander's room number. The clerk gave it to him and he said, ‘Thanks.' The next thing anybody knows the hotel dick phoned down from Alexander's room and hollered ‘Murder.'”

“What did he look like?”

“The clerk wasn't so helpful on that. He said all Hindus looked alike to him and this looked like a Hindu. Chocolate-colored face, clean shaven, polite manners, quite ordinary clothes except for a big white turban where his hat should have been. What's that story you were going to give
me?
”

“Ted VanRyn,” Don said. “You remember him, Woody?”

The reporter nodded. “Yes. Sure. We went to school together. I introduced you to him. He never came back from that treasure hunt of his in—”

Don Diavolo turned on his companion as suddenly as if he had been end-man in a game of crack the whip.

“Did I hear you say ‘treasure hunt?'”

“You did,” Woody answered. “Ted gave people to understand that he was going to hunt for arrowheads, busted pottery and whatever else it is archeologists spend their time digging up. He was going to follow the route that Alexander the Gr—” Woody broke off abruptly and blinked at Don. “Saaay,” he drawled. “Just what is this? T.G. Alexander … Alexander the Great?”

“It might be a clue,” Diavolo replied. “I don't know yet. What was he really after?”

Woody, looking baffled but thoroughly wide awake, continued: “He was going to follow the route that Alexander's armies took through Persia and Afghanistan about 300 B.C. He dropped a hint in my ear on the q.t. that he was also going to have a look for a couple of carloads of buried loot that Alex is supposed to have buried somewhere along the way.

“He said he'd run across a clue or two, and that if they panned out he'd have a story when he got back that would make my mouth water. But he never got back.”

“And what does he have to do with the mystery of Room 713 anyway? Why … what … who … how …” Woody's excitement over he-wasn't-quite-sure-what was getting up steam so fast that he stuttered.

Don tried to calm him down. “Ted VanRyn — or somebody that pretends he's Ted VanRyn part of the time and T.G. Alexander of Chicago the rest of the time — blew in to town this morning. He phoned me. I was out. He talked to Chan in Hindustani, wanted me to phone back.

“When I did, I got Church, and then discovered that Mr. Alexander has been stabbed by a mysterious Hindu who finishes off by socking a hotel dick and vanishing in broad daylight with Alexander's body. I want to know more about Theodore VanRyn, please.”

“There's not a lot,” Woody said, his eyes popping. “No family that I know of. Nearest thing to a relative he had was Judith Allison and that knot hadn't been tied yet. They were going to be married when he got back. She's a niece of your old pal, Nicholas Sayre.”

That statement, popping so unexpectedly out of Woody's mouth, hit Don Diavolo square in the solar plexus with all the force of one of Alexander the Great's battering rams.

“Woody,” he said weakly. “That wraps the case up in a nice neat package and ties a great big red ribbon on it! Not more than two hours ago Nicholas Sayre bet me ten grand that I couldn't figure out how his latest miracle man vanishes into thin air. He's a Hindu and if we don't find him wearing a big white turban — I'll eat it!”

Woody gulped, then whistled. “What was it you said he does?”

“You heard me,” Don answered. “He vanishes into thin air. And I've got a dinner invitation to meet him. I think I'll get you one and Chan too. Sayre is death on reporters, so you can be Prof. Molyneaux, president of the European Council for Psychic Research or something. How's your French?”

“Not bad — when I'm talking to a Hindu,” Woody said, “but—”

“No buts, young man. Come along. Only I hope the story you get won't turn out with a head that reads:
Magician baffled by Hindu wonder. Nicholas Sayre scores goal for occult forces.
His buildup is too good to be true.”

The cab rolled up before the House of Mystery and Don Diavolo was out and gone before it had stopped moving. He found The Horseshoe Kid in the living room nursing a tall drink and happily dealing himself aces with his left hand. Pat was there too, watching him, but she didn't seem too happy.

She looked up as Woody followed Don in and growled at him, “I'm not speaking to you!”

Woody said, “Now wait, sugar. What have I done?”

She muttered indistinguishably and Karl answered for her. “We just heard a radio news broadcast. Pat thinks there should be some way you could keep murders from happening on the afternoon of the day you've promised to take her to the theater. She suspects it means that you have to work again, as usual.”

Pat nodded, glaring.

“But I didn't commit the murder,” Woody protested. “And besides Don and I know who did, so we may have it all cleaned up by curtain time.”

All together three voices said. “You know
who
…”

But Don shook his head. “Don't be so blamed optimistic, Woody. We don't know who. All we've got so far is a nice promising lead that Church doesn't know about yet. And you
won't
make it by curtain time, so you'd better give your ticket to Mickey. Oh Chan, come in here!”

The next hour was a busy one.

Don phoned Sayre, gave him a buildup about the famous psychic researcher, Prof. Molyneaux, who had unexpectedly dropped in with an India fire-walker named Ram Dass, and wangled dinner invitations for them.