Читать книгу Held for Ransom - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 3

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Skippy’s keen young eyes noted at once the name on the card. He also noted that the dark, smiling-eyed stranger looked not at all like the newspaper pictures of the great financier, Mr. A. P. Holden. Another swift survey of the tall man at his side and his boy’s mind became turbulent with suspicion.

Miss Purdy, however, seemed not to be disturbed by any such thoughts. Her pretty face was flushed with the excitement of conveying to her employer the card of so great and important a man as was Mr. A. P. Holden. And, as she rose from her neat-looking desk and walked briskly toward a door marked “Carlton Conne—President—Private,” her whole attitude bespoke pleasure in her present duty.

Skippy was secretly disgusted with Miss Polly Purdy and he showed it. A look of contempt filled his bright eyes and a little twist of his mouth indicated eloquently his private opinion of such an unimaginative stenographer. That she was efficient and unusually pretty did not serve to change his harsh judgment of her—all the more reason why she should have imagination, he told himself.

Skippy tried to think fast. The man, obviously, was unaware that such intensive thinking was being done because of his presence in the thickly carpeted reception room of the International Detective Agency offices. Certainly he did not even seem to see the slim young office boy, for as he strolled about, his eyes were ever on the door leading into Mr. Conne’s sanctum.

Then the door opened.

“Mr. Conne will be pleased to see you, Mr. Holden,” said Miss Purdy gushingly.

The man stepped forward quickly, smiled gratefully to the young woman and bowed. In another second he had stepped out of sight and the door closed after him.

An ominous silence seemed to descend upon the reception room. Miss Purdy glanced at Skippy’s scowling countenance and lifted her perfectly-arched eyebrows.

“Well, little office-boy,” she said teasingly, “have you seen a ghost or something?”

Skippy snorted contemptuously. “Yeah, I saw something,” he said darkly, “but it wasn’t no ghost—see!” He moved with noiseless agility over to the young lady’s side and whispered, “I just saw ‘Silver’ Curley, that’s who I saw!”

“You’re crazy, Skippy Dare.”

“I ain’t, but you are! You must be when you don’t know Mr. Holden from ‘Silver’ Curley.”

“Now I know you’re crazy. A nice smiling gentleman like that? Why any girl could tell by his nice manners he was a big man.” She shook her pretty head impatiently and went over to her desk. “I guess I’m not so dumb but what I’d know ‘Silver’ Curley or the rest of the Curley Gang when I see them. Anyway, I’d know the difference between a man like Mr. A. P. Holden and ‘Silver’ Curley—what do you think I am!” Skippy sniffed. “Listen, Miss Purdy,” he said in low tones, “there ain’t time to argue. I remember how when I first came here and Mr. Conne started chasin’ down this Curley gang for Mr. Holden, he said that he got a letter from ‘Silver’ Curley.”

“Say, that’s history, Skippy,” said Miss Purdy sarcastically. She put a letterhead in her machine and tossed her short hair back in place. “I know all about ‘Silver’ Curley writing the boss that time and saying what he thought of the International Detective Agency. And I know he warned Mr. Conne that we’d never run them down and that he bet he could walk in this office and out again without giving us the time or chance to call the police. Is that what you were going to tell me? You’re crazy to think ‘Silver’ Curley would really do such a thing. That was just bluff. If it wasn’t, he would have come here right after he sent the letter, six months ago.”

“All right! It shows you how much you know about deduction and things like that. As if he would have come right away! Anyway, there ain’t time to argue—everybody’s gone home in this office for the day, ’ceptin’ us and Mr. Conne. I gotta hunch we couldn’t use the phone.... I better do this myself...” he added, sprinting toward the door.

“What on earth are you mumbling about?” asked Miss Purdy without taking the time or trouble to turn her head and see.

Skippy retraced his steps with one bound and was at her side again. “Listen, will you, Miss Purdy? When that guy comes out of Mr. Conne’s office, talk to him...anything only keep him here till I get back—see! I’ll be quick as anything. Will you do it?”

“Oh, all right, you pest,” said the young woman with smiling impatience. “I see you’ve got detectivitis again. I suppose you’re going to call the riot squad out, eh? Heaven help you though, if your imagination’s got the better of you—Mr. Conne will be furious!”

Skippy was deaf to this warning, however, for he had traversed the richly-furnished reception room, raced the length of the entrance hall and was opening the heavy door into the outer hall while Miss Purdy was still talking. He stood a moment, hesitating, his small hand on the knob.

At the far end of the hall, just this side of the elevators stood a man of medium height whose features were quite shadowed by the brim of a dark slouch hat. Three significant facts about him Skippy noted at once. One was that the man had been watching intently the entrance to the International Agency’s offices. Another and ominous fact was that the man’s right hand was plunged deep in his coat pocket. And lastly, he had a prominent mole under his left eye.

Skippy straightened up and brushed his thin, ink-stained fingers over the surface of his bristling pompadour. Resolve gleamed in his eyes and he took a deep breath. Then he called over his shoulder.

“I told you Miss Purdy, I just got to go down to the drugstore for a lemon fizz. I won’t be long, honest,” he added, his voice high pitched for the benefit of the man in the hall.

Miss Purdy leaned forward in her chair and peered questioningly toward the entrance hall. The door, however, had already shut upon the adroit and impulsive Skippy, and being a very literal person she was frankly puzzled as to what caused him to switch from the police to a lemon fizz. Consequently, she shook her head two or three times and went back to her typing, feeling that an office boy with a detective complex was quite trying.

Skippy, meanwhile, was executing a sort of ice-skating step down the length of the neatly-tiled hall and whistling hard. He knew instinctively, that he must keep up this attitude of nonchalant gaiety until he reached the elevators and was on his way to the street floor. He felt that to betray by one single gesture that he was aware of the watcher’s real purpose in that hall, would be fatal—the Curley gang had a flair for that sort of thing.

Skippy slid four or five feet, landed with a sort of whirligig motion before the nearest elevator and pressed the little black button. His heart beat quite rapidly while he waited for the red light to flash on overhead, but finally he saw the welcome signal.

The man seemed to pay no attention to him for his gaze was centered upon the International’s entrance. Even when the elevator stopped and its steel doors clanged noisily open to admit Skippy, he did not turn.

Skippy had not the slightest doubt of triumph now.