Читать книгу Held for Ransom - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 5

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It was five minutes before Mr. Conne was in a condition to talk. To be sure, his small audience had to wait still longer until a fresh, black cigar was lighted and placed at a precarious angle in the corner of his mouth. Then his small bright eyes darted from Skippy to the police then back to Skippy again.

“Well, kid?” he questioned. “It’s too bad you didn’t get me some help before he got away. How did you know—he pointed a gun at me the minute he came inside that door—he didn’t give me a chance to squeak even?”

Between the detective-sergeant and Skippy Mr. Conne learned all the details. He listened intently, screwing his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other with a lightning-like rapidity that never failed to fascinate his office boy. Too, he had a deep line running from the center of his forehead to the bridge of his nose and when in a troubled mood as he was now, it became a veritable furrow that greatly attracted Skippy.

“So Miss Purdy spoiled your game, eh kid?” he asked the boy gruffly, but with a hint of pleasure in his bright eyes.

“Yeah, she would!” Skippy exclaimed indignantly. “And am I sore! Hot dog, but I’d have liked to see Silver Curley nabbed!”

Carlton Conne scowled, then coughed. “Well,” said he looking up at the detective-sergeant, “Silver’s farther from the trail than ever. He locked the door before he trussed me up, then he walked calm as a cucumber into the file room, hunted out all the dope we had filed against him and pocketed it as nice as pie.”

“And your Miss Purdy never got hep that anything was wrong?” asked one of the officers.

Mr. Conne shook his head. “Anyway, we ain’t paying Miss Purdy to be a detective,” he said. “She ain’t supposed to know when things are wrong or who’s Mr. A. P. Holden and who ain’t.”

“Yeah,” Skippy spoke up with evident disgust, “but she ought to use her head. Gee whiz, she should have known I meant to go for the cops and not for a lemon fizz—gee....”

“That’s where you fizzed up things for yourself,” said Mr. Conne leveling his gaze upon his office-boy. “You got to understand, kid, that there’s a whole lot of people in the world who listen to what you say and not to what you’re trying to say.”

Skippy had a momentary wave of disappointment, a second’s sense of failure, but by the time Mr. Conne had talked with and then dismissed the riot squad, he was certain that he had triumphed and Miss Purdy had failed.

“Do you say I kind of didn’t do something when I recognized that Silver Curley wasn’t Mr. A. P. Holden and then went for the coppers?” he asked.

Mr. Conne screwed his cigar about three or four times before he answered Skippy’s question. “You can’t do something as you call it, unless you do it well, kid. You got to keep it in the top of your head that there’s always somebody who’s likely to spoil your plans. When you get that fixed in the old skull and make allowances for those trip-ups, then you’ll know how not to fail—see? Got your letters all out for the day?”

“Aw sure,” Skippy answered, realizing that he suddenly disliked the thought of the office mail. Skimming the edge of crime and detection had been like a visit to some new and fascinating realm from which he was loath to return. Office mail was a dead, dull subject to him now and he was eager to discuss the Curley affair further.

However, the phone rang just then and Mr. Conne called brusquely into the mouthpiece, “Yes?”

Miss Purdy making the connection from the outside office, answered meekly, “Mr. A. P. Holden on the wire, sir. Mr. Holden, here’s Mr. Conne.”

Mr. Conne grunted noisily.

The one and only Mr. A. P. Holden called excitedly from the other end of the wire, “Conne? This is A. P. H. I’ve got to see you tonight! Up at my High Hills place. That scoundrel Silver Curley just phoned me here at my office. Plain extortion, Conne—that’s what he’s going to do now. Don’t start till dark and be careful you’re not followed. I don’t want him to think I’m taking it seriously. You know how slippery he is, I suppose?”

“I got an idea, Mr. Holden,” Mr. Conne answered grimly. “I’ll be there at ten.”

When he had replaced the phone, he was aware that Skippy was watching him excitedly. The boy’s bright eyes gleamed with a dozen questions. But Mr. Conne gave him not a chance to ask one. Instead, he did some querying himself.

“You say that Silver Curley didn’t give you a tumble at all?” he asked.

“Naw,” answered Skippy. “He didn’t look at me once even—he was too interested to get in and see you. That’s how I got wise....”

Mr. Conne rolled his cigar about twice and waved aside Skippy’s eager information. Then he got up from his swivel chair and paced the thickly-carpeted floor, his capable-looking hands plunged deep into his trousers pockets. After a few minutes he stopped short, swung about and scowled down at the puzzled boy.

“Listen here, kid, I’m taking you to New Jersey with me tonight. Phone home to your aunt and tell her.”

“Then what?” Skippy asked delightedly.

“Go to the washroom and scrub that chocolate smear off your face. After that I’ll talk to you.”

Mr. Conne turned away and looked out of the window. The scowl disappeared from his round leather-like face and a deep, contented smile played about the corners of his mouth.