The Count of 9 Read online

  “Oh, Lionel,” she said. And then added, “Lionel Palmer.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “Really, Mr. Lam! I only met him day before yesterday.”

  “That isn’t what I asked,” I said. “I asked what you knew about him.”

  “He’s nice.”

  “What does he do?”

  “He takes pictures.”

  “Did he tell you much about his duties?”

  “Oh, yes. He travels with Mr. Crockett, and it’s up to him to keep a perfect picture record of the trips. He takes color slides to project on the screen in stills, then he takes colored motion pictures, and, in addition to that, he takes black-and-white pictures so there’s a perfect story record of all the trips in all three media: color slides, black-and-white pictures, and colored movies.”

  “Why all the coverage?”

  “In lectures Mr. Crockett uses the colored slides. For publicity releases in newspapers he uses the black-and-whites, and for entertainment such as the dinner party last night, he uses colored motion pictures.”

  “Were you up at the party last night?”

  She made a little face, said, “No,” shortly and sharply.

  “Why not?” I asked. “I thought you were going out with Lionel.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Come, come, Eva,” I said, “let’s not be coy. I’m a detective, you know. I saw him, after he was through taking the pictures, pulling out a notebook and jotting down your telephone number.”

  “My address,” she said. “He promised me a print of the picture.”

  “And he couldn’t send it to the office?”

  “I wanted it to come to my apartment.”

  “Did you get the picture?”

  “No. I get it tonight.”

  I grinned and said, “Mail comes in the afternoon. I take it you’re getting a special delivery.”

  Her eyes flashed. “Anything wrong with that?”

  “Nothing wrong with that,” I said, “but what we were talking about was Lionel. No use being coy. You went out with him last night and you’re going out with him tonight.”

  “I didn’t go out with him last night,” she said. “We were supposed to go, but there was too much excitement. He had to call me and call it off. He…he was going to fix things so I could slip into the party and see the pictures, and then we were going out for some ham and eggs before he took me home. But they had some excitement up there and he couldn’t get away, and I didn’t dare to let him try to smuggle me in because…well, you know who was watching the elevator.”

  “Now we’re doing better,” I told her. “That’s all you know about the situation to date?”

  “To date,” she said significantly.

  “Would it be asking too much to check in tomorrow morning and tell me what else you have found out?”

  “What else did you want to know?”

  “Something about the guy; what he does. And, in particular, how many pictures he took at that shindig last night. I want prints of all those pictures.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re working for Mr. Crockett and it’s important that I have them. I could get them through Mr. Crockett, but I’d prefer to work with the photographer. I don’t like to discuss methods with a client. All I want to do with a client is turn over the results and endorse a check.”

  She hesitated a moment and the tip of her forefinger traced designs on her skirt at the thigh where it was smoothed tightly over her crossed leg.

  “Well?” I asked.

  “Okay,” she said.

  “Fine,” I told her.

  “Anything else?”

  “No.”

  She got to her feet, started to the door, paused and said, “Understand, Mr. Lam, I’m not a stool pigeon. I…I’m willing to help on anything that’s on the up-and-up, but I never double-crossed a friend yet, and I don’t intend to.”

  “No one’s asking you to,” I told her.

  “Thanks,” she said, and went out.

  Elsie Brand looked at me. “I suppose you know what you’re doing.”

  “Not yet,” I told her. “I’m floundering around trying to find out.”

  “Well, watch that babe,” Elsie told me. “I haven’t anything to go on except office gossip, but they tell me she has a line of risqué stories in the rest room that are pretty far advanced.”

  “Thanks for the tip,” I said.

  Her eyes flashed. “It isn’t a tip. It’s a warning.”

  Chapter Five

  The International Goodwill Club was listed in the telephone book. I copied the address, went out and got a cab.

  I had anticipated the offices would be little more than a mailing address; a hole-in-the-wall place where a part-time secretary could handle mail. I was surprised to find that there was a sumptuous office, back of that a clubroom and a library.

  The manager came forward to meet me with a glad hand.

  “Lam,” I told him, shaking hands. “I’m interested in finding out something about the club. I’m a writer. I want to turn out an article on your club.”

  “I’m Carl X. Bedford,” the glad-hander told me. “I’m secretary and manager. Anything I can do for you, Mr. Lam, I’ll be only too glad to do. You see, we are somewhat in the nature of idealists up here and we feel that our objectives are very, very important.”

  “Nice place you have,” I told him.

  “It’s small,” he said. “Our library consists of some rather rare adventure books, geographical magazines and things of that sort. We have a self-service bar; that is, members can keep their own liquor and we have an icebox which makes ice cubes in quantity. We’re small but we hope to expand.”

  I nodded, took a notebook from my pocket, went in and started looking around.

  “Specifically, what periodical do you represent?” Bedford asked.

  “I’m freelancing,” I told him. “I like to get material for articles and then sell them to the best paying market.”

  “I see.” His voice had lost some of its cordiality.

  I went around and looked over the books. None of them were new. They had the appearance of having been taken from other libraries. I took down a book at random on Africa, looked at it and found the name of Dean Crockett the Second written on the flyleaf.

  “Well, well,” I said, “is that the signature of Dean Crockett, the adventurer?”

  “Oh, yes. We have quite a number of his books here.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Yes. You know the problems of modern housekeeping. Places get smaller and smaller, and there’s not nearly as much place for books as…oh, say twenty years ago when persons were living in large houses, or fifty years ago when each well-appointed house had a large library.”

  “So Crockett donated his books on travel and adventure?”

  “Some of them.”

  “Any other donations?”

  “Yes, our members are very generous with donations.”

  “How many members do you have?”

  “Our membership is a very select list. It…well, frankly, Mr. Lam, we cater to quality rather than quantity.”

  “Could you tell me about how many?”

  “I don’t think the club would care to publicize the intimate details, Mr. Lam. We’d be very much interested in having something published about the objectives of the club, the promotion of international goodwill, the understanding of foreign culture.”

  “Well, that’s fine. Just how do you go about promoting this understanding?”

  “The club puts on a series of lectures throughout the country. We try to get the public interested in the ways of other people, their ideals, their customs, their civilization, their government.”

  “Very commendable. Do you have paid lecturers?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Could you give me their names?”

  He hesitated again. “There again it would be somewhat embarrassing to mention specific names. Someone
might feel slighted.”

  “And,” I said casually, “I take it the members themselves conduct some of these lectures.”

  “Oh, yes. That’s a very important part of our program.”

  I turned to look at him. “Specifically,” I said, “are there any lecturers who you can call to mind who are not members of the club?”

  “No, I think not. You see, the matter is one of such extreme delicacy that the club wants absolute accuracy. Therefore, it doesn’t dare to take chances with someone who may have a gift of gab but who is lacking in accurate information.”

  “You have a club flag?”

  “Yes, indeed we do.”

  “I take it you have some flags that have been planted in unusual parts of the world?”

  “Indeed we have, Mr. Lam. We have a wonderful collection of photographs showing some of the expeditions on which the club pennant or flag has been taken.”

  “If I get an article, could I get some of those photographs with which to illustrate it?”

  “Oh, yes. I’m quite sure you could. We’d be only too glad to let you have some of them.”

  “Do you have scrapbooks available?”

  “Indeed we do, Mr. Lam. Here is a whole shelf of them.”

  He slid back a panel and showed me two full shelves of scrapbooks.

  I picked one at random. It was a trip made by Dean Crockett the Second to Africa.

  I pulled down another one. It contained photographs of a tiger hunt in India. Another one had big-game hunting in Alaska.

  “Nice photographs,” I said.

  “Yes, aren’t they.”

  “How about seeing some of the flags themselves. Do you have them here?”

  “Oh, yes, we have them in a closet—a special closet.”

  He opened a door and pulled out a long sliding rack which glided smoothly on rollers. There were probably two dozen flags with engraved semicircular plates screwed into the handles, telling the name of the member of the club, the expedition on which the flag had been planted.

  I went through the flags. The same names kept repeating themselves. There were twenty-six flags and five different names.

  “This last one in the rack,” I said casually, “is the most recent expedition?”

  “That’s right,” he said. “That flag was presented to me only last night by Dean Crockett the Second. It was planted in the wilds of Borneo, a most remarkable expedition.”

  I lifted the flag out of the rack, then I lifted out the flag next to it which had also been planted by Crockett in the rugged barranca country of Mexico.

  I shook both flags up and down. The barranca flag was solid. Something jiggled and banged in the handle of the Borneo flag.

  “Well, well, what’s this?” I said. I put the barranca flag back in the rack, turned up the Borneo flag and looked at the bottom. There was a metallic screw cap on the bottom.

  “Oh, that,” Bedford said, laughing. “That’s a concession to utility, Mr. Lam. You see, there’s an interchangeable point which screws on the bottom of the flag. When a flag is being planted, the explorer screws on this pointed piece of metal. It is very sharp, very hard, very smooth. It’s quite easy to plant the flag in the ground, then it is photographed and there are appropriate ceremonies. Afterward, when the explorer brings the flag home, it would be exceedingly awkward to have a point like that on the flagpole. So we have it so the pointed tip can be unscrewed and this blunt point is screwed into place. That prevents any accidents, and, of course, makes it much easier to store the flag here in the closet.”

  “Nice going,” I said, and unscrewed the metallic cap, put it in my pocket and tilted the flagpole.

  A long, black piece of wood started sliding out.

  I pulled it out with my hand and said, “What’s this?”

  “Well, for Heaven’s sake,” Bedford said, “that…why, that is a blowgun…that looks exactly like…like…why, that looks like Mr. Crockett’s blowgun! Now what in the world would that be doing in here?”

  “That’s the point,” I said. “What in the world would it be doing in there?”

  It was well over five feet long, of a black, hard wood that was like iron. It had been heated, rubbed and polished until the thing looked like metal. I tilted it up to the light, and the interior of the blowgun was a smooth, polished tube as brilliant as glass.

  I stood the blowgun in the corner against the racks, screwed the cap back on the flagpole, which was now much lighter than the other flags, and put the flag back in the rack. I picked up the blowgun and said, “Well, thanks a lot for the interview.”

  “Here, wait a minute,” Bedford said. “Where do you think you’re going with that blowgun?”

  “Eventually,” I said, “I’m going to return it to its owner.”

  “How do you know who the owner is?”

  “I know the same way you do. It’s Crockett’s blowgun.”

  “Well, I’ll do the returning, Mr. Lam. That happens to be club property.”

  I smiled at him and said, “ I’ll return it.”

  He came forward and stood hulking over me. “The hell you will!” he said, his eyes angry. “Give me that blowgun.”

  I said, “You can probably take it away from me, but when you do, I’ll step over to that phone and call the police.”

  “I don’t think Mr. Crockett would want any publicity about it.”

  “The way for Mr. Crockett to avoid publicity,” I said, “is to have me return the blowgun and you keep your mouth shut.”

  “What do you mean by that crack?”

  I said, “That blowgun was stolen. I’m commissioned to recover it.. That’s why I came here in the first place.”

  “You…you—”

  I took out a leather folder and showed him my card certifying that I was a duly licensed private detective.

  “Satisfied?” I asked.

  He kept batting his eyes. “You’re a detective?”

  “Yes.”

  “I…I never would have thought it.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “You had me fooled.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to tell me how it happened that you took that blowgun from Crockett’s penthouse last night.”

  “I didn’t take it.”

  I grinned at him, a sort of knowing leer that I thought the occasion called for.

  “I assure you, Mr. Lam, that I know nothing of it. I was presented with the flag as the secretary of the club, and I took the flag to have it properly inscribed with a brass nameplate and placed in the rack.”

  “Why don’t you and I have a nice little talk?” I said.

  “What do you mean, a talk?”

  “You wouldn’t like to have this racket exposed, would you?”

  “What do you mean, a racket?”

  “Ever show your books to the income tax department?” I asked.

  “Certainly not. Why should we?”

  “You’re a profit-making corporation.”

  “Indeed we are not, Mr. Lam. We’re incorporated as a nonprofit corporation for the purpose of promoting international goodwill and understanding.”

  I grinned at him. “That last is what I really wanted to know.”

  “What last?”

  “That you’re incorporated as a nonprofit corporation. Now, I’ll tell you what happens. You’ve got a membership list of eight or ten individuals; probably no more than that. You have a lot of honorary members who are nothing more or less than suckers. Your active members donate large sums of money to the club. The club, in turn, finances their expenses when they go on trips.

  “Take Dean Crockett, for instance. He wants to go to Borneo. He has his yacht, his photographer, his public relations man, his wife and four or five guests. If he went there and charged it as a pleasure expedition, the expense would be prohibitive even for a man of his wealth. By the time he paid the expenses and then earned enough to pay those expenses, and then paid income tax on the money he’d spent on the trip, he’d be broke
.

  “But he makes a donation to the club of fifty thousand dollars, then the club turns around and sponsors an expedition by Crockett to Borneo. Crockett comes back and gives the club a flag, and a duplicate print of colored motion pictures taken on the trip. He also has his photographer prepare a scrapbook dealing with the trip, and that is filed in the archives of the club. He submits an expense account, fifty thousand, six hundred and seven dollars.

  “Crockett doesn’t report getting expenses of the trip as income because the club simply paid his expenses. On the other hand, he does report the fifty-thousand-dollar donation to the club as being a tax-exempt donation.

  “In that way, a group of millionaire members manage to take their hunting trips, keep their yachts up and take their friends around the world all on a tax-deductible basis.

  “I even suppose that the shindig Dean Crockett gave last night for his friends was termed a lecture on behalf of international goodwill, trying to promote an understanding between the social elite of this city and the savage tribes of Borneo. You’ll be paying the caterer’s bill, and Crockett will make a donation to cover.”

  Bedford looked at me with consternation stamped all over his face. “Who…who are you working for?”

  “Right at the moment I’m working for Dean Crockett.”

  “Well, you don’t act like it.”

  “The hell I don’t,” I told him. “I’m working for the guy on a special mission. I was hired to get the blowgun back. I’ve got it.

  “All this other stuff I’m telling you I’m throwing in gratuitously to impress upon you that you don’t want to monkey with me because if you do, this whole racket is going to get in the newspapers. And if the racket gets in the newspapers, you’d lose a very soft job.”

  He stood there blinking that over.

  “Good morning, Mr. Bedford,” I said, taking the blowgun.

  He took in a deep breath. “Good morning, Mr. Lam,” he said, bowing formally.

  I walked out, taking the blowgun with me.

  Chapter Six

  The address of Lionel Palmer was in a district of cheaper type, obsolete office buildings. These had, at one time, housed respectable and perhaps pretentious offices, but now were given over to lofts, rooms for garment cutting and alteration, and a few mail-order businesses.