Dorothy Delano grasped her publicity agent by the sides of his fat cheeks. “Will you meet me at ten-eleven in front of the Palace Theater to-night, all packed and ready to go?”

  Steven Slone nodded emphatically. “Baby, I’ll be there!”

  Lester Leith arose and extended his two hands in a gesture of benediction.

  An apologetic waiter again knocked, bowed deferentially. “She’s on the line again, Mr. Slone. I’m very sorry, sir, but she insisted — “

  Steven Slone pulled the receiver from its hook with a savage gesture of impatience. But his tone contained that same drooling insincerity.

  “Hello, smile-eyes…Yes, dearest…No, sweetheart, of course not…Yes, precious, right home…As soon as this conference is over…It’s quite important…Yes….Yes…Yes…Of course. Bye, bye, honey.”

  He hung up.

  “You didn’t tell her,” wailed the girl.

  “Huh,” grunted the publicity man, “she’ll find it out fast enough. With that baby you don’t need to tell her anything. Just try to keep it to yourself and see what happens. I’m going to toddle along and get some things together, precious. I’ll see my baby at ten-ten.”

  She shook her head. “Ten-eleven.”

  He smiled. She pulled his head down to hers savagely. “Try cheating on me, and I’ll carve your heart out!”

  He held her in a long, clinging embrace, straightened, sighed, felt with a questing forefinger around the line of his collar, straightened his tie, grinned.

  “Baby,” he said, “have you got half a century to cover the tickets and stuff?”

  She looked at Lester Leith. “How about an advance?”

  Lester Leith took out a well-filled wallet, handed each of them a hundred-dollar bank note.

  “There’ll be more as soon as I can get a look at the script of the play and have my lawyer make out a contract,” he said.

  Steve Slone pocketed the bill, shook hands with Lester Leith.

  “On my way,” he said, and vanished from the booth. The girl eyed Lester Leith in teary triumph.

  “Well?” she said.

  Lester Leith studied the tawny eyes. “You’ve convinced me you can act,” he admitted, “but I’m afraid I’ll never trust a woman as long as I live.”

  The girl indicated the telephone.

  “That’s the way with you men. You’re always yelling that women are deceivers and two-faced. But how about the lies that man told over the telephone? How about his wife waiting for him to finish a business conference?”

  Lester Leith grinned. “It’s a great life,” he admitted. “When do I see ‘Three Strikes and Out’?”

  “Tomorrow. Do you want me to meet Steve at ten-eleven tonight?”

  “No. I’ll see him and leave a message from you.”

  She got to her feet, gave him her hand. Her tawny eyes were puzzled.

  “You’re a queer one,” she said, and melted from the booth into the corridor with its row on row of green curtains masking similar booths where couples dined and discussed matters not quite so complicated as those Lester Leith had discussed with the tawny-eyed actress.

  CHAPTER VII

  The Signal

  Edward H. Beaver fastened his obsidian eyes upon the man he had grown to hate.

  “You mean we’ll start gathering garbage to-night, sir?”

  Lester Leith nodded. “Promptly at nine-three we leave here. We’ll take in several blocks on both sides of the Middleton mansion, then there won’t be any particular suspicions raised.”

  The spy shifted uneasily on his huge feet.

  “You mean that you’re going to take me with you, sir?”

  Leith nodded, adjusted the tie about the collar of his evening shirt, donned coat and vest.

  “Certainly, Scuttle. You will gather in the garbage. I’m not particularly versed in the etiquette of garbage-collecting, but I presume it is not done in evening clothes. I presume one should wear overalls and gloves. You have overalls and gloves, Scuttle?”

  The valet nodded. His eyes were glowing with the fire of enthusiasm which comes to the hunter when the quarry is almost within range.

  “You’re going to take me into your confidence, sir?”

  Lester Leith nodded.

  The spy sighed. “I’ve always been willing to do anything to help you, sir—anything. I only asked that you give me a chance to cooperate.”

  Lester Leith surveyed the man gravely.

  “Scuttle, give me your word of honor that you’ll never repeat that which I am about to tell you.”

  The valet raised his right hand. “I swear it, sir. On my word of honor. I cross my heart and hope to die, sir.”

  Lester Leith nodded, consulted his strap watch, which was set right to the second.

  “Scuttle, did it ever occur to you that the binding of Mrs. Middle-ton was not accidental? That is, Scuttle, the roping of that rung in the chair so it couldn’t come loose wasn’t merely a coincidence. It was done deliberately.

  “Therefore, Scuttle, we are dealing with someone who has a knowledge of stage magic. We are also dealing with someone who has ability to use his hands, as well as his head.”

  The valet-spy nodded eagerly.

  “You mean Steven Slone, the publicity manager!” he blurted.

  “Precisely, Scuttle.”

  “And the girl was an accomplice!”

  “I am inclined to think not, Scuttle. It seems she is genuinely afraid of mice. This, of course, is another link in our chain of clews. Only Slone was likely to have been aware of that fact, as far as the occupants of that room were concerned. It was exceedingly simple for him to smuggle in the mouse, turn it loose at the proper time, sneak back on the stage, grab the diamonds, and then hide them.”

  “Hide them, sir?”

  “Yes, Scuttle. Obviously he would not keep them on his person. He knew there would be a search, at least of the committee who went on the stage. So he beats them all to it by suggesting such a search himself; and he suggests that everyone in the room be searched.

  “Now, Scuttle, obviously, a man with stage experience, one who has mastered at least the rudiments of legerdemain, would naturally slip those diamonds in some place where he could count on finding them at a later date, but where they would remain undisturbed until he wanted them.

  “Now it’s readily apparent that any other guest could have counted upon returning to the house, upon some pretext or other. Perhaps, just to pay a social call. But Slone was there, not as a guest, but in an official capacity. His chances of again entering that house were almost nil.

  “Therefore, Scuttle, it’s almost certain that he would place the necklace where he could trust it would be brought to him. In other words he would place it in some article of food that was partially consumed; say a baked potato, or a half-eaten roll.

  “In the excitement of the robbery there would be no thought of food as far as the guests were concerned, once the alarm had been raised.”

  The valet-spy was nodding his head. “No wonder they call you a mastermind!” he exclaimed. “That’s bound to be what happened! It’s the only logical thing, When you see it, it all fits in together perfectly. It’s so simple I wonder the police haven’t tumbled to it.”

  Lester Leith listened to the spy with a cordial smile, lit a cigarette, blew a smoke ring at the ceiling.

  “You’ll get the garbage, find the necklace, and hijack it, sir?” asked the valet eagerly.

  Lester Leith shook his head, regarded the last smoke ring with a frown. “Not at all, Scuttle. I shall, of course, turn it over to the police.”

  “Huh!” said the spy.

  “Certainly,” commented Leith, trying another smoke ring.

  “That ain’t the way you built up that big trust fund for widows and orphans. And, what’s more, the stones were insured. Mrs. Middleton has hid her head in shame. She didn’t mind the loss of the diamonds nearly as much as she did the publicity about her spiritualistic trick. She won’t be able to stage any more amateur magic again. She’s collected from the insurance company, or will, and won’t bother about the stones. She won’t want to see them any more.”

  Lester Leith tossed the cigarette impatiently to one side. “Scuttle, there’s something wrong about the blend of this tobacco. The smoke rings don’t hold together as they should. However, that’s neither here nor there. Let’s start hijacking the garbage, Scuttle.”

  The valet was on his feet. “Yes, sir. Let me get some coveralls and gloves, sir. I have them in the garage. I won’t be but a minute, sir.”

  Leith nodded.

  “You’ve attended to the garbage truck, of course, Scuttle?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. Yes, indeed, sir. I have it all ready.”

  “And you can drive it, Scuttle?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Very well. Suppose you meet me on the comer, three blocks south of the Middleton residence. I’ll do some scouting and make certain the coast is clear. This is the night the garbage is collected, around midnight. We’ll get there at nine-twenty. By that time the garbage will be out. but we’ll beat the regular truck by three hours.”

  The valet nodded. A cunning look crept into his eyes.

  “Yes, sir. But you might attract attention if you rode on the truck in your evening clothes, sir. Suppose you go in the roadster and meet me as I drive up. It’ll take me a little longer, going on the truck, sir.”

  Lester Leith nodded, carelessly, casually. “Okay, Scuttle. You’re willing to help me?”

  “Indeed I am, sir!”

  “And you won’t tell a soul?”

  The valet looked hurt. “Didn’t I promise, sir? On my word of honor, didn’t I promise?” Lester Leith looked gravely apologetic.

  “Pardon me, Scuttle,” he said and donned his silk hat and top coat, took his stick and gloves, consulted his wrist watch.

  “You must leave here in precisely two and one-half minutes, Scuttle,” he said.

  The spy nodded.

  “I’ll get the coveralls and gloves. I’ll meet you there, right on the minute!”

  Lester Leith slammed the door.

  The valet made a dive for the closet where the telephone was housed. He moved with the frantic fixity of purpose with which a football player hurtles himself toward the goal line.

  Sergeant Ackley’s voice answered his frantic call.

  “It’s all fixed, sergeant. This is Beaver. It came out just the way I doped it, only Leith has reasoned it out so fine there ain’t a chance for a slip-up.

  “And he’s taken me into his confidence, all except that he won’t admit he’s going to keep the necklace. He claims he’s going to turn it over to the police when he gets it. Of course that’s hooey!

  “But I’m starting right now on the garbage truck. You have your men out there. When we get the garbage from the Middleton house, you can trail along. He’ll stop right along in there somewhere to go over that garbage. I’ll have a flashlight. When he gets the sparklers, I’ll flash the light. As soon as your men see that, make the pinch!”

  Sergeant Ackley grunted.

  “He might have a flashlight, too. Better make it a signal. You put the flashlight on your face, hold it there for a minute. That’ll be the signal.”

  “Okay, sergeant.”

  “Okay, Beaver. There’ll be a promotion in this.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said the undercover man, and grinned into the telephone.

  CHAPTER VIII

  “I Arrest You”

  The wide street, given over to pretentious houses, showed vast and majestic in the half-light which came from the street lamps.

  Here and there lighted windows, a scattering of parked cars, attested the progress of some party. The garbage truck seemed a sacrilege as it rumbled its odoriferous and unclean way to the corner and stopped.

  Lester Leith, his silk hat gleaming in the street lights, strolled from the shadows, climbed to the side of the driver. “Take the alley on the left, Scuttle.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  They turned in at the alley, rumbled to the back entrance of one of the mansions. There was an assortment of cans collected near an alley gate.

  The valet jumped from the seat, picked up the cans. One by one, their contents tumbled into the galvanized iron interior of the truck’s bin.

  The valet-spy worked for some five minutes with the cans, then clambered aboard the seat. “Phew,” he said.

  The truck jerked into motion and rumbled forward. Another assortment of cans greeted them, and Beaver brought the truck to a stop, repeated the process of emptying them. When he returned to the driver’s seat he was breathing heavily, and his forehead was beaded with perspiration.

  “One more block and then we come to the Middleton mansion,” said Lester Leith, lighting a cigarette.

  The police spy glanced back over his shoulder. He fancied he saw vague shadows moving furtively forward, the police, following the truck, closing in the net which was to finally terminate the activities of this master criminal; and the pseudo-valet smiled, a smile of smug satisfaction.

  The truck crossed an intersection, wended its way to another assortment of cans.

  “I’d hate to do this sort of thing regularly,” said the spy.

  Lester Leith laughed. “Think of the reward.”

  The valet clenched his fist, picked out the exact place on Lester Leith’s jaw where he intended to swing that fist when the time came.

  “I am thinking of it,” he said, grimly.

  He hoisted in the contents of the cans. The truck moved on. The next house was the Middleton residence. The police were closing in now.

  “Careful with this garbage,” said Lester Leith.

  “You bet I’ll be careful,” agreed the spy.

  “Maybe I’d better give you a hand,” said Leith.

  The valet grunted. “I’ve done it all so far. You just sit still.” And he climbed stiffly to the ground.

  He grasped the sides of the pails with his wet gloves, elevated them one at a time to the truck. Perspiration rolled from the face of the valet as he finished dumping the last of them.

  Under cover of the truck’s body, he flashed the beam of his spotlight in the agreed-upon signal. Almost instantly silent shadows glided forward with purposeful menace. The truck was surrounded.

  Sergeant Arthur Ackley, himself, boomed forth the fateful words. “Lester Leith, I arrest you in the name of the law, for the possession of stolen property, for conspiring with Beaver, your valet, for the commission of a felony. Anything you say will be used against you.”

  There was no reply.

  “Go get him, boys, and don’t be too gentle.” rasped Ackley, and he himself swung up on the side of the truck, his big hand clenched into a swinging fist.

  The truck seat was empty.

  From the other side came the perspiring face of the spy.

  “Where is he?” asked Ackley.

  The valet looked surprise. “He was here when I got down.”

  Ackley grunted.

  “He could have slipped off one side of the seat when you got down the other.”

  Edward H. Beaver began to curse, a monotone of heartfelt profanity.

  Sergeant Ackley laughed.

  “What do we care? We’ve got him dead to rights. You can testify he got you to get the truck, that you delivered it to him, that you went out and gathered in the garbage at his direction and under his supervision. We only have to find the diamonds and then make the pinch.”

  Edward H. Beaver rubbed the sleeve of his coveralls across his moist forehead, looked meditatively into the back of the truck.

  “I’d rather he’d stayed to sort over the stuff,” he said.

  CHAPTER IX

  The Search Narrows

  Steven Slone, an overcoat setting nattily on his shoulders, a stick swinging idly at his side, a suitcase and bag on the pavement beside him, surveyed the crowds that milled up and down the well-lit thoroughfare.

  He glanced at his watch. It was precisely eleven minutes past ten.

  A car purred in to the curb. A well-tailored man, garbed in faultless evening clothes, opened the door of the car.

  “She asked me to pick you up,” said Lester Leith.

  Steven Slone extended a cordial hand, after the best showman manner. “Leith, by George! It’s a pleasure. And you’re right on the dot. She’s waiting?”

  Leith nodded.

  “You’re all ready for the train?”

  “Yes.”

  “Climb in.”

  Stephen Slone flung the suitcase and bag into the car. “Mighty good of you,” he mumbled.

  “Not at all,” said Leith. “She had a hard time getting packed. She’s to pick up the train at Two Hundred and Seventy-Sixth Street. You folks have a drawing-room. I have the tickets here.“ He patted his pocket.

  “Fine,” said Slone.

  The man was perfumed, shaved, massaged, manicured. His glossy hair emanated the odor of a particularly fragrant hair tonic. His eyes glowed with the light of one who has come to believe in the irresistible power of his own attractions.

  The car slid smoothly away from the curb, out into the stream of traffic. Steven Slone lit a dark perfecto and sat back, prepared to enjoy life to the limit.

  The street intersections whizzed by.

  “Heard anything more about the Middleton diamonds?” asked Lester Leith.

  “No, I haven’t. Most unfortunate. Mighty glad I suggested that a search be made, right at the time.”

  “Yes,” said Leith, “that was fortunate. Let’s see. You used to do a little stage magic yourself, didn’t you?”

  “Oh, just a bit.”

  “Enough to know about those trick chairs?” The perfecto tilted just a trifle upward.

  “Say,” said Steven Slone, “what are you driving at?”

  “Oh, nothing in particular. The technique of the crime interested me, that’s all. You see, it had to be someone who knew Dorothy Delano was afraid of mice, someone who knew about the chair, someone who could get on the stage, fix Mrs. Middleton’s trick so it wouldn’t work, and then liberate a mouse at the crucial instant.