The Purple Bird Mystery (17 page)

“And my mother,” muttered the pro.

“Right,” Cannonball said. “We’d better take no chances with this Swift character. So let’s try the natural thing first.”

“What?” asked Socker.

“Have Mr. Douglas walk in the front door as usual. Coming home to dinner, see? That way, he can size up the situation in a second; if anything’s wrong, he’ll know it. And if Djuna and Jimmy and your mother are okay, Mr. Douglas, we’ve nothing to worry about. Right?”

Said Mr. Douglas, “I’m inclined to think we’re making a mountain out of a molehill, myself. Shall I do it now?”

Cannonball nodded. “Up the steps and across the terrace and in the front door. Slow, Mr. Douglas. That way, whoever’s inside will hear and see you coming. If this Swift is up to monkey-business in there and sees you coming, my guess is he’ll run right out the back door before you come in the front.”

Mr. Douglas nodded. But Mr. Martin, who had remained very silent until this moment, snapped his fingers as though suddenly remembering something. “Say, Mr. Douglas, that reminds me. Earlier this afternoon, I came to see if you were home here and I thought I heard somebody in your house. Up in Jimmy’s bedroom. But Djuna and Jimmy and I went to look and couldn’t find anybody there, and the back door was open, as if somebody might have used it for an escape route when I disturbed him.”

The other men stared at Martin. “What’s all this?” Cannonball asked. “Some prowler was in the Douglas house earlier today?”

Socker put a hand on Cannonball’s arm. “Forget it, Cannonball. We can hash it over later. We came after Djuna, remember. He and Jimmy and Mr. Douglas’s mother are our job at the moment.”

Cannonball turned to Douglas. “Is your back door unlocked?”

“It usually is.”

“It was this afternoon,” Mr. Martin said.

“Well,” said Cannonball, “while you go in the front door, Mr. Douglas, Socker and I will cover the back, just in case.”

“How about me?” Mr. Martin asked. “Can’t I help?”

Socker looked at him dubiously. Mr. Martin’s immaculate golf togs, his bandbox look, hardly recommended him for the task of dealing with desperate men.

But Cannonball said, “You stay right here, Mr. Martin, on the chance somebody gets past Douglas, Socker and me, and makes a break for that car over there. Okay?” Cannonball’s smile made it evident that he didn’t think there was a chance in the world anything like that would occur.

Mr. Martin, however, welcomed the suggestion. “I’ll be glad to watch the front, Officer,” he said. “Nobody will get past me, don’t worry.”

Cannonball said, “Just stay out of sight, eh?” He gave Douglas a little push. “Go on, Mr. Douglas. Through the front door. Just as if you’re coming home for dinner.”

Socker and Cannonball watched Mr. Douglas start for the terrace, then ducked around through the woods to the rear of the Douglas house, where they cautiously approached the back door.

“Far enough,” Cannonball whispered, stopping behind the trailing willow branch beside the trash barrel. “Let’s wait for Douglas to get inside before we make fools of ourselves rushing in to save Djuna from a used-car salesman, shall we?”

Socker grinned. They crouched behind the thick screen of foliage and waited. No sound came from the house. They heard nothing but the evening notes of a robin, perched in the tree above their heads. The house basked in the late sunlight, its dun-colored back walls splashed with serene patterns of light and shadow.

They kept watching the rear door.

At the front of the house, Mr. Douglas crossed the terrace with firm footsteps. He scraped his shoes a little on the flags to make his presence known, as Cannonball McGinnty had suggested. He approached the front door—shut now, he noticed—and reached with his right hand to open the screen. Only then did he realize that he was still holding on to his five-iron; he had forgotten all about it. So he used his left hand to open the screen and turn the inner knob, keeping the golf club ready for action in his right.

The door opened. Mindful of the trooper’s advice to act natural, he strode into the entrance hall of his house calling cheerfully, as usual, “Hello, everybody. Mother! Jimmy! I’m home.” Then he paused, his hand still on the doorknob behind him, and listened. No footsteps. No voices. Nothing at all. He felt a pang of dread. “Jimmy!” he called again, and stepped under the archway to the living room, squinting to adjust his eyes from sunlight to the indoor shade. He uttered an involuntary gasp at the scene which confronted him.

Grandma, Jimmy and Djuna were tied to chairs. And gagged. A Fieldcrest caddy—Morelli, was it?—was seated bolt upright on the sofa. A short stooped man with tinted glasses was standing near Djuna with the lack of balance that the golf professional knew indicated a quick turn to face the archway only a second before. The frozen appearance of the room’s occupants told him that he had arrived at a critical moment. If there were any doubt—clutched in the small, neat hand of the man with the glasses, who must be the antique dealer, Swift, was a deadly-looking black pistol with a silencer attached to its barrel. The eye of the gun was fixed on his stomach.

Mr. Douglas’s first impulse, almost irresistible, was to rush the puny antique dealer and overpower him by brute strength. It shouldn’t be hard to do. But this impulse he smothered quickly. For the wild relief he saw in Grandma’s and Djuna’s eyes, the hero worship in Jimmy’s, could not possibly be justified by offering himself as a target for Swift’s gun. Even though a state trooper and Socker Furlong were outside the back door, the shot by which Swift would kill or wound him would not be heard by them. This gun was silenced. Its lethal cough could not be heard fifteen feet away through a closed door. So, his right hand casually gripping the five-iron, with every appearance of
sang-froid
, Mr. Douglas sauntered into the room and sank onto the sofa beside Joe Morelli. Then, ignoring the menacing gun, he said to the bound prisoners opposite him, “Has this man hurt you?”

Grandma shook her head, but her eyes gave her away. Jimmy nodded vigorously. Djuna, the only one whose mouth was not stopped, said in a quavering voice, “He was just about to sock me with his gun when you came home.”

Mr. Swift took charge. “I’m glad you’ve arrived, Mr. Douglas. For you can tell me what these fools can’t. What is the purple bird?”

Mr. Douglas frowned. “Purple bird?”

“I am confident you recognize the term. Purple bird. The one which contains the King’s Talisman.”

“A purple bird? I don’t know what you mean. The Talisman, yes. That I’ve heard of. But no purple bird.” Mr. Douglas shook his head and turned to Djuna. “Is that what this fake antique dealer’s been trying to get out of you?”

Djuna said, “Yes, sir,” in an unwilling voice. He thought he knew what would happen now. Mr. Swift would tie up Mr. Douglas and torture
him
for the secret of the purple bird, which Djuna knew Mr. Douglas did not possess, any more than Grandma or Jimmy. Before he could say any more, however, a change came over Mr. Swift.

“What did you say, Mr. Douglas?” he rasped. “Did I hear you correctly? Did you describe me as a
fake
antique dealer?”

Mr. Douglas tried to look blank. That had been a mistake, perhaps—letting Swift know his masquerade was over.

Swift said thoughtfully, “So you know that, do you? How did you find out? Who else knows?”

Morelli, at Mr. Douglas’s side, pleaded, “Take it easy, chief, will you? I told you we shouldn’t get in this deep!”

“I’ve spent too much time, energy and money tracing the King’s Talisman to let a stupid Douglas trick me out of it, now that I’m on the brink of success! I mean to have that Talisman, Douglas. Do you understand? I mean to have it. No matter who gets hurt.”

Mr. Douglas said, “I give you my word of honor that the King’s Talisman, our family heirloom, disappeared in Malaya almost fifty years ago, that I don’t have it, that I’ve never had it, and that I don’t know where it is.”

“Perhaps you don’t know where it is, but I do. It’s in the purple bird. And
that’s
what you must tell me, Douglas. Immediately. What is the purple bird?”

“How can I tell you when I don’t know?”

“You know. And I shall prove it.” Swift took two paces backward and, keeping a watchful eye on Douglas, placed his gun muzzle against Jimmy’s thigh. “If you don’t tell me what you know of the purple bird within exactly one minute, Douglas, I shall shoot a hole through your son’s leg which will make it very difficult for him to play golf for quite a few years to come. What’s the purple bird?”

Mr. Douglas paled. “You’re being very foolish, Swift. I came here with the police. The house is surrounded. You will only make things worse for yourself by threatening Jimmy. You can’t possibly get away.”

Swift gave a nasty laugh. “A likely story! You brought the police, did you? The house is surrounded, is. it? I gave you credit for more originality than that, Douglas. But then golf professionals aren’t noted for their brains.”

“I’m telling you the truth, Swift,” Jimmy’s father insisted. “How do you think I found out you’re a fake?”

“Enough!” Swift ground the barrel into Jimmy’s leg. “You have exactly sixty seconds to tell me about the purple bird.”

“But I don’t know what you’re talking about, I tell you!”

“Fifty-eight seconds, Mr. Douglas.”

“I don’t know
!
”

Swift glanced at his watch again. Mr. Douglas bit his lip so hard the blood came. Fifteen seconds went by in total silence.

Then Joe Morelli gave way to his feelings. “Have you gone off your nut?” he shouted to Swift. “What’s the kid ever done to you? You shoot him and I’ll turn you in myself!” It was a brave effort. Except for a contemptuous look, Swift ignored it.

“You have forty seconds left, Douglas.”

Djuna’s brain was numb. This was all his fault. He had to do something. And within the next half minute. He looked at Jimmy’s face and saw that his friend’s dark eyes, although now spilling terrified tears, still watched Mr. Douglas with faith and hope.

Djuna thought how relieved he had been when Mr. Douglas had come strolling in a few moments ago. His loud approach across the terrace had halted in midair Swift’s vicious gun-chop at Djuna’s head. Swift had clapped a silencing hand tight across Djuna’s mouth at once. But Djuna had felt they were saved. How confident he’d been that Jimmy’s athletic father would somehow be able to cope with the small antique dealer and his conscience-stricken confederate, Joe Morelli! Surely, Djuna thought, surely he’ll do something to save his own son from being shot.

But Mr. Douglas sat on the sofa, doing nothing. He seemed to be listening very hard, that was all.

Djuna eyed the wall clock, watching the sweep second hand move in quick jumps around the dial. Each little jump brought Jimmy one second nearer to injury. Do something, quick! Djuna told himself.

“Thirty seconds,” said Swift.

Djuna considered the possibilities. He, the only one of the three bound prisoners who was not gagged, could yell for help. But who would heard him in this isolated spot in the middle of a golf course at sunset? Unless, by some miracle, there might have been a grain of truth in Mr. Douglas’s mention of the police? Could Socker Furlong and Cannonball McGinnty have arrived at Miss Annie’s, waited for Djuna briefly, then, tired of waiting, or urged on by a worried Miss Annie, come looking for him here at Fieldcrest, meeting Mr. Douglas on the way? Djuna put down the surging hope this thought inspired. No. Even if Socker and Cannonball
were
outside, how could they possibly be attracted by his yelling in time to save Jimmy?

“Twenty seconds,” said Swift.

It was useless to hope for outside help. It was up to Djuna and to Jimmy’s father to help Jimmy, if he was to be helped at all. Mr. Douglas wasn’t tied up; he had a golf club in his hand. Swift was well out of reach; Morelli sat immediately beside Jimmy’s father. Could it be that Mr. Douglas was waiting till the last second to make his move, cutting it that fine in the hope that Swift would not have the courage to carry out his threat? Djuna didn’t know. And he couldn’t wait any longer to find out—it was too dangerous to wait.

“Fifteen seconds,” intoned Swift. His finger tightened on the trigger of his pistol; Djuna could see the small spot of white skin on the man’s kunckle.

Djuna cried, “Mr. Swift! Mr. Douglas doesn’t know anything about the purple bird. He’s telling the truth!
I’m
the only one who knows what it is!”

Mr. Douglas threw Djuna a glance of sheer astonishment. Swift looked first angry, then skeptical, then undecided. And Jimmy, for his part, exclaimed incoherently behind his gag. Djuna kept his gaze on Swift. Would the antique dealer believe him?

Very slowly, the gun muzzle swung away from Jimmy’s leg. “You’d better be telling me the truth this time,” Swift said softly. “My patience is about used up.” He took a step toward Djuna, carefully keeping his distance from Mr. Douglas. “I certainly do not intend….”

“Listen!” said Joe Morelli. “What’s that?”

A loud squeak, prolonged, as of unoiled hinges, came from the rear of the house.

Swift did not lift his eyes from Djuna. “Go and see,” he ordered calmly. “Probably the wind blowing the back door open.”

Joe Morelli’s panic died down at Swift’s tone. He cat-footed into the hall, turned down the kitchen passage. From the living room they could hear Joe’s footsteps padding toward the kitchen; could hear the whisper of released air when he pushed the swinging door open at the end of the kitchen passage.

With the odds reduced to one by Joe’s temporary absence, Mr. Douglas unobtrusively tightened his grip on the handle of his five-iron. Djuna, too, tensed because he thought he detected in Jimmy’s father’s face a genuine anticipation, a waiting-for-something look.

Bump!

In the silence, the thud from the kitchen was very loud. Swift was just turning his head toward the sound when it was immediately followed by another.

Joe Morelli’s anguished voice came in a quickly choked-off shout of alarm. “Police!” he bellowed. “Pol….!” and then no more. The ensuing scuffle beyond the kitchen door lasted a very short time.