Odor of Violets, Baynard Kendrick [best short novels .txt] 📗

airplanes hung from the ceiling, swaying gently from the opening of the door.

A huge old walnut wardrobe stood in a far corner behind the forge. It was piled high on top with remnants of a hand printing press, and filled to bursting with a haphazard collection of nails, screws, and type—relics of a print shop Gil had started as a boy. The only place where anyone could be hidden in the workshop was behind that wardrobe in the angle of the wall.

Norma picked her way carefully between the machines, watching the floor for nails and upended tacks. When she circled the forge and looked up, the greenish light from the emerald shades was flickering on the dull grimed finish of the wardrobe, drawing it closer to her. For the space of one dreadful second she felt that the wardrobe was tottering and about to fall.

It took another second for her to realize that her terrible thought was true. Then it was far too late. She stood motionless with feebly upraised hands, unable to scream from a throat that was tight and dry. The heavy press toppled and grazed her head. An instant later the lead-filled bulk of the wardrobe had crushed her to the floor.

CHAPTER IX

GOOD! COLONEL Gray, the head of our defense plans, believes your ability to get around with your dog invaluable. Even under war conditions, a blind man could pass unquestioned where others might be suspected and stopped immediately. The vulnerable spots mentioned in there are in code. Before I leave would you care to name their locations for me as given you personally by Colonel Gray? I’d like to be sure you know.”

Captain Duncan Maclain made a noise with his lips and switched off the Ediphone record which was repeating his earlier conversation. With an easy motion, denoting long habit, he took a cigar box from the right-hand desk drawer. He dumped the contents—a hundred-piece jigsaw puzzle—on the desk top and irritably began sorting out the jumbled pile.

Stretched out luxuriously on the divan, Spud Savage watched his partner’s quick fingers select a piece, trace the design of the cut, and begin their search for its mate.

“Well, go on with it, Dunc,” he urged. “Did you tell this bird all the vulnerable spots?” A glint of humor lighted his curious yellow eyes.

“Since you came all the way into New York to protect me,” said Maclain, “I’d appreciate a little help from you. Did you ever hear that fellow’s voice before?”

Spud yawned. “On that record, he sounds like all the actors we heard in that movie house on the Cape last summer—but for that matter, so do you.”

“I’ll make a note of what you say.” The Captain found a piece which fitted, and gave a tiny smile. His expressive face could reflect almost any shade of feeling when he so desired. The smile gave him a quizzical look, as though he might be listening to distant laughter. He fitted the two pieces of the puzzle together, and patted them down. “We live in a funny country, Spud,” he began.

“If you’re going to sit up all night, I suppose I’ll have to listen.” Spud shifted restlessly. He didn’t like the look on the Captain’s face. “What are you driving at? Politics, economics, or keeping us out of the war?”

“Sabotage and espionage,” said Duncan Maclain. His fingers began to move more surely through the pile—selecting and rejecting; placing certain pieces to one side—pieces which were burned by touch into his memory.

“Don’t tell me you’ve caught a spy.” Spud lifted his slippered feet and tucked them under the heavy silk of his dressing gown.

“Sabotage and espionage,” Maclain repeated. “That’s what I’m driving at—that, and the levity of your tone.”

“Of my tone, Dunc? Why pick on me?”

“Because, my very dear friend and companion, you unconsciously represent a norm.”

“For God’s sake don’t get unctuous,” Spud said pleadingly. “Did you say ‘norm’ or ‘worm’?”

“There isn’t much difference, is there?” The Captain wriggled his eyebrows thoughtfully. “You’re intelligent—”

“Thanks.”

“Strong and fearless—”

“Terrific!”

“Well-educated—”

“A certificate from Vassar.”

“Widely traveled, and unusually familiar with the workings of organized crime.”

“In fact,” Spud admitted shrinkingly, “I’m known to my devoted wife, Rena, as Samuel Savage, the Magnificent Obsession. Why don’t you hire me?”

The Captain clicked two pieces of the jigsaw puzzle together like castanets. “The Detecto-Dictograph is recording all this,” he said. “The reason I don’t hire you is—you’re dumb!”

“After that recommendation you just gave me?”

“Certainly,” said Maclain. “You’re a norm. Like the rest of our nation, you begin to giggle and twist like a coy little girl at the mention of espionage. The United States is probably the best-hated country in the world today—because it’s the best. It has more to lose—and consequently more to guard. Yet you don’t believe in spies!”

“Now look, Dunc, that’s hardly fair.” Spud sat up hastily. “You worked with me in both London and Paris during the last war. What about that crowd with the house at Leeds? What about—”

The Captain raised a hand. “There are always spies in England, France, and Germany—and every other country in Europe, too. The American public accepts that as a fact. The magazines and the movies have told them that it’s so. But here?” He shrugged his broad shoulders deprecatingly. “Hell, no! Your average American will swallow the most incredible feats of gangsters—because he’s had them on his neck for years. He overlooks the fact that, compared to a spy, the biggest gangster who ever lived was playing for small dough.”

“You’re upset, Dunc.” Spud’s voice was quiet with an unusual note of concern. He came to the desk and placed a hand on the Captain’s shoulder. “I had no idea this was so serious, Dunc. What do you want me to do?”

“If I knew the answer to that, I wouldn’t be upset.” The Captain broke up a dozen pieces of the puzzle he had fitted together, carefully returned the fragments to the cigar box, and replaced the box in the drawer. “There are no rules of criminology which