Dr. Poggioli: Criminologist (The Lost Classics Book 14) Read online

  “That’s what I mean, señor.”

  “Why didn’t you find out before the Stanhope entered customs?”

  “Because I did not want to sit in my cabin all day long to make sure nothing else was added. I wanted to go to my meals, take the air, sleep.”

  Slidenberry looked at the old man intently, then glanced at Poggioli, said, “Pardon us a moment,” and drew the psychologist outside the cabin.

  “Crazy,” he said in an undertone, “or do you think it’s a hoax?”

  “Our cablegram shows there is a reality to it somewhere, so I would mark out insanity.”

  “But if it’s a hoax why didn’t he select a more reasonable falsehood?”

  “You know, the fact that it’s unreasonable is an argument for its truth,” pointed out Poggioli—“that is, if he really isn’t insane.”

  “That somebody actually planted dutiable goods of value in his bags?” Poggioli shrugged.

  “But whoever did would lose money on it,” went on Slidenberry. “His reward would be only a part of the value of the goods smuggled. He would certainly lose half of his investment even if his scheme worked.”

  “This can’t be simply a trick to get a reward,” agreed Poggioli at once. “There is something—something else—” The scientist drew out a cigaret and tapped it on his thumbnail. “You know—I’ve seen that old man before!”

  “Something criminal?” asked Slidenberry hopefully. “Must have been, if I remember him.”

  “Good, good.” The inspector nodded. He turned back into the cabin. “Dr. Sanchez,” he began, “I want to ask you pointblank: Have you any diamonds to declare?”

  “I don’t know,” said the old man, still scissoring away. “That’s what I’m trying to find out for you.”

  “Do you think somebody hid diamonds in your trunk and clothes?”

  “I have no idea what they hid—diamonds possibly.”

  Slidenberry gave a brief smile.

  “Suppose you let me help you hunt. I’ve a knack at that sort of thing.” Dr. Sanchez straightened and held up a prohibitory hand.

  “Not as you are, señor, please,” he said with a dry smile.

  “Not as I am—what do you mean?”

  “I mean, señor, not with your coat and vest and trousers on, if you please.”

  The customs officer stared in amazement.

  “Are you suggesting that I undress myself to inspect your—” Poggioli interposed—

  “He means he is afraid you will put something in his bags and then arrest him for having it.”

  Slidenberry looked at Poggioli, tapped his forehead and shook his head slightly. “Listen, Señor Sanchez,” reasoned Poggioli, “no matter what Mr. Slidenberry should plant in your trunk he could not arrest you for it. You have declared that you don’t know what your baggage contains. All he could do would be to confiscate anything illegal he discovered or let you pay the duty on it and keep it yourself. Either way he would lose and you would go free.” Sanchez nodded.

  “That is the legal theory—but if he slipped something in my pocket and I walk off the ship carrying goods on which I have paid no duty, I go to jail. That has happened to me many times, señor.”

  The psychologist was astonished and incredulous.

  “You don’t mean to tell me the customs officers themselves—”

  Sanchez interrupted—“Certainly, señor; there is no tyranny so inescapable and so difficult to prove as that of the police department.”

  “But why should the customs officers themselves wish to—” Poggioli broke off, studying the old man’s almost remembered face.

  Dr. Sanchez shrugged, then spoke in a bitter voice—

  “If I were a North American, señor, I would not only tell you my story; I would also tell the newspapers and the radio broadcasters, but we Latin-Americans—” he spread his palms sardonically— “feel somewhat differently about our private affairs.”

  “In my opinion,” interposed Slidenberry dryly, “you handle not only your private affairs with the greatest reticence, but the truth also. The idea of a customs officer planting something in the baggage of a traveler! It was never done in the history of American customs.”

  The old man bristled at such an insult, but the dawning quarrel was interrupted by the voice of a cabin boy paging Captain Slidenberry. The officer stepped outside to call the boy, and Poggioli followed curiously.

  As the messenger came up, the inspector turned to Poggioli and asked sharply: “What do you think of him now? Is he crazy, or is he just a hopeless liar?” Poggioli shook his head.

  “If he really has been framed—”

  “Framed, the devil! Did you ever hear of customs men framing a casual traveler?”

  “I never did, but it is the most probable explanation of this riddle.”

  “You don’t mean it has really happened?”

  “I do because the old man doesn’t insist on it. If he were a simple liar he would have gone on with a long cock and bull story to prove what he said was the truth, but he simply says it’s so.”

  Slidenberry shook his head.

  “You may believe it for psychological reasons if you want to, but I’m a customs man. No such thing ever happened on the face of the earth!”

  The messenger boy came running up the deck and delivered a parcel. Slidenberry signed for it and opened it.

  “Oh,” he ejaculated, “the clerk has found the consular reports at last. Let me see; what was the page?” He drew out his cablegram and consulted it. “1125 and 6.”

  The inspector turned through the pages until he found his citation, then stood looking at it blankly.

  Poggioli glanced over his shoulder, then drew in his breath. “Oh—that man!” he ejaculated.

  The inspector turned sharply. “That man? What man?”

  “Read there at the bottom of the page.”

  Slidenberry read with an uncomprehending expression:

  July 5th. Today visaed the passport of the Magnificent Pompalone. Shipped him to Guiana on the French Line.

  “Of course! Of course! Of course!” shouted Poggioli in amazed remembrance. “Dr. Sanchez is the Magnificent Pompalone—or once was. Heavens, yes, I remember him now!”

  Slidenberry looked around. “Who is he—or was he?”

  “Why he’s an ex-dictator of Venezuela.”

  “Is what he says true?”

  “I suppose it is. In fact, I’m sure it is.”

  “But, Mr. Poggioli, how is it possible—”

  “Why, you see, a group of nations—America, England, France, Holland and some others—went into an agreement not to allow the ex-dictator to return to his country because he would start another revolution. That would upset business and cost everybody money and time. When I knew him the Dutch authorities were trying to keep him on Curaçao, but he got away during a storm.”

  Slidenberry was amazed.

  “Then there must be some truth in what he’s telling. I suppose the authorities got tired of following him about and just lodged him in jail on some charge or other as the easiest way to keep him.”

  “Certainly. And what could be simpler than a customs offense?”

  The inspector was moved at the old man’s trials.

  “Well, I’m going back and tell him he has nothing to fear from me.”

  The two men reentered the stateroom and found Dr. Sanchez sitting on his bunk, which was scattered with small, snowy, harp-like designs. The old man said acridly—

  “I trust, señores, my finding these hasn’t upset any plan you may have had to land me in prison.”

  Slidenberry exclaimed automatically— “Poggioli, there are the feathers!”

  Dr. Sanchez laughed with brief irony.

  “Officer, I declare these egret feathers. I don’t know how many there are.” The inspector looked blankly at the ornaments.

  “You can’t enter these in the United States; they are prohibited.”

  “I know that, señor. It has always struck
me as touchingly beautiful for the American people to be so considerate of the wild birds of Venezuela while they kept a Venezuelan imprisoned year after year for fear he might go home and upset their commerce.”

  Slidenberry paid no attention to this.

  “What are you going to do with your feathers? They can’t go ashore.”

  For answer the old man drew out his cigar lighter, snapped a flame and began applying it to the egrets one by one. The stench filled the cabin. Slidenberry watched the destruction rather blankly.

  “Have you got any diamonds in your bags?” he asked after a space. “That I don’t know,” said the ex-dictator.

  “Well, since you have feathers, I suspect you have diamonds too.”

  “Why? Do the two things go together?”

  “So I’ve been informed.”

  “If I fail to find them and you do find them, will I be put in prison as a smuggler?” inquired the old man.

  “Of course not,” snapped the inspector. “If you actually help me search your bags for diamonds we’ll be partners in the matter, won’t we?”

  With this agreement, the two returned to the work in good earnest, rummaging through the trunks and the rest of the clothes. Slidenberry was more expert than the ex-dictator; he examined the trunks for false bottoms and double tops; he ran his fingers along the seams of the coats and trousers; he looked under the lining of Dr. Sanchez’s hat. In the midst of this work he pushed aside a stray envelope on the floor with the toe of his shoe. A faint tinkle made him stoop and pick it up. He opened the flap and looked inside.

  “Here they are,” he said dryly. Poggioli was astonished.

  “You don’t mean they were thrown around loose like that!”

  “That’s part of the technique,” returned the inspector, “hiding it right under our eyes.”

  Dr. Sanchez watched this discovery impassively.

  “What would you have done, señor,” he inquired, “if by chance I had picked up the envelope before you did?”

  The customs officer had to think twice before he knew what the old man meant, then he exclaimed—

  “You think I put them there!”

  “Think?” snapped the old man in sudden wrath. “I know it! Do you imagine I would deliberately help you customs men land me in jail by attempting to smuggle so much as a pin into your country?”

  Slidenberry studied the exiled Venezuelan—

  “You and I started searching for these diamonds together, didn’t we?” Sanchez nodded slowly and questioningly.

  “You admitted you had them—or might have them—but neither of us knew where they were?”

  “Si, señor—and what is your conclusion?” asked Sanchez in suspense.

  “My conclusion is you have declared these diamonds and all that is required is for you to pay the normal duty on them and enter this country as a free man, señor.”

  Poggioli interrupted.

  “Look here,” he pointed out. “These diamonds were not mislaid in a chance envelope in the middle of the floor. That’s impossible.”

  Slidenberry gave a short laugh.

  “I know that, but under the circumstances I am going to rule arbitrarily that these diamonds were mislaid and found.” The scientist turned to the passenger.

  “Dr. Sanchez, how do you explain this envelope?”

  “Señor,” said the old man, “why does so simple a thing need any explanation? Captain Slidenberry comes into my room and throws a package of diamonds on my floor. He means to arrest me, but for some reason he has a change of heart—”

  “Look here,” interrupted Slidenberry, “you know that’s a falsehood!”

  “Slidenberry! Slidenberry!” protested the psychologist. “Maybe he actually believes what he says!”

  “How can he? Either he or I—”

  “No, not necessarily; some third person could have stepped in here and dropped the envelope; then each one of you would think the other did it.”

  “What third person?”

  “I don’t know—the man who sent the cable; another inspector besides your

  self. You see, when the United States has pledged itself to keep Dr. Sanchez out of Venezuela, what easier method would there be than to keep him in jail?”

  Slidenberry nodded, unconvinced, and cooled off.

  “Well, at any rate, I have agreed to let Sanchez go free when he pays the duty on these jewels. I stand by my agreement.”

  As the inspector said this Poggioli poured some of the stones out in his palm and looked at them, at first casually, then with dawning astonishment and suspicion.

  “Mr. Slidenberry,” said the scientist in an odd tone, “Dr. Sanchez didn’t bring these stones on this ship.”

  “Why do you say that?” demanded the officer. The criminologist handed over the jewels. “Because they’re glass.”

  The inspector received the sparkling bits incredulously, or at least with an excellent imitation of incredulity.

  “Then I should say,” he diagnosed slowly, “that Dr. Sanchez was fooled in his purchase.”

  Poggioli shook his head.

  “No, an ex-dictator, an ex-millionaire, would hardly mistake paste for diamonds.”

  “Then what is there to think?” demanded Slidenberry, quite at sea.

  “Well, if some third person didn’t bring the sack in here—”

  “You mean I did?” cried Slidenberry, amazed.

  “What else is there to think? Sanchez didn’t do it.”

  “Look here,” cried Slidenberry, thrown for a moment on the defensive, “it’s absurd the idea of my doing such a thing! I couldn’t incriminate Dr. Sanchez with such brummagem as this! There’s no law against bringing glass into America!”

  The old Latin-American himself shook his head slowly.

  “I believe this is the most complicated plot that has ever been woven around me,” he said. “If it had been in a French port I would not have been surprised. Even the Dutch might have originated it; but for simple minded North Americans to hatch up anything so complicated—it amazes me.”

  Suddenly Slidenberry tossed the envelope on the bunk.

  “I’ve got it!” he announced triumphantly, turning to confront the psychologist with a grim smile. “I’ve got it now!”

  “What is it?” inquired Poggioli.

  “Why, that was a blind to throw us off the trail, of course. Now let’s get to work and find the real stones!”

  As the inspector searched, Poggioli introduced himself to the dictator and recalled to him the matter of the murder in Curaçao. The old adventurer was immensely moved.

  “Gracias a Dios that I should see that clever young American again before I die,” he cried. “The mystery you solved in that godforsaken island, señor, was much darker than that which surrounds me now.”

  The old man arose, embraced and kissed Poggioli in the affectionate Venezuelan manner.

  “But still this is rather an oddly twisted case, Dr. Sanchez,” suggested Poggioli. “Puh, nothing of the sort; simply a customs inspector trying to send me to jail with glassware!”

  Poggioli looked puzzled.

  “But why is he searching so thoroughly now?”

  “To save his face, señor.”

  “But, señor, look at him. That isn’t the psychology of a desultory search. It isn’t necessary to squeeze out your shaving cream to save his face. Then he found feathers in your room. He didn’t bring them in with him.”

  “No-o. That is a queer thing, señor. Feathers—was the inspector expecting feathers?”

  “Yes, he was. I’ll tell you the truth, señor; he had a cable from Belize instructing him to search you for feathers and diamonds.”

  “Oh la! So those feathers were sewn into my military uniform in British America!”

  “Or possibly on the voyage here. The cable could have been filed ahead of time to be sent later.”

  “You have a great head, señor; you think of every combination that can possibly exist. You catch the truth no
t in the Latin style of a burst of divination, but in the North American style of wearing her down by endless analysis, of making her surrender out of sheer boredom, Señor Poggioli.”

  This somewhat dubious compliment was interrupted by Slidenberry. He arose from his search, stood balked in the middle of the cabin.

  “You may go,” he said slowly, “I pass your trunks. I find nothing dutiable in them.” The old man looked at him cryptically.

  “I can go ashore free?”

  “That’s what I said.” Sanchez shrugged.

  “Do you imagine I would fall into so obvious a trap as that, señor?” Slidenberry stared at the Latin.

  “What the hell are you talking about now?” Dr. Sanchez sighed wearily.

  “You know very well. You find glassware; you say, ‘These are not his diamonds; I will find genuine diamonds.’ Well, I am as wary as you. I look at the glassware; I say to myself, ‘These are not his diamonds; I will be as clever as he is and avoid his genuine diamonds.’ ” The old man patted himself on the chest.

  Slidenberry looked at him.

  “I almost thank God I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “I’ll make myself clear. How easy it would have been for you to have hidden a real diamond in my trunk or toothpaste or clothes; then, when I step ashore, I will be searched and, la! caged up again.”

  “Good Lord, you don’t think I’d plant a real diamond—”

  “Think! I know it. Why would you make such a stir with paste if you did not intend to plant a real one?” The old man laughed.

  Slidenberry looked at him.

  “Really, our faith in each other is touching. All right, what do you intend to do if I can’t even clear your baggage and let you go ashore?”

  “This,” said the old Venezuelan pungently. “By the strangest coincidence there is a man in my cabin whom I can trust. I am going to ask Señor Poggioli to take my money ashore, buy me a complete new outfit of clothes, bring them back here, let me dress and disembark from this ship in a virgin costume.”

  With this the old man went to his trunk, drew out a canvas bag of specie, silver and gold, swung it toward Poggioli and set it clinking on a chair.

  The psychologist looked at the old man in amazement.