Dr. Poggioli: Criminologist (The Lost Classics Book 14) Page 25

  “I had Madame Aguilar in mind for the moment. She does fit the description, but I’m sure it isn’t she. She has the respect of every business man in Miami and the confidence and the cooperation of the police. I know she wouldn’t abuse it by turning a high class speakeasy into a hop joint.”

  “We might go down there and look into her place,” suggested Poggioli.

  The other two men agreed reluctantly. The chauffeur began gathering his bottles, pieces of paper and glasses in a bundle. He reached for the compact in Poggioli’s hands.

  Slidenberry turned to him, annoyed.

  “What do you want with that?” he demanded. The taxi man moistened his lips.

  “Why, I—I had a little idea.”

  “Yes, what was it?”

  “I thought I would just hand the compact to Madame Aguilar and tell her I had found it and ask her if it was hers.”

  Poggioli looked at his man with an odd annoyance.

  “Listen,” he advised, “if she should say it did belong to her, she wouldn’t be the woman who lost it here.”

  The taxi man’s mouth dropped open.

  “She wouldn’t be the woman?”

  “No, the woman who came to this room would never be caught in so infantile a ruse as that.”

  The chauffeur stared a moment longer, then grew brick-red in the face, made a last fastening to his bag of clews, and the three men started for the elevator and the street level.

  In the lobby Slidenberry telephoned police headquarters for a squad of plainclothesmen to meet him in Madame Aguilar’s speakeasy on Esmeralda Boulevard. He directed them to go in, order their drinks in the usual way but be on watch for a signal from him to raid the place.

  The psychologist was distinctly discomfited at such a procedure. For the squad of men to get up and draw pistols rasped his concept of life as an intellectual adventure.

  “What will you and your men do when they place everybody under arrest?”

  “Why, search the place for narcotics, of course,” said Slidenberry in surprise. The psychologist shook his head slowly.

  “You don’t want to start the raid until you know exactly where the drugs are hidden,” he advised.

  The inspector looked at his companion.

  “Not search for them until we know where they are? My Lord, man, that’s equivalent to keeping out of the water until one learns to swim! Why not search?”

  “Because both Sanchez and Madame Aguilar are Venezuelans,” replied the psychologist incisively.

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “Because the moment men begin a physical search for anything their bodily movements prevent any real mental novelty of search. To run about, peering here and there in every corner, is the most primitive form of search. But, remember, when one reproduces primitive movements, one automatically reproduces the primitive mind-set which accompanies those movements, and therefore one would never find anything hidden with forethought. The only way to hunt for anything is to sit absolutely still and relax.”

  The chauffeur said in amazement that he had never thought of that, but that he saw it. Slidenberry inquired with considerable satire why so many physical searches turned out very prosperously indeed?

  “That’s because you were searching for hoards hidden by Anglo-Saxons,

  men of your own race. Their instinct toward concealment paralleled your own. But if you were searching for something hidden by a Venezuelan, you’d never find it, because the Anglo-Saxon mind and the Latin mind are irrational planes, one to the other.”

  Slidenberry laughed ironically and asked Poggioli if he could think up an example of something he could not possibly find.

  “Certainly, suppose I should dissolve a narcotic and soak it up in a sponge, it would be safe enough from your men.”

  Slidenberry’s mouth dropped open.

  “Good Lord, we wouldn’t find it like that, would we? I must tell the boys to watch out for wet sponges.”

  “Don’t bother; it won’t be in a sponge,” assured the scientist. “How do you know it won’t?”

  “Because that’s an Italian idea. I’m of Italian descent.” The chauffeur shook his head in bewilderment.

  “My stars, what a man!”

  Sans Souci, Madame Aguilar’s speakeasy, had the usual simple façade, peephole and two locked doors common to hundreds of thousands of such establishments in America. What distinguished it from the others was an interior characterized by a quiet restfulness and unity of style.

  Madame Aguilar had done Sans Souci in painstaking mission style, possibly not so much out of choice as in deference to the prevailing Florida taste for that type of architecture. The interior of Sans Souci suggested a mission church, and the special alcoves around it reminded one of chapels. There were even candles and pictures on the walls of these alcoves and a sheaf of paper spills to touch off the wicks when a guest entered.

  The three men had hardly seated themselves at a table when the customs inspector leaned forward and said in an undertone—

  “Look yonder by the window; there sits Sanchez!” The chauffeur became excited at once.

  “Why don’t you go over and arrest him?” he whispered. Slidenberry frowned in annoyance.

  “Damn it, the trouble nowadays is not in finding bootleggers and dope sellers! Everybody knows who they are and what they’re doing; the trick is in getting legal evidence to prove it, and in picking a jury that’ll convict them when it’s proved. Now, there’s that bird, sold his dope, collected his pay and is as free as the air!”

  “I swear,” sympathized the chauffeur, “I wish to the devil some of these clews would hook up with that old geezer!” He peered down under the table edge at the bundle in his lap, trying to find something in it that would incriminate the smuggler.

  Slidenberry touched Poggioli’s arm. “Look here,” he whispered nervously, “have you thought out where to look yet? We’re going to have to do something. The boys are looking to me for a signal.”

  “You mean the plainclothesmen? Have they come?”

  “Why, yes, that’s them—among those tables.”

  The psychologist fingered his chin.

  “Well, it struck me that there is a false note somewhere in the period decorations of those cabinets.”

  The inspector looked at his companion in bewilderment.

  “False note in—Listen, man, my men have got to do something. If they don’t Madame Aguilar will get suspicious this isn’t a liquor raid and then we’ll never find anything at all. Now, unless you know where the stuff is we’ve got to hunt for it!”

  “Wait! Not now,” begged the psychologist. “Plague the luck, I almost had my finger on it—”

  “On what?”

  “The connection between the decorations and a possible hiding place.”

  “Oh, I see; that’s more like it. Now work it out quick. The first thing you know that old devil over by the window will walk out of here and we haven’t got anything on him to stop him.”

  In the midst of this anxiety the chauffeur grabbed Slidenberry’s shoulder. “Say, I got it!”

  “Got what?”

  “Where the dope is! Mr. Poggioli was right, you can find out more setting on your bottom than you can by getting on your feet!”

  “What is it you’ve found out either way?”

  “Why, the dope’s in the water,” whispered the chauffeur dramatically. “You know, what they serve in glasses. I been watching that yellow haired man in the cabinet yonder. He hasn’t eat nothing a-tall. Jest drunk his water and went to sleep!” The taxi man nodded slightly, but urgently, toward one of the booths.

  Slidenberry touched Poggioli. “Is this chap right?”

  The psychologist shook his head.

  “No, that’s an echo of my sponge theory. Say, how did the Spanish priests in this country carry around their fires?”

  The inspector made a gesture of hopelessness and was about to give a signal to the plainclothesmen when a large, rather hea
vily built brunette woman approached their table. She was almost handsome, but her dark eyes were too impersonal and her lips too thin and resolute.

  When she reached the men the chauffeur began a nervous fumbling among his

  clews. Slidenberry kicked him under the table. The woman paused with a chill polite smile.

  “I would appreciate it, Inspector, if you would start your raid and get it over with,” she suggested. “Your men make my patrons nervous. And, by the way, I hope in the future to relieve the police of this routine work.”

  “How’s that?” asked Slidenberry amiably.

  “Why, I made a little donation to Reverend Harshberger’s church on Poinciana Avenue last Sunday. I’ll visit the other churches soon.” She lifted her jet-black brows with serious implication and passed on among her other guests.

  The chauffeur watched her go with wide eyes. “What did she mean by that?”

  Slidenberry was full of repressed wrath.

  “You idiot, you came within a squeak of pulling out that damned compact and asking if it was hers!”

  “Yeh, don’t you think it would have been the think?”

  “The thing! It would have advertised to her that this wasn’t a liquor raid but a dope search. She thinks we’ve been egged on to this by the preachers here in Miami. You heard her telling us that she believed she could buy them off too. That would have been the devil of a note for you to pull out that compact and let her know where we got it.”

  The chauffeur was taken aback.

  “Well, I’m just starting in detective work, Mr. Slidenberry.”

  “M-huh, use your head and be more thorough if you’re going to work with one.”

  “Mr. Slidenberry,” chattered the chauffeur, “d-does that mean you’ve taken me on for keeps?”

  “No, it means I haven’t kicked you out yet, but I will if you make another break like that.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the chauffeur gratefully; he considered this as something in the nature of a contract to hire.

  The inspector turned to the psychologist.

  “We’ve got to do something, Mr. Poggioli. If you haven’t got anything figured out, we’ll have to start a search.”

  The psychologist was just opening his lips to ask for a longer reprieve when a waiter with a tray of dishes crossed the dining room to the booth where the man was sleeping.

  The scientist leaned forward, watched the waiter intently for a moment and then turned to the customs officer.

  “Listen, would indirect proof of the sale of narcotics be satisfactory?”

  “Why, certainly, if it’s conclusive.” The psychologist made a gesture.

  “Then go ahead. It is not the line I had hoped to pursue, but it doesn’t admit of a shadow of doubt.”

  Precisely what signal Slidenberry gave Poggioli did not know, but simultaneously, here and there among the tables, half a dozen men stood up with drawn revolvers. Some one called out that everyone was under arrest. A hubbub broke out in the speakeasy. Half a dozen men who had never before been caught in a raid tried to sneak to the door, but were stopped by the officers. Poggioli heard one man saying that he didn’t know he was in a speakeasy, that he thought it was an ordinary restaurant.

  But the greater part of the crowd were veterans and began laughing and kidding or complaining according to their kidney.

  Madame Aguilar came down the aisle to Slidenberry. She asked, with a business-like expression, whether it would be necessary for her to appear personally in court or whether she might simply send the money by her lawyer.

  Slidenberry wore the hard, gratified look of an officer making a deserved arrest.

  “You’ll have to come to headquarters, madame. This isn’t a liquor charge.” The woman gave him a quick look.

  “Not a liquor charge?”

  “No, we are picking you up for selling narcotics.”

  The woman’s face underwent a sudden and rather shocking change.

  “You damned stool pigeon,” she screamed, “trying to ruin a respectable place! Some other speakeasy paid you to do this!”

  Her invective rose to a shriek, and the next moment the woman was at Slidenberry with her nails in his face.

  The customs inspector dodged, turned over his chair, then grabbed Madame Aguilar’s arms and held them down. She tried to bite. The plainclothesmen rushed to the two, jerked away Madame Aguilar and stood holding her by the arms. The woman continued her oaths and tried to kick.

  The crowd collected around the center of turmoil, demanding to know what was the matter. The closer ones began telling those behind them:

  “Pinched her for selling dope!”

  “Dope, why this ain’t a hop joint!”

  “I don’t believe it!”

  A belligerent voice among the customers demanded to know what proof the officers had for such a charge. A plainclothesman snapped back that the proof would be presented in the police court.

  “It’s a frame-up!” screamed the woman. Half a dozen voices took it up:

  “Sure, it’s a frame-up! The madame wouldn’t do a thing like that! Come on, everybody, let’s break up these prohibition racketeers!”

  The crowd surged toward the officers. Slidenberry saw what was coming and shouted for the crowd to stand back and listen to the proof. In the momentary lull he called out hastily that Mr. Poggioli, the world famed expert in criminal psychology, would explain how he knew that Madame Aguilar was dealing in narcotics.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, listen to Dr. Poggioli!”

  The scientist oriented himself in the face of this unexpected publicity. He pointed at the man in the booth.

  “I think you will all agree this man is doped. Look at him; and, to make this absolutely certain, at the police station, we will use the stomach pump to make sure of what he has swallowed, take blood tests and nerve reactions in his present condition and in his normal condition—”

  A trim, bellicose man of legal aspect, who later turned out to be from the office of the attorney-general, asked in a sharp cross-questioning voice why Mr. Poggioli assumed the man had taken the dope in Madame Aguilar’s speakeasy. “Why couldn’t he have had his dope on the outside and then walked into the place?” demanded the lawyer.

  “That’s impossible!” retorted Poggioli with academic brevity. “I had thought of such a possibility, but when I saw the waiter bringing dinner to the doped man, I knew it was impossible for the fellow to have got the drugs anywhere but here.” The crowd stared in perplexity. The man from the State’s attorney’s office asked in a guarded irony—

  “Would you mind explaining the connection between the two, Dr. Poggioli?”

  “Certainly I’ll explain. To a man under the influence of opiates food is obnoxious. The most he would have ordered is broth. But this is a full dinner. Therefore, he must have taken the opiate after he had ordered his dinner or he never would have ordered the food at all.”

  There was a silence which was broken by the chauffeur’s marveling— “Now, anybody could have thought of that if it had jest crossed their mind.” This moment of confused and admiring belief felt by all the crowd was shattered by the lawyer.

  “What kind of evidence is this you’re bringing up against a good woman’s reputation? A man orders his dinner and goes to sleep, so a woman—God’s last best gift to man—is guilty of peddling the damnable curse of drugs!” He whined to his hearers. “Men of the South! Floridians! Will you stand by and see such an insult put on one of the fair sex? No! You know you won’t! Come on!”

  The crowd swung forward again when Slidenberry shouted:

  “Wait! Wait a minute! My Lord, I didn’t know I was ordering an arrest on any such damn fool proof as that. Wait, give me a chance to make an orderly search. If we can’t find any dope, that ends it. That’s fair, people, that’s fair, isn’t it?”

  The speakeasy patrons tacitly agreed to the fairness of this and fell into an angry buzzing among themselves that Madame Aguilar had been subjected to such treatme
nt. The plainclothesmen scattered through the restaurant looking everywhere for the drugs. The spectators presently began jeering the searchers, calling out:

  “Look in the sink!”

  “Look in the sugar bowls!”

  There was a good deal of laughter at these thrusts. Poggioli went over to Slidenberry.

  “There is no possibility of their finding anything. In a polyglot civilization like ours, the law will have to accept psychologic proof or our whole social structure will go to pot.”

  “I don’t care a damn about our social structure,” growled Slidenberry, “and not much about the madame; it’s that leather-colored old devil by the window that I’m after!”

  In the midst of these grumblings a waiter walked across to the booth in which the drugged man slept and snuffed out the two candles burning over the table.

  As he did so a sudden revelation burst on Poggioli.

  “By George, I’ve got it!” he cried. “The old Spanish monks used wax tapers to light their devotional candles!”

  Every one looked around at the exclamation. Slidenberry was embarrassed. “What’s that got to do with anything?” he inquired.

  “Why, simple enough. Madame Aguilar substituted spills for tapers.”

  “Well, what if she did?”

  “She is a woman of enormous attention to detail. She would not have been guilty of such an anachronism without a powerful and practical reason. The only reason she can possibly have is for a use of the spills which she could not accomplish with tapers. Well, spills will hold something; tapers won’t. Come on, let’s unroll the spills.”

  Asd he strode toward the booths the crowd followed and the chauffeur called out in amazement—“Mr. Poggioli, how in the world did you come to think about the spills when you saw the waiter put out the candles?”

  At the query the psychologist assumed automatically his old college classroom manner.

  “Simple enough, young man; the waiter took time to snuff out the candles even in the midst of all this excitement, so, of course, that made it all clear.”