30
“Nothing. Go home. Go on. Get out of here!”
“I’m sorry. I was doing my homework, and I fell asleep. I can’t go home, my mother’s friend—”
“Get out of here!” Curtis roared. The girl flinched and tears of hurt filled her eyes. Curtis started coughing. He pressed his hand to his mouth, and it came away full of blood.
“Oh my God,” she whispered. “You’ve been shot.”
“Turn out the light.”
She did, instantly. “Are they coming?”
“Soon,” he said. “Get out. Use the window.”
She had jumped up from the chair and was standing behind his desk. He could see her silhouetted against the light in the alley. She stood stock-still.
“Quickly,” he urged. “Get away.”
“I can’t leave you like this.”
“Go!”
“Come with me.”
“I wish I could. I can’t move another step, much less climb down that ladder. Go. Please go before they come.”
“I can’t leave you.”
“They’ll kill you, Pauline.”
She rummaged in her book bag and pulled something out. He heard the sharp click of a hammer cocking.
“What the devil is that?”
“I bought a gun.”
Arthur Curtis felt a part of himself die. This silly child, he thought, is going to stay here like I’m Sherlock Holmes and die with me, and I cannot think of a worse way for a man to leave this earth than drag a child with him.
There was only one way to get her to leave.
“Give that to me!”
She handed it over, butt first. It was a little revolver. He could feel rust on the trigger guard.
“Draw the window shade. Stand to one side as you do it. Good. O.K., now. Bend the desk lamp down until it just lights the desk. Turn it on.”
It cast a dim glow.
“Let me sit there.” He lurched to the desk and sank into his chair. He shoved her pistol aside, drew his own from his coat, and laid it on the desk. “Watch this.”
He removed the magazine and the cartridge from the chamber and took the slide and return spring from the barrel. He swabbed the parts clean with a rag he took from the cleaning kit in his desk. Then he reassembled the pistol, inserted a fresh magazine, and shoved it toward her. “Now you do it.”
Pauline mimicked the field stripping of the little Browning, step by step. Curtis was not surprised. She was as sharp a cookie as he had ever met.
“Good. Remember, always check there’s no bullet in the chamber, or you’ll blow your head off by mistake. O.K. Pick it up. Here’s how you cock it.”
He guided her hands and saw to his relief that she was strong enough to move the slide and chamber a round. “You have small hands, like me. It fits you fine. Keep it clean. Here’s a spare clip.” He took it from the drawer. “O.K. You got fourteen bullets.”
“You’re giving me your gun?”
“If anyone ever tries to take it away from you — they will, because you look like a little girl — here’s what you do. You point the gun at his face. And then you look through him, like he’s not there. Like you can’t see him, like he’s made of glass. Then he’ll believe you’re willing to kill him. Understand?”
She nodded solemnly.
“Still want to be a detective?”
“More than anything.”
“Starting this minute, you are a Van Dorn apprentice detective. Here’s your first assignment: report to the Van Dorn field office in Paris.”
“Paris?”
“On the Rue du Bac. My old pal Horace Bronson ramrods it. He’ll take care of you. He’s a top man. Used to run the San Francisco office. Here. Here’s money, you’ll need it.” He emptied the notes from his billfold and coins from his pockets into her hands. Then he yanked open another desk drawer. “And here’s some French francs. Tell Mr. Bronson you have a message for Van Dorn’s chief investigator in America…” He tried to catch his breath. It was getting hard to get wind into his lungs.
“The message is: ‘Krieg Rustungswerk GmbH’s agent in America is an Imperial Army general major named Christian Semmler.’ Repeat that!”
Pauline repeated it word for word.
“Second half of the message: ‘Semmler is nicknamed “Monkey.” He’s thirty-five years old, medium height, powerful frame, blond hair, green eyes, long arms. Like a monkey.’ Repeat that!”
She did.
“Now get out of here.”
“But I can’t you leave you.”
“A Van Dorn apprentice always obeys orders.” He clasped her face between his trembling hands and glared into her eyes. “This is vital, Pauline. You are the only one who can solve this case and save men’s lives. Go. Please, go.”
He pushed her away.
Biting her lips, Pauline put on her coat and hat and pocketed the Browning. Curtis turned out the light. To his immense relief, he heard her open the back window. He heard the fire ladder rungs creak. He listened for her footsteps in the alley, but instead heard boots pounding up the stairs.
Arthur Curtis picked up Pauline’s rusted revolver and aimed it at the door, hoping it wouldn’t blow up in his hand. Not that that would make much difference. But the longer he could hold them off, the farther she could run.
“Cablegram from Paris, Mr. Bell.”
Bell took it with an amused smile. The Van Dorn apprentice detective who had delivered the cablegram, a slender youth in immaculate white shirt and trousers and a lavender bow tie, was aping the sartorial magnificence that the Van Dorn Los Angeles field office was famous for. All he was missing was a lavender bowler, for which he was probably banking his salary.
“Wait for my reply, please.”
Isaac Bell slit the envelope:
GERMAN POLICE REPORT ART CURTIS
SHOT DEAD. I’VE SENT MAN TO
BERLIN FOR PARTICULARS.
BRONSON
31
