The Riddle of the Yellow Zuri

  The

  Riddle of the

  Yellow

  Zuri

  A

  Mystery

  Novel

  by

  Harry Stephen Keeler

  Author of “The Green Jade Hand,”

  “The Fourth King,” “Thieves’ Nights,”

  “The Amazing Web,”

  “The Spectacles

  of Mr. Cagliostro,” etc.

  a division of F+W Media, Inc.

  To my friend

  CHARLES OGLESBY LONGABAUGH

  ARTIST—AND TRUE BOHEMIAN!

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  I. QUEER BUSINESS

  II. THE “MAN-TRAP”

  III. “SURVIVOR TAKES ALL,” SAYS MATTHIAS SMOCK

  IV. A GIRL WITH BROWN EYES

  V. THE HAND FROM OUT THE DARK

  VI. A QUANDARY

  VII. MR. SMOCK RECEIVES

  VIII. THE GODDESS CHANCE AND SAM JOHNSON

  IX. SURPRISING NEWS

  X. KENSINGTON ON THE WIRE

  XI. CASPER WOLFF QUALIFIES AS A FICTIONIST

  XII. THE CLUES OF THE LETTER “K”

  XIII. THE TRIBE OF GALIOTO PAY A CALL

  XIV. THE BUBBLE

  XV. THE STRANGE STORY OF TWENTY THOUSAND DOLLARS

  XVI. CAPITAL LIMITED

  XVII. A RESOLUTION

  XVIII. MR. REGGIE VAN TWILLINGHAM AND THE SPORTING PROPOSITION

  XIX. INFORMATION FROM AN M.D.

  XX. AT THE HOUR OF MIDNIGHT

  Also Available

  CHAPTER I

  QUEER BUSINESS

  CLIFFORD CARSON, seated this sunny morning before the mail that covered his desk in the tiny office of his rather unique two-room suite on the twenty-fourth floor of an American skyscraper, found himself for some strange reason reflecting that it was a long, long call indeed from East India Dock Road, London, to this dignified niche high up in the 333 Building on Michigan Boulevard, Chicago.

  Just why the mind of Clifford Carson, mining engineer and agent for the newly created United States Government Department bearing the ponderous name of the Federal Bureau of Investigation of Fraudulent Mining Stocks, should revert, this bright morning of all mornings, to the little smoke-grey structures of East India Dock Road, was not clear to him; but it may have been a peculiar prescience due to the fact that he was shortly to receive a visitor whose business, strange and unexplainable, was to bring back nothing else than the vivid pictures of swarthy, beturbaned Indian sailors swaggering up Amoy Place and Limehouse Crescent itself as their ships moored to the East India Docks of England’s great city across the seas.

  The man whose odd errand was to bring back these vivid pictures of other days, and who even now was gingerly entering the tiny office, was an individual of about forty-five, American beyond doubt, with a crafty — in fact, shifty — look in his eyes. He was well dressed — in fact even flashy in appearance — with his Prince Albert coat, his wide-brimmed Western hat, and his checked vest with heavy gold watch chain looped across his expansive chest. A thick black cigar held between pudgy fingers emitted a wreath of curly grey smoke. A gold tooth shone as he essayed a smile. He gazed up at the reversed number on the transom above his head, then at Carson himself.

  “I take it I’m talking to Mr. Carson — Mr. Cliff Carson? Am I right, young man, or have I stumbled into the wrong stall?”

  Carson, arising from his swivel chair, drew out a capacious mahogany visitor’s chair from the wall. He pushed back from his forehead a tangle of brown hair, and nodded politely. “Carson’s my name,” he said. And he added in explanation for the still blank glass panel in the office door: “And I haven’t been able to get the sign letterer around yet to place my business on my door.”

  “And Jennings is my name,” his visitor proffered, dropping down in the chair. Carson resumed his own. “Jake Jennings from North Dakota.”

  “Yes.” The recent appointee as agent of the United States Government’s new Bureau of Investigation of Fraudulent Mining Stocks waited politely to see what his flashy visitor wished. The beefy man across from him puffed reflectively on his cigar a second or two and then spoke.

  “Now let’s get things clear, my friend. This morning I was out to St. Giles Lane, a little English-lookin’ street on the outskirts of this city, with hedges here an’ there, and all that sort of thing. You know where it is, though. The reason I went ‘way out there was to see an old gent — a Britisher — by the name of Desmond — Professor Angus Desmond. I had a proposition for him. But the old boy wasn’t in town; so I had to talk things over with his granddaughter, a good-looking young lady of about nineteen or twenty. Miss Marcia Desmond, she told me her name was. I put my proposition up to the young lady, but she told me she’d have to have you hear it and decide on it first. That’s how I got your name and room number here.” He paused only a second. “The facts of the matter are that I gave the young lady a chance to make an easy — a very easy — piece of money. But she wouldn’t consider the proposition until I’d discussed it with you and you’d O.K’d it. So here I am.” Mr. Jennings passed a hand over a slightly puzzled forehead.

  Carson smiled. “Miss Marcia Desmond happens to be my fiancée,” he said quietly. “That’s why she sent you to me. She’s all alone just at present.” His smile faded. “Now just what is your proposition concerning — well — my fiancée, Mr. Jennings?”

  The flashily attired individual nodded comprehendingly at Carson’s explanation of why he had been relayed from St. Giles Lane, Chicago, to the 333 Building. “I see,” he said slowly. “I see.” He paused for a long moment. “Well, my dear sir, here is the proposition in a nutshell. I am in Chicago on a sort of peculiar quest. It’s a quest on which I don’t want any notoriety. Notoriety, my dear sir, I detest. On my way to this city I have been pondering on how I could avoid obnoxious newspaper publicity, and I found what I consider to be the cheapest way out. I may mention, in passing, that the reason I am here in Chicago is that I am trying to secure a Zuri snake.”

  “A Zuri snake?” repeated Carson wonderingly. He was frankly puzzled. Also, he wondered just what connection with the securing of a so-called Zuri snake could a certain little brown-eyed lady out on St. Giles Lane have, not to mention as well what a Zuri snake itself was. He scented a vague connection between the nature of this flashy stranger’s quest and old ex-professor Angus Desmond, the little brown-eyed lady’s grandfather — but he was still quite in the dark.

  “Yes, a Zuri snake, my friend,” Mr. Jennings was saying, shifting his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other. “This is Monday.” He looked at his watch, an ornate and bulky affair. “And 11 A.M.” He closed his watch. “There is at this moment — and has been since approximately sometime yesterday afternoon — Sunday, in other words — a Zuri snake in Chicago, either wandering around loose or already captured by somebody. If it’s been captured, it may be alive in a box — and on the other hand it may already be in a bottle of alcohol. But I know absolutely that the snake is in Chicago. For reasons which I won’t bother you with, I am in the market for the body of that snake, dead or alive; and for that body I stand ready to pay the finder the full and complete sum of one thousand dollars, as well as a neat commission of two hundred and fifty dollars to the agent who handles the negotiations for me.”

  “You mean then that you’re willing to pay out twelve hundred and fifty dollars to regain the reptile, dead or alive?” repeated Carson. He glanced curiously at the fourth digit of the left hand of the man Jennings. A beautiful blue-white diamond, but square-cut and very flat like the oldest of old-fashioned stones, and perhaps a half-carat in weight, scintillated on that digit. The ring which held the s
tone by four powerful prongs, one curving around each edge of the flat jewel, was in some respects strangely like an American dinner ring, except that it was of gold, and except that the band portion which flared forth into a setting of most peculiar design, was flat and wide. The setting into which it flared consisted of two well-defined Buddhas, facing upward from the wearer’s finger, each grave and austere, one erect to an observer and one, of course, inverted. Both were joined at their waists, and it was that junction which held the stone itself. The ring in addition to being Chinese was indubitably of Chinese gold too, the softest and purest known, for not only had Chinese characters been carved in relief on the broad flat band portion, but that portion was bent and buckled as though the lightest of every bump it ever received had contributed to altering its rotundity. But with its flashing stone, the ring seemed to bear silent testimony to its owner’s ability to pay out such a sum as twelve hundred and fifty dollars for such an odd object as a reptile.

  “Dead or alive — yessir,” said Mr. Jennings emphatically. “All the way into Chicago I’ve been figuring how I can advertise for this snake without bringing down a lot of snooping reporters and publicity on myself. And finally I struck the idea — the very idea, young man. Why not look up some worthy old zoolologist — one of these old boys who’s been puttering around beetles and birds and worms for years inside a college, and then finally been shifted off onto the shelf with a pension that he can hardly support himself on? Why not, says I to myself, give one of these old boys a chance to earn an honest penny by being my agent? An old prof could advertise for such things the year ‘round — and nary a reporter would come snooping around to find a story. But if Jake Jennings tried it — well — good night. Every newspaper in town would send out a man.” Mr. Jennings paused, chewing savagely on his cigar. “But there’s a further reason why I need an old prof. This Zuri snake — the particular one I’m looking for — has had its poison glands removed. Now I’m no zoolologist. I don’t know the poison glands from the tail. And so I need a man who can identify the reptile by the absence of the glands in its body.”

  “I take it,” said Carson slowly, “that you located old Professor Angus Desmond through the university with which he used to be associated years ago?”

  “Exactly,” declared Mr. Jennings, flicking off the ash from his cigar. “I called up the University of Chicago, and got the information I needed. Seems the old gentleman is a pretty old man now — been on a pension for a good many years, but considerable of a zoolologist in his day. Living out on St. Giles Lane, Chicago, they told me. So out I went. St. Giles Lane is sure out in the weeds, I’ll say. And all I found was his granddaughter, Miss Marcia. The old gentleman, she tells me, is in Havana, Cuba, on some business concerning the family. Well, to cut the story short, the little lady, after listening to my proposition, told me to come to you and outline it to you, and whatever you said would be quite O.K. with her. Understand, I’m ready to pay two hundred and fifty dollars if Miss Desmond in her grandfather’s absence will be my agent — that is, if she’ll allow me to insert my advertisement under the name of Professor Angus Desmond and knock out the rubberneck newspaper reporters. It’s understood, of course, that she gets the fee only if she succeeds in getting me back my property. It’s only a slight gamble, because she has two hundred and fifty dollars to win — nothing to lose.” Mr. Jennings smiled insinuatingly. “And beg pardon, my young friend, but furniture is high these days. Seems to me I heard you say something about you and the little lady intending to splice up. Perhaps Grandfather will donate the use of his name as a wedding present, and that ought to be as good as two hundred and fifty cold dollars to yourself and his charming granddaughter. How about it, eh?”

  Carson frowned. He did not like Mr. Jennings for some indefinable reason, in spite of the latter’s elephantine efforts to be friendly; and what he did not particularly like was Mr. Jennings’ facetious attitude concerning Carson’s marriage to the charming young girl who lived with her grandfather out on St. Giles Lane.

  “What is a Zuri snake?” he said, abruptly changing the subject. “What does it look like? Also, how do you know this particular snake is in Chicago? And may I ask also just why you are willing to pay this sum for its recovery?”

  “A Zuri snake,” said Mr. Jennings affably, “is a bright yellow serpent of medium size. From twelve to eighteen inches they run, in fact. In thickness, not over an inch or an inch and a half. Not a big snake at all, you see. It’s got hundreds of thin, jet black rings around its body. Makes it look like a tiger in a way. In fact, in the circus game it’s called the Indian tiger snake. It’s poisonous — only this particular one isn’t for the reason I told you a while back. As to how I know it’s in Chicago — well — ” Mr. Jennings wrinkled up his brow in deep thought. A pained look came over his face. “It — er — ah — escaped from my wife while she was passing through. She prizes it highly. Sentimental reasons — other reasons as well. Awfully lucky thing that snake, too — wouldn’t part with it for any money, don’t you know.”

  “Then you own the snake absolutely?” said Carson, scrutinizing Mr. Jennings’ pokerlike countenance.

  “I’ll say I own it,” said that gentleman savagely. “Own it, by Jehosephat, from — from its tail to its head.” He paused. “Well, my young friend, how about it? Miss Marcia Desmond has sent me over here to you, her fiancé. Being all alone, I presume she don’t want to make any business decisions by herself. Just like a woman, of course. A charming little woman, if I do say so myself.”

  “You’ll turn the one thousand dollars over into our hands immediately, if this particular snake is returned, so that we can make our offer good?”

  Mr. Jennings scratched his ear reflectively. “Of course I will. When Jake Jennings says he’ll do a thing, he’ll do it.” He scratched his ear again. “A condition of the payment to the finder is, however, that I be allowed to examine the snake before the money is paid over so’s I can be ab-so-lutely certain it’s the right one.”

  “Fair enough, I guess,” said Carson. He thought for a second. “But you state furthermore that you don’t care whether it’s dead or alive. Do I get you right on that?”

  “The deader the better,” said Mr. Jennings in a burst of candor. He strove quickly to correct his rather mysterious assertion. “The wife is grieving herself sick over that snake, and I’d just as soon see it in a bottle of alcohol than to have to go through this hunt all over again.”

  “When would you be willing to pay over the two hundred and fifty dollar fee?” asked Carson pointedly and politely.

  “As soon as you phone me and tell me you’ve got the blamed reptile, I’ll settle up complete. There’s no doubt we’ll get it if we hop lively, for it escaped nearly in the heart of the city.”

  Carson sat back in his chair. Tapping lightly on his desk with his fingertips he reflected. This proposed proceeding, including the motive behind it, as outlined by Mr. Jake Jennings of North Dakota, held in it something that was not quite according to Hoyle. Yet, in spite of the existence of this hidden factor which Mr. Jennings was keeping to himself, Carson found himself unable, try as he might, to scent anything about the transaction that was illegal. He thought for a few minutes longer. At last he spoke.

  “Well, Mr. Jennings, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. As you learned on your trip out to St. Giles Lane this morning, old Mr. Desmond — Professor Angus Desmond — is in Havana, Cuba, on an errand, and chances of his being back within even a week are very slim. I’ll be frank to say that I think you’re keeping part of this snake business to yourself, but that is obviously not my affair. And I don’t intend to be inquisitive, considering that this is all strictly business. If we — that is, Marcia Desmond and myself, say — insert your advertisement in the papers over the name of her grandfather who I have no hesitation whatever in saying would concur in the chance to earn some money, we and not he would have to serve as your agents and see the transaction through. That is to say, I myself might likely have to
interview any callers who claimed they had such a snake as you describe. This means that you’d have to take chances on my knowing a Zuri snake when I saw it, let alone knowing whether it had its poison glands in it or not. And I’m not a zoologist like the grandfather of the young lady about whom we’ve been speaking.”

  “That’s perfectly all right,” said Mr. Jennings with promptitude and affability. “I’m certain you couldn’t make a mistake on it. It looks exactly like what they call it — a tiger snake. If there’s more than one in Chicago today, I’ll buy you a new hat in the bargain. We can’t fail. And I’ll make the final identification before we pay out the reward.”

  There was the briefest of pauses, and then Mr. Jennings added a further significant suggestion:

  “But we don’t want to fail, my boy. We don’t want to fail! Now I understand there’s a nightly broadcast goes out every night after dinner over one of the big Chicago stations — a broadcast called ‘Ham and Abner read the Ads’: that you can get a classified ad thrown on the air in that way. How about it? Is that so? And if it is, about what’s the cost?”

  “Yes,” admitted Carson. “Every night over station WXOY, owned by one of our big newspapers, these two negro comedians read each of 10 classified ads appearing in that particular paper, and run a light line of patter after each one. The cost is twenty-five dollars flat, in addition to the lineage cost of the ad itself. Sometimes Ham and Abner are funny — again they get unusually forced and strained on account of the high pressure impromptu way in which they have to work. But there appear to be hundreds of thousands of fans who listen in faithfully on Ham and Abner. Indeed, WXOY uses two wave lengths on it, one for television and one for audition, and people who have the expensive instruments can even watch the comedians as well as listen in.” He paused. “I rather think — yes — it would pay you to get in on that broadcast too. It’s like a fishnet which reaches people who may not read the papers at all.”