All-Story Detective, October 1949 — page 118: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

118 the hand. Is there any reason I should?” “Not that I know of. How do you put in your time around here?” “Various ways. J rarely come down- stairs, except for meals, or to get out and away from the daft atmosphere of the place for an hour or two.” “Did you have dinner here tonight?” “T did not. I went out at four o’clock and didn’t return until after seven. T had a glass or two and a bite to eat with a friend in a tavern on Eighty-fourth Street.”” He reeled off his friend’s name and the address of the tavern with an air that dared Barnaby to prove him a liar. Barnaby took down the information, then asked, ‘““When did you last see the Eagle alive?” “About eight o'clock, just after they’d eaten. He came for a look at the birds, as he often did.” “Was he alone?” “He was not. One of the others—the Dove, it must have been—was with him, though I paid them no particular heed. I was busy.” After he left the room, Barnaby flipped through the leather book, looked at a page, and said, “This is the last of the resident birds. Marjorie Carstairs. It sounds like a phony name. Her bird-name is the Bird of Paradise.” He gave me a look that came close to being a leer. “We'll have her for dessert.” She would do for dessert any time. Especially if you like ripe peaches and whipped cream and powdered sugar. The word “gorgeous” is woefully overworked, especially in connection with blondes, but here was the woman for whom that word was invented. She was beautifully under- dressed in a shimmering strapless blue evening gown that had no back to speak of, and not much more front. Her thick blonde hair was massed in a way I couldn’t describe, except I know it was a work of art. Her make-up, except for the red slash of lipstick, was so delicately done you _ All-Story Detective had to look twice to be sure it wasn’t some wonderful achievement of nature. She paused in the doorway long enough to give each of us a slow look with the twin blue stars she used for eyes. Then she crossed the room in an easy, graceful way that was a poem in motion, and sat in the chair by the desk. In spite of all that spectacular beauty, she contrived to look like a little girl sitting on the edge of her chair in front of teacher and all ready to give a recitation. Barnaby took her over pretty much the same ground he had covered with the others, and I began to think, sadly, of another hackneyed old phrase—beautiful but dumb. When he showed her the note, her comment was, “Pretty writing, isn’t it?” —which will give you an idea of how helpful her answers were. But the girl didn’t look stupid. She just looked lovely. Barnaby finally asked, “Did the Eagle have many men among his clients?” I thought her eyes narrowed just a little. “He didn’t have any objections to men.” “Do you?” She smiled. “TI love ‘em.” “Have you by any chance happened to introduce any men to the Eagle?” “Two or three. I’ve been living here, you see, and several of my friends have called for me here.” “Oh. Are you on the staff?” “Not exactly. I do little things when he asks me to, but mostly he just lets me stay here hecatse he’s so kind.” “Uh-huh. Well, that’s all for now. Don’t leave town without letting us know.” “T wouldn’t dream of it.” She closed the door gently behind her and Barnaby said, “Some dame. Some smoke-screen. He lets her stay here be- cause he’s so kind. Oh brother, the kindly old eagle.” “What’s her angle, do you think?” “My gosh, Charlie, you must need a COMiiclooe S ©