All-Story Detective, October 1949 — page 119: what you’re looking at

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

Vulture in a Gilded Cage } 119 drink. Her angle? She’s a shill for the joint. Even that silly name, Bird of Paradise, fits! she’s just a gorgeous show- piece. I haven’t decided yet whether she knows what she’s doing, but that’s it. That kind of woman has one objective in hife—rich men. She probably plays hard to get and keeps ’em dangling. At least part of the time they’re dangling there in that bird cage, and the Eagle gets his beak into them. He won’t be able to take a bite out of every one that comes along, but I bet he gets his share.” “Oh,” I said wittily. It all seemed very simple once it was spelled out for me. ARNABY sat there for a while, look- ing off into the misty distance of the murals, and drumming on the desk with his fingers. Finally he said, “I think what we're looking for is a cuckoo.” “Cuckoo he “You don’t know much about birds, do you?” “You couldn’t exactly call me an ornithologist.” “A cuckoo isn’t quite so dumb as he is generally thought to be. Among other bright tricks, he frequently moves in and takes over a nest some other bird has built. I think that’s what’s going on here.” “I don’t get you.” “This Eagle has built a beautiful big nest, well Imed with that comforting green stuff. Somebody is moving in on him. Whoever it is had to get him out of the way first. What kind of a bird would be likely to do a thing like that?” “As you pointed out, I don’t know anything about birds. But I’d say that -raven-haired damsel called Lola would be in the best spot to make a move.” “How soe” “Confidential secretary. Kept all the records and so on, and probably knows everything that went on, right down to the last exclamation point.” “Yeah. But the point is, anybody who figured to move in would also figure to go right on running the business.” “You mean that little bird who thinks he’s a falcom?” “Who else?” “For my dough, I’d a lot rather un- burden my subconscious to the Raven. Or even this last number, this Bird of Paradise.” “That would be your unconscious.” “Skip it. But I don’t follow this cuckoo- in-the-nest theory. There could be lots of other things behind it. For one, get- ting chilled ts an occupational hazard for anyone who’s in the blackmailing line. Or maybe he had a roll stashed away somewhere. Or maybe one of the clients did it just for spite. Anyhow, you haven’t altogether persuaded me it wasn’t suicide.” “Think of that,” said Barnaby with mock admiration. “The brain does still turn over, doesn’t it? But I already told you about the suicide. One, he had no reason. Two, if he had, it would have been something spectacular, not messy. Three, a bird like him would just naturally have left behind a long, flaming message. Four, a guy wants to go out, he wants to go right now. Cyanide, yes. Strychnine, no. You linger around for maybe half an hour. You go through sheer hell. It just doesn’t make sense.” “He was carrying the capsules himself, wasn’t he?” | “That’s what it says. But if he’d been taking the Dutch door, he’d have gulped down the whole works. The box was almost full.” We took a tour over the house, and while it was weird and bizarre enough to make a story in itself, we saw nothing that had any particular bearing on the killing. Six bedrooms, each decorated more or less to harmonize with its occupant’s nature. The Eagle’s room, and a bath- room, were on the first floor, adjoining his study. Another domed room upstairs, like a junior-sized Hayden Planetarium, CONMIG NOOK (©