Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 77, No. 4. Whole No. 451, March 25, 1981

The Affair of the Reluctant Witness by Erle Stanley Gardner

“The Affair of the Reluctant Witness” is a relatively unknown story by Erle Stanley Gardner. It raises the curtain on the stage of our Department of Discoveries in which we will bring you not only relatively unknown stories by well-known authors but also relatively unknown stories by relatively unknown writers — when the stories are little gems that somehow have been lost in forgotten or neglected archives.

(If you have a favorite story you haven’t reread in years, or if there is a story that has persisted in your memory, please give us whatever details you can — authors name, title of story, where and when it originally appeared. We are happy to pay a modest finder’s fee for all stories on which we are able to obtain reprint rights. Let us hear from you!)

Now, meet Jerry Bane, ex-prisoner of war, at present a ne’er-do-well man-about-town. But more important, Jerry Bane is a blood-brother — at least, a first cousin — of Erle Stanley Gardner’s Lester Leith, and a member of the royal family that includes Edward D. Hoch’s Nick Velvet and Leslie Charteris’ Simon Templar (the Saint) and traces its larcenous lineage back to Robin Hood...

This Jerry Bane novelet, “The Affair of the Reluctant Witness,” is not to be confused with Erle Stanley Gardner’s Perry Mason short story titled “The Case of the Irate Witness,” which appeared in our issue of July 1954.

Jerry Bane knuckled his eyes into wakefulness, kicked back the covers and said, “What time is it, Mugs?”

“Ten thirty,” Mugs Magoo told him.

Bane jumped from the bed, stood in front of the open window, and went through a series of quick calisthenics.

Magoo surveyed the swift, lithe motions with eyes that had been trained to soak in details as a fresh blotting paper absorbs ink.

Jerry Bane straightened, extended his arms from the shoulder, and bending his knees, rapidly raised and lowered his body.

“How am I doing, Mugs?”

“Okay,” Magoo said without enthusiasm. “I guess you just ain’t the type that puts on weight. What’s your waist?”

“Twenty-eight.”

Mugs’s comment was based on fifty years of cynical observation. “It’s all right while you’re young,” he said, “and the girls are crazy about a good dancer, to be slim-waisted, but when you get up to what I call the competitive years, it takes beef to flatten out the opposition. When I was on the police force, the boys used to figure you needed weight to have impact. Not fat, you understand, but beef and bone.”

“I understand,” Bane said, smiling.

Mugs surveyed the empty sleeve of his right arm. “Of course,” he added, “I’ve only got one punch now, but that one punch will do the work if I can get it in the right place and at the right time. What do you want for breakfast?”

“Poached eggs and coffee. What’s the right time for the punch, Mugs?”

“First,” Mugs said laconically.

Jerry chuckled.

“Better take your orange juice before you have your shower,” Mugs advised, “and remember your friend, Arthur Arman Anson, is coming this morning.”

Bane laughed. “Don’t call that old fossil a friend. He’s an attorney and the executor of my uncle’s estate, that’s all. He disapproves thoroughly of everything I do... What’s in the mail?”

“Did you order a package of photos from the Shooting Star News Photo Service?”

Bane nodded.

Mugs cocked a quizzical eyebrow.

“It’s an idea I had,” Jerry said. “It’s the answer to Anson, Mugs. The Shooting Star outfit has photographers who cover all the news events. Now, with your photographic memory, your knowledge of the underworld, the confidence men, the slickers and the hypocrites, it occurred to me it might be a good plan for us to study the news photographs. In other words, Mugs, we might build up a business, an unorthodox business to be sure, but a profitable business.”

“And a dangerous business?” Mugs asked.

Jerry merely grinned.

“It’s an expensive service?” Mugs asked dryly.

“A hundred bucks a month,” Jerry said cheerfully. “Do you know, Mugs, Arthur Arman Anson had the colossal effrontery to tell me that since he’s the trustee of a so-called spendthrift trust under my uncle’s will he can withhold every penny of the trust fund if he sees fit.

“The ten thousand we got in a lump sum from my uncle’s estate must be about gone. Anson is going to be difficult, so I thought we’d better do a little sharpshooting. He lives by his brains. We’ll live by our wits.”

“I see,” Mugs said without expression.

“That ten grand is about gone, isn’t it?” Jerry asked.

Mugs headed for the kitchenette. “I think I’d better look at the coffee.”

“Okay,” Bane said cheerfully.

He seated himself in front of the mirror, opened the package of photographs Mugs brought him, drank his orange juice, then connected the electric shaver.

Magoo said, “Anson is going to be here any minute now. Hope you don’t mind my saying so, but he won’t like it if he finds you still in pajamas. It irritates him.”

“I know,” Jerry said. “The old fossil thinks he has a right to order my life just because he’s the executor of a spendthrift trust. How much money is left in the account, Mugs?”

Magoo cleared his throat. “I can’t remember exactly,” he said.

Bane disconnected the razor so that he could hear better. “Mugs, what the devil’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“Phooey! Let’s have it.”

“I’m sorry,” Magoo blurted, “but you’re overdrawn three hundred and eighty-seven dollars. The bank sent a notice.”

“I suppose the bank also advised Arthur Anson,” Jerry said, “and he’s coming up to pour reproaches over me and rub them in the open wounds.”

“He’ll relent and tide you over,” Mugs said without conviction. “That’s why your uncle made him trustee.”

“Not Anson. That old petrified pretzel wants to run my life. If I’d do what he wants I’d become another Arthur Arman Anson, puttering around with a briefcase, a cavernous, bony face, lips as thin as a safety-razor blade, and about as sharp... Well, Mugs, I don’t know what I’m going to do about salary, and today, I believe, is payday.”

“You don’t need to bother about salary,” Magoo said feelingly. “When you picked me up I was selling pencils on the street.”

“It isn’t a question of what you were doing, but what you are doing,” Jerry said. “Well, we’ll finish with the whiskers, then the shower, then breakfast, then finances.”

He resumed his shaving and as he did so started studying the pictures which had been sent out by the Shooting Star News Photo Service, photographs on eight-by-ten, with a hard, glossy finish, each photograph bearing a mimeographed warning to watch the credit line and a brief description of the picture so that news editors could make and run their own captions.

Jerry Bane tossed aside a picture of an automobile accident. “I guess the idea of this picture stuff wasn’t so good, Mugs. It seems they’re running around like mad, shooting auto accidents with all of the gruesome details.”

“Part of a publicity campaign to educate the people,” Mugs explained.

“Well, those photographs certainly don’t interest me,” Bane said. “Here, Mugs, you’re the camera-eye man of the outfit. Run your eye through these pictures while I shower. I can’t look at gruesome, mangled bodies and smashed-up automobiles on an empty stomach. See if you can’t find the picture of some crook who’s crashed into the news, someone you can tell me about. Then we may be able to figure out an angle.”

Mugs said deprecatingly, “Of course, I’m an old-timer, Mr. Bane. There’s a whole crop of newcomers in the crime field since I—”

“I know,” Bane interrupted, laughing. “You’re always apologizing, but the fact remains you have the old camera eye. That’s where you got your nickname, Mugs, from being able to remember faces. They tell me you’ve never forgotten a face, a name, or a connection.”

“That was in the old days. I had both arms then and I was on the force and—”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Jerry interrupted hastily, “and then you got mixed up in politics. Then you lost an arm, took to drink, and wound up selling pencils.”

“There was an interval with a gentleman by the name of Mr. Pry,” Mugs Magoo said somewhat wistfully. “He was a fast worker, that lad — reminds me of you. But I got to drinking too much and—”

“Well, you’re on the wagon now,” Bane said reassuringly. “You look over these pictures and see if you find anyone you know.”

Still clad in pajamas, Bane seated himself at the breakfast table and said, “What about the photographs, Mugs?”

Magoo said, “A neat bit of cheesecake, sir. You might prefer this to the auto-accident pictures.”

“Let’s take a look.”

Mugs Magoo passed over the picture of a girl in a bathing suit.

Bane looked at the picture, then read the caption underneath aloud:

“Federal Court proceedings were enlivened yesterday when, during a bathing-suit patent case, Stella Darling, nightclub entertainer, modeled the suit. ‘Remove the garment and it will be introduced as plaintiffs Exhibit A,’ said Judge Asa Lansing, then added hastily, ‘Not here! Not here!’ while the courtroom rocked with laughter.”

Bane surveyed the photograph. “Some doll!”

Mugs nodded.

“Nice chassis.”

Again Mugs nodded.

“But somehow the face doesn’t go with the legs,” Bane said. “It’s a sad face, almost tragic. That expression could have been carved on a wooden mask.”

Mugs Magoo said, “Nice kid when I first knew her. Won a beauty contest and was Miss Something-or-other in nineteen forty-three. Then things happened to her fast. She cashed in on what prosperity she could get, married a pretty good chap, then fell in love with another guy. Her husband caught her cheating, shot the other man, couldn’t get by with the unwritten law, and went to jail. She came out west and turned up in the nightclubs. Nice figure, but gossip followed her from back east. Too bad the kid can’t get a break and begin all over again. Gossip has long legs.”

Bane nodded thoughtfully. “When you come right down to it, Mugs, there’s not so much to differentiate her from a lot of the people who look down on her.”

“Just a mere thirty minutes,” Magoo said. “How’s your coffee?”

“The coffee’s fine. Why the thirty minutes, Mugs?”

“Her husband’s train could have been late.”

Bane grinned. “What else, Mugs? Anything else?”

“One here I don’t get,” Mugs said.

“What is it?”

Mugs handed him a photograph. It showed a young woman standing in a serve-yourself grocery store, pointing an accusing finger at a broad-shouldered man who, in turn, was pointing an accusing finger at the woman. At the woman’s feet a dog lay sprawled. A pile of groceries on the counter by the cash register were evidently purchases made by the man.

“Why the double pointing?” Bane asked.

“Read it,” Mugs said.

Bane read the story:

“Now that,” Bane said, “is something! Know anything about it, Mugs?”

“This Gordon,” Mugs said, placing a stubby finger on the picture of the man, “is a slick one. They call him ‘Gopher’ Gordon because he’s always burrowing and working in the dark.”

“You think it’s a frame-up to shake Bernice Calhoun loose from some change?”

“More probably Gopher Gordon and Harvey Haggard are in it together and want to get the grocery-store lease.”

“Seems a rather crude way of doing it,” Bane said.

“Anything that works ain’t crude,” Mugs insisted doggedly.

“I wish you’d look into this, Mugs,” Jerry Bane said thoughtfully. “It has possibilities. Here we are fresh out of cash, and this crook... and a beautiful woman... Check up on it, will you, Mugs?”

“You want me to do it now?”

“Right now,” Jerry Bane said. “The way I look at it, haste is important. Get started.”

Ten minutes after Mugs Magoo had left, Arthur Arman Anson knocked on the door.

His cold knuckles tapped with evenly spaced decision.

Jerry Bane let him in.

“Hello, Counselor,” he said. “I’ve just finished breakfast. How about having a cup of coffee?”

“No, thank you. I breakfasted at six thirty.”

“You look it,” Bane said.

“How’s that?”

“I said you looked it. You know, early to bed, early to rise, and all that sort of stuff.”

Anson settled himself with severe austerity in a straight-backed chair, depositing his briefcase beside him.

“I come in the performance of a necessary but disagreeable duty,” Anson said, his voice showing that he relished his errand, despite his remarks.

“Go right ahead with the lecture,” Jerry Bane said.

“It’s not a lecture, young man. I am merely making a few remarks.”

“Go ahead and make them, then, but remember the adjective.”

“You are living the life of a wastrel. By this time you should have recovered from the harrowing experiences of the Japanese prison camp. You should have recovered from the effects of your two years of malnutrition. In other words, young man, you should go to work.”

“What do you suggest?” Jerry asked.

“Hard manual labor,” Anson said grimly.

“I don’t get it.”

“That is the way I got my start. I worked with pick and shovel on railroad construction and—”

“And then inherited money, I believe,” Jerry said.

“That has nothing to do with it, young man. I began at the bottom and have worked my way to the top. You are wasting your time in frivolity. I don’t suppose you go to bed before eleven or twelve o’clock at night! I find you at this hour of the morning still lounging around in pajamas.

“Furthermore, I find you associating with a disreputable character, a one-armed consort of the underworld, who has sold pencils on the streets of this city.”

“He’s loyal and I like him,” Jerry said.

“He’s a dissipated has-been,” Anson snapped. “Your uncle left you ten thousand dollars outright. The bulk of his estate, however, he left to me as trustee. I am empowered to give you as much or as little of that money as I see fit, the idea being that—”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Jerry interrupted. “My uncle thought I might spend it all in one wild fling. He wanted you to see that it was passed out to me in installments. All right, I’m broke right now. Pass out an installment.”

“I do not know what your uncle wanted,” Anson said, “but I do know what I intend to do.”

“What’s that?”

“You have squandered the ten thousand dollars. Look at this apartment, equipped with vacuum cleaners, electric dishwashers, all sorts of gadgets—”

“Because my man has only one arm, and I’m trying to—”

“Exactly, Because of your sentiment for this sodden hulk of the streets, you have dissipated your cash inheritance. Young man, the bank advises me you are overdrawn. Now then, I’m going to give it to you straight. Get out of this apartment. Go to a roominghouse somewhere and start living within your means. Strip off those tailored clothes, get into overalls, start doing hard manual labor. At the end of six months I will again discuss the matter with you... Do you know how much you have spent in the last three months?”

“I never was much good at addition,” Jerry confessed.

“Try subtraction then!” Anson snapped.

Bane’s face was reproachful. “Just when I was about to steer a lawsuit to your office — a spectacular case you’re bound to win.”

Anson’s shrewd eyes showed a brief flicker of interest. “What’s the case?”

“I can’t tell you now.”

“Bosh. Probably something I wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole. And in any event, my decision would remain unaltered.”

“A beautiful case,” Bane went on. “A case involving defamation of character. The young woman defendant is entirely innocent. You’ll have an opportunity to walk into court and make one of those spectacular, last-minute exposes of the other side. A case that has everything.”

“Who is this client?”

“A raving, roaring beauty.”

“I don’t want them to rave. I don’t want them to roar. I want them to pay,” Anson said, and then added, “And I don’t care whether they’re beautiful or not.”

Bane grinned. “But think of it, Anson. All this, and beauty too.”

“Don’t think you can bribe me, young man. I have been an attorney too long to fall for these blandishments, these nebulous fees which never materialize, these mysterious clients with their marvelous cases who somehow never quite get to the office. You have my ultimatum. I’ll thank you to advise me within forty-eight hours that you have gone to work. Hard manual labor. At the end of what I consider a proper period I will then give you a chance to get a so-called white-collar job. Good day, sir.”

“And you won’t have a cup of coffee?”

“Definitely not. I never eat between meals.”

Arthur Arman Anson slammed the door behind him.

Mugs Magoo found Jerry Bane sprawled out in the big easy chair, his mind completely absorbed in a book entitled The Mathematics of Business Management. Beside him on the smoking stand was a slide rule with which Bane had been checking the conclusions of the author.

Magoo stood by the chair for some two or three minutes before Bane, feeling his presence, fidgeted uneasily for a moment, then looked up. “I didn’t want to interrupt you,” Mugs said, “but I have a very interesting story.”

“You talked with her?”

“Yes.”

“Is she really as good-looking as the newspaper picture made her out to be?”

Mugs took a photograph from an envelope. “Better. This was taken last summer at a beach resort.”

Jerry Bane carefully studied the picture, then gave a low whistle.

“Exactly,” Mugs Magoo said dryly.

“Now how the devil did you get this, Mugs?”

“Well, I found that the store’s about all she has in the world and she’s pretty hard up for cash. I told her some of the big wholesalers were going to put on a campaign to feature neighborhood grocery stores and they wanted to get pictures that would catch the eye. I told her that if she had an attractive picture of herself, one that would look well in print, she might win a prize, and that if she did, a man would come to photograph the store and pay her a hundred and fifty dollars for the right to publish her picture; that if the picture wasn’t used, she’d get it back and wouldn’t be out anything.”

Jerry Bane studied the picture. “Plenty of this and that and these and those. Lots of oomph, Mugs.”

“Plenty, sir.”

“And she’s hard up for cash?”

“Apparently so. She wants to sell the store, but she’s worried about what may happen on this defamation-of-character suit.”

“What’s new in that case, Mugs?”

“Well, she’s beginning to think she may have acted a little hastily. She isn’t certain she saw the gun. She saw the man throw something over the fence, but the police haven’t been able to find anything. Frankly, sir, I think she’s beginning to feel she was mistaken... But she wasn’t.”

“She wasn’t?”

Mugs Magoo shook his head. “I got a look at this man, Haggard, who runs that jewelry store. I know some stuff about him the police don’t.”

“What?”

“He’s a fence, and he’s clever as hell. He buys stuff here and ships it by air express to retail outlets all over the country.”

“An association of fences?”

Mugs nodded and said, “You can figure out what happened. This man Gordon had probably had some dealings with Haggard and had been given a double-cross. He decided to get even in his own way.”

Bane nodded thoughtfully. “So, naturally, Haggard can’t admit anything was taken because he doesn’t dare describe the loot... Let me take a look at that picture again, Mugs.”

Mugs handed him the photograph of the girl in the bathing suit.

“Not that one,” Jerry Bane said. “The one that shows her accusing Gopher Gordon, and Gopher Gordon accusing her. Do you know, Mugs, I’m beginning to get a very definite idea that may pay off.”

“I thought you might,” Magoo said. “A man can look at a picture of a jane like that and get ideas pretty fast.”

The girl looked up from the cash register as Jerry entered the store.

Jerry noticed that she had a nice complexion and good lines, because he was something of an expert in such matters. Her long slender legs had just the right curves in keeping with her streamlined figure. Moreover, there was a certain alertness in her eyes, a mischievous, provocative something which held a definite challenge.

Jerry Bane, apparently completely preoccupied with his errand, picked up a market basket and walked around looking at the canned goods.

The girl tossed her head and returned to an inspection of the accounts on which she had been working when Jerry entered. This slack time of the afternoon was a period which she apparently set aside for her bookkeeping.

Left to his own devices, Jerry carefully selected a can of grapefruit and a package of rolled oats. He glanced back toward the cans of dog food on the counter where the girl bent over her work beside the cash register — the cans which had shown up so plainly in the news photo. Then he looked at his watch. Very soon — almost at once, in fact, if Mugs Magoo was on the beam — the telephone would ring and Bernice Calhoun would leave the counter to answer it. If Mugs could keep her there for a minute or two, there would be time enough for...

The phone shrilled. The girl looked up. Her eyes rested briefly on Jerry, then she shut the cash-register drawer and walked swiftly to the back of the store, where the telephone hung on the wall in a corner.

Jerry stepped in front of the pyramided cans of dog food. They were arranged so that the labels were toward the front — except for one can. He deftly extracted this can from the pile.

The lid had been entirely removed by a can opener which had made a smooth job of cutting around the top of the can. The interior contained bits of dried dog food still adhering to the tin, but, in addition to that, there was a flash of scintillating brilliance, light shafts from sparkling gems which showed ruby red, emerald green, and the indescribable glitter of diamonds.

Jerry’s body shielded what he was doing from the girl. His hand, moving swiftly, dumped the contents of the can into an inside coat pocket, a coruscating cascade of unset jewels which rattled reassuringly.

From another pocket in his coat he took some cheap imitation jewels which he had removed from costume jewelry. When he had the can two-thirds full, he took some of the genuine stones and placed them on top in a layer of brilliant temptation.

He replaced the can, being careful to leave it just as he had found it, then wandered over to the shelf where the jams were displayed. As he picked up a jar of marmalade, he heard the girl’s footsteps clicking back to the counter. He took his basket of groceries to her.

She seemed now to have definitely decided on an impersonal course of conduct.

“Good afternoon,” she said politely, and jabbed at the keys of the cash register. “Two dollars and sixteen cents,” she announced.

Jerry gravely handed her a five-dollar bill. She rang up the sale on the cash register.

“Too bad about your lawsuit,” Jerry said. “I have an idea I can help you.”

She was engaged in making change, but stopped and glanced up at him swiftly. “What’s your game?” she asked.

“No game. I only thought I might be of some assistance.”

“In what way?”

“I have a friend who is a very able lawyer.”

“Oh, that!” She shrugged contemptuously.

“And, if I spoke to him, I’m quite sure he’d handle your case for a nominal fee.”

She laughed scornfully. “I know, just because I have an honest face — or is it the figure?”

Jerry Bane said, “Perhaps I’d better explain myself. I have reason to believe you’re being victimized.”

“Indeed,” she said, her voice as cutting as a cold wind on a wintry evening. “Your perspicacity surprises me, Mr... er—”

“Mr. Bane,” he said. “Jerry to my friends.”

“Oh, yes, Mister Bane!”

“While you probably don’t realize it,” Jerry went on, “the man whom you identified as the stickup artist is known to the police of the northern cities. He doesn’t have a criminal record in the sense that his fingerprints have ever been taken, and no one knows him here, but the police in the north know a little about him.”

“Wouldn’t that be valuable in... well, you know, in the event he sues me for defamation of character?” she asked, her voice suddenly friendly.

“It would be more than valuable. It would be priceless.”

“You have proof?”

“I think I can get proof.”

She slowly closed the drawer of the cash register. “Exactly what is it you want?” she asked.

Jerry made a little gesture of dismissal. “Merely an opportunity to be of service. Try me out.”

“If I do, I’ll hold you to your promise.”

“I’d expect you to.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“First, tell me exactly what happened — everything.”

She studied him thoughtfully, then said abruptly, “Ever since my father died, I’ve been trying to make a go of this place. It won’t warrant paying the salary of a clerk. It’s a small place. I have to do the work myself.

“I keep track of the stock. I make up orders. I keep books. I open shipments, arrange the stock on the shelves, and do all sorts of odd jobs. I work here at night and early in the morning. During the daytime I fill in the time between customers with clerical work on the books.

“Day before yesterday I happened to be looking out of that window. From this position you can look right across to that little jewelry shop known as the Jewel Casket.

“I don’t know much about that place. Now that I think of it, I don’t know how a person could expect to make a living with a jewelry store in that location, but Mr. Haggard evidently does all right. Of course, he doesn’t have a high rent to pay.

“Well, anyway, as I was looking out of the window, I saw this man’s back and I felt certain he was holding a gun. I thought I could see someone in the store holding his hands up. Then this man, Gordon, came out into the street, and I’m almost positive he tossed something over the board fence into that vacant lot.

“Then I saw him stiffen with apprehension and he seemed to be ready to run. I couldn’t see what had frightened him at the moment, but I could see he was looking over his left shoulder, up the street.”

“Go on,” Jerry said.

“Well, he didn’t run. He hurried across the street over here. Just as he came in the door, I saw what it was that had frightened him.”

“What was it?”

“A police prowl car. It came cruising by, going slowly, the red spotlight on the windshield and the radio antennae showing plainly it was a police car. I was frightened, simply scared stiff.”

“You have a dog here?” Bane asked.

“Yes, but he’s a good-natured, friendly dog. He would be no protection unless, perhaps, someone should attack me.”

“What did this man do after he got inside here?”

“Walked around the store and tried to act like a customer, picking out canned goods to put in a basket, but picking them out carefully and with such attention to the labels that I knew he was simply stalling.

“I guess I was in such a panic that I didn’t stop to think — I just don’t know. At the time I really felt he was a stickup man. Now I’m not so sure. Anyhow, I went to the phone and got police headquarters. The phone’s so far back in the store,” she explained, “that he couldn’t hear me from where he was.”

Jerry nodded. “Not very convenient to have it so far away. Usually, I mean — for orders and that sort of thing.”

“I don’t take phone orders,” she said. “That’s what I kept trying to tell that guy that called just now. But he couldn’t seem to understand. Maybe because he was English. You know, very lah-de-dah kind of voice.”

Jerry grinned. Mugs and his imitation of Jeeves! He’d do it at the drop of a hat.

“So you called the police,” he prompted the girl.

“Yes. I told them who I was, explained that a man had just held up the jewelry store across the street, had been frightened by a police radio car, and had taken refuge in my store. I knew that the police department could get in touch with the radio car right away and I suggested they have the driver turn around and come back here.”

“And that was done?”

“Yes. It took them about... oh, I’d say a few minutes.”

“And what happened when the police arrived?”

“The car pulled up in front of the store. The officers jumped out with drawn guns, and I pointed out this man to them and accused him of having held up the store across the street.

“At that time the man had finished buying his groceries and was standing here at the cash register. I’d been fumbling around a bit making his change, so that the radio car would have time to get back.

“This man said his name was Gordon and that I was crazy, that he’d stopped to look in the window of the Jewel Casket, had started to go in to buy a present for his girl friend, and then changed his mind and decided to buy some groceries instead. He said that he’d never carried a gun in his life. The police searched him and found nothing. I told them to go over to the Jewel Casket. I thought perhaps they’d find Mr. Haggard dead.”

“What happened?”

“That’s the part I simply can’t understand. Mr. Haggard was there in the store and he said that no one had been in during the last fifteen minutes and that he hadn’t been held up. I... I felt like a complete ninny.”

“Would you gamble a little of your time and do exactly what I say if it would get you out of this mess?” Bane asked.

“What do you want?”

“I want you to close up the store and come with me to see my lawyer, Arthur Anson. I want you to tell him your story. After that I want you to promise me that, in case he should return to the store with you, you’ll stay right beside him all the time he’s here.”

“Why that?” she asked.

Jerry grinned. “It’s just a hunch. Do just as I tell you and you may get this cleaned up.”

She thought that over for several seconds, then said, “Oh, well, what have I got to lose?”

“Exactly,” Jerry said, and his smile was like spring sunshine.

Arthur Arman Anson was cold as a wet towel.

“Jerry, I’m a busy man. I have no time to listen to your wheedling. I will not give you—”

“I told your secretary that I have a client waiting,” Jerry Bane interrupted.

“I recognize the typical approach,” Anson said. “I not only fear the Greeks when they bear gifts, but I shall not change my decision in your case by so much as a single, solitary penny! Kindly remember that.”

Jerry Bane whipped the bathing-suit photograph out of his briefcase. “This is a picture of the client.”

Arthur Anson adjusted his glasses and peered through the lower segments of his bifocals. He harrumphed importantly.

Jerry Bane whipped out the other photograph, the one taken by the Shooting Star photographer, and said, “Take a look at that picture. Study the caption.”

Arthur Anson looked at the photograph, read the caption, and once more cleared his throat.

“Interesting,” he said noncommittally, then added after a moment, “Very.”

“Now then,” Jerry Bane went on, “this man, Mugs Magoo, who works for me—”

“A thoroughly disreputable character,” Anson interrupted.

“—has a camera eye and a great memory,” Bane went on as though the interruption had not been made. “As soon as he looked at this picture he recognized this man as a crook.”

“Indeed!”

“He’s known as Gopher Gordon because he works underground and by such devious methods the police have never been able to get anything on him. This is the first time he’s actually been held for anything and the first time he’s ever been fingerprinted. That’s why he’s so furious at Bernice, and so determined to sue her.”

Anson stroked the long angle of his jaw with the tips of bony fingers. “A bad reputation is a very difficult thing to prove. People don’t want to get on the witness stand and testify. However, of course, if this young woman insists on consulting me, and if she has sufficient funds to pay me an ample retainer as well as to hire competent detectives—”

“She isn’t going to pay you a cent,” Jerry Bane said.

Sheer surprise jerked Arthur Anson out of his professional calm. “What’s that?”

“She isn’t going to pay you a cent.”

Anson pushed back the photographs. “Then get her out of my office,” he stormed. “Damn it, Bane, I—”

“But,” Jerry interrupted, “you’re going to make a lot of money out of the case just the same, because you’re going to get such a spectacular courtroom victory it’ll give you an enormous amount of advertising.”

“I don’t need advertising.”

“A man can’t get too much of it,” Jerry said, talking rapidly. “Now, look what happened. This man Haggard says he wasn’t held up. Bernice knows that he was. He’s lying. You can tear into him on cross-examination and—”

“And prove my client is a liar.”

“I tell you she isn’t a liar. She’s a sweet young girl who is being victimized.”

Anson shook his head decisively. “If this jewelry store man says he wasn’t held up, that finishes it. This young woman is a blackmailer and a liar. Get her out of my office.”

Jerry Bane said desperately, “I wish you’d listen to me. These men are both crooks.”

“Both?”

“Yes, both. They have to be.”

“Indeed,” Anson said with elaborate irony. “Simply because these men tell a story which fails to coincide with that told by a young woman with whom you have apparently become infatuated—”

“Don’t you see?” Jerry interrupted once more. “Haggard is running a jewelry store out there in a neighborhood where the volume would be too small to support his overhead unless the store were a mask for some illegitimate activity. Out there he poses as a small operator, selling cheap jewelry to a family trade, costume jewelry to schoolgirls, fountain pens, cigarette lighters, various knick-knacks. Actually he has a more profitable activity. He’s a fence.

“Being out in that district of small neighborhood stores, he’s in a position to keep irregular hours. No one thinks anything of it when he comes down at night and putters around in his store, because many of the storekeepers who can’t afford help do the same thing. So Haggard uses this fact as a shield for an illicit business.

“This man Gordon is a crook. Gordon knew what Haggard’s business was. He undoubtedly knew that some very large haul of stones had been purchased by Haggard, and Gordon saw a chance to step in and clean up. He knew that Haggard wouldn’t be in a position to report his loss to the police. Gordon was personally unknown to Haggard, just as he is unknown to the police here. He hoped that no one who had known him in the north would catch up with him and identify him.

“An ordinary crook, established here in this city, wouldn’t have dared to hold up a fence. The underworld has its own way of meting out punishment. But Gordon was an outsider, a slick worker, a man who could step in, make a stickup, and then get out. He’s noted for that.”

“And what did he do with the loot?” Anson asked sarcastically. “Remember, the police searched him.”

“Sure, the police searched him. But he’d been in that grocery store for some five minutes before they searched him, and he saw the young woman go over to the telephone and start talking in a low tone of voice. He wasn’t so dumb but what he knew that he was trapped. His only chance was to get rid of the jewelry.”

“Where did he put it?”

“It’s concealed in various places around the store... Why, look here!” Jerry said in sudden excitement, as though the idea had just occurred to him. “What would have prevented him from opening a can, dumping out the contents, and putting the jewelry in the empty can?”

“Ah, yes,” Anson said, his voice a cold sneer. “The typical reasoning of a fat-brained, young spendthrift. I suppose he opened a can of peaches, dumped the peaches on the floor, and then put the jewelry in the can. The police searched the place and couldn’t find anything wrong. They never noticed the dripping can or the peaches on the floor. Oh, no!”

“Well,” Bane said, “it wouldn’t have to be a can of peaches. And he could have opened a can so neatly that... Why, suppose he’d opened a can of dog food and put that on the floor! The dog would promptly have gulped it up and... Say, wait a minute—”

Jerry broke off to look at the photograph with eyes that were suddenly wide with surprise, as though he were just noticing something he hadn’t seen before. “Look right here!” he said. “There’s canned dog food piled on the counter. And — yes — here’s one can that’s turned around, turned the wrong way so the brand name doesn’t show.”

Anson was now studying the photograph too. Jerry pointed to the pile of groceries on the counter. “And look at what he has there — a can opener! That settles it. He picked up the can opener — I saw a box of them by the canned-fruit shelves when I was there — and he used it on the can of dog food. Probably while the girl was at the back of the store phoning the police. It—”

Anson snatched the photographs out of Jerry Bane’s hand and popped them into a drawer in his desk. “Young man,” he said, “your reasoning is asinine, puerile, sophomoric, and absurd. However, you have brought a young woman to my office, a young woman who is in a legal predicament. I will, at least, talk with her. I will not judge her entirely on the strength of what you say.”

“Very well, I’ll call her in,” Jerry said, his voice without expression.

“You’ll do nothing of the sort, young man. I do not discuss business with clients in the presence of an outsider. You have brought this woman to my office. I will talk with her and I will talk with her privately. I’ll excuse you now, Mr. Bane — and naturally I’ll expect you to keep this entire matter entirely confidential.”

“Any need for secrecy?”

“It’s not secrecy. It’s merely preserving the legal integrity of my office. Good afternoon, young man.”

“Good afternoon,” Jerry said.

Jerry Bane found Stella Darling waiting impatiently.

“Your phone call said you had a modeling job,” she said. “I’ve been waiting here for over an hour.”

“Sorry, I was a little late,” Jerry said. “I was making arrangements with my clients.”

“What sort of a modeling job is it?”

“Well,” Jerry said, “to be frank with you, Miss Darling, it’s just a bit out of the ordinary. It’s—”

Her voice cut across his like a knife. “Nude?” she asked.

“No, no. Nothing like that.”

“How did you find out about me?” she asked.

“I saw the photograph of you modeling the bathing suit in court.”

“I see.” Her voice indicated that she saw a great deal. Her appraisal of Jerry Bane was personal and, after a moment, approving.

Jerry said, “This job is one I’d like to have you carry out to the letter. I have here a sheet of typewritten instructions, telling you just what to do.”

She said, “Look, Mr. Bane, I have a lot of things put up to me. I’m trying to make a living. I have a beautiful body. I’m trying to capitalize on it while it lasts. I made the mistake of winning a beauty contest once and thought I was going to become a movie star overnight. I quit school and started signing up with this and that... Lord, what I wouldn’t give to turn back the hands of the clock and be back in school once more!”

“Perhaps,” Jerry said, “if you do exactly as I say, you’ll have an opportunity to do that. I’m trying a unique exploitation of a brand-new dog food. If things go the way I want, I may be able to sell out the brand and the good will, lock, stock, and barrel.

“However, I haven’t time to discuss details now. Here’s some money to cover your regular hourly rate. If you do a good job, you’ll receive a substantial bonus tomorrow. Now then, get busy.”

“And I wear street clothes?”

“Street clothes,” Jerry Bane said. “Just what you have on.”

She sized him up, then said, “The modeling I have been doing has been — well, it’s been a little bit of everything. You don’t need to be afraid to tell me what it is. You don’t need to write it out for me. Just go ahead and tell me.”

Jerry Bane smiled and shook his head. “Read these typewritten instructions,” he said. “Follow them to the letter and get started.”

She took the typewritten sheet from him, once more gave him a glance from under long-lashed eyelids. “Okay,” she said, “I’ll do it your way.”

“You’ll have to go out on Sunset Way,” he said. “You can read your instructions on the way out.”

Jerry Bane found Mugs Magoo seated in the kitchen of the apartment, holding a newspaper propped up with one arm.

“Mugs,” he said, “what would you do if you suddenly found yourself in possession of a lot of stolen jewelry?”

“That depends,” Mugs said, looking up from the paper and regarding Jerry Bane with expressionless eyes.

“Depends on what?”

“On whether you wanted to be real smart or only half smart.”

“I’d want to be real smart, Mugs.”

“The point is,” Mugs went on, “that if the jewelry is real hot, you’d have to fence it to sell it. If it was stuff that had cooled off a bit, it would be a great temptation to try passing off a little here and there. Either way would be half smart.”

“And to be real smart, Mugs?”

“You’d get in touch with the insurance companies. You’d suggest to them that you might be able to help them make restorations here and there but you’d want it handled in such a way that you collected a reward.”

“Would they pay?”

“If you make the right approach.”

“How much?”

“If they thought they were dealing with a crook who was a squealer, they wouldn’t pay very much. If they thought they were dealing with a reputable detective who had made a recovery, they’d come through handsomely.”

Bane reached in his pocket, took out a knotted handkerchief, untied the knots, and let Magoo’s eyes feast on the assorted collection of sparklers.

“Gosh!” Mugs Magoo said.

“I want to be real smart, Mugs.”

“Okay,” Mugs said, scooping up the handkerchief in his big hand. “I guess I know the angles... Somebody going to miss this stuff?”

“I’m afraid so,” Jerry Bane said, “but I think I juggled the inventory. Someone else may get part of it, Mugs. A selfish, greedy someone who may be only half smart.”

Magoo regarded his friend with eyes that were cold with cynicism. “If this is what I think it is, this other guy will find the underworld can stick together like two pieces of flypaper. If he tries to chisel, he might even wind up pushing up daisies.”

Jerry said, “Of course, if he’s really honest, he’ll report to the cops.”

“Do you think he will be?”

“No.”

“Okay,” Mugs said. “Let him lead with his chin. We’ll work undercover.”

Jerry Bane was stretched out in the easy chair, a highball glass at his elbow, when timid knuckles tapped on the door of the apartment.

Mugs Magoo opened the door.

Bernice Calhoun said, “Oh, good evening. I do hope Mr. Bane is home. I have to see him. I... why, you’re the man who—”

“He’s home,” Mugs Magoo said. “Come in.”

Jerry Bane was getting to his feet as she entered the room. She ran to him and gave him both her hands. “Mr. Bane,” she said, “the most wonderful thing has happened! I simply can’t understand it.”

“Sit down and tell me about it,” Jerry said. “What do you want — Scotch or bourbon?”

“Scotch and soda.”

Jerry nodded to Mugs Magoo, then said, “All right, Bernice, what happened?”

She said, “I didn’t like the lawyer you took me to. He was very gruff. He asked a lot of questions and then said he’d go down to the grocery store and look the place over, but he didn’t think he’d be particularly interested in the case. He didn’t seem at all eager, not even cordial.”

“And what happened?”

She said, “Well, after he’d asked a lot of questions, he went down to the store with me. I opened up and showed him just where I had been standing and all that. Then he looked around and asked a few questions and looked the shelves over, and I remembered what you’d told me and I tagged right along with him, and that seemed to irritate him. He made several attempts to get rid of me, but I stayed right beside him.”

“Then what?” Jerry asked.

“Then a young woman came in. She was a very theatrical young woman with lots of makeup. She said rather loudly that she had been having a hard time getting the brand of dog food her dog wanted and that she noticed I had a stock of that brand. She asked me if she could buy my entire stock and if I’d take her check. She said her name was Stella Darling.”

“Then what happened?” Jerry asked.

“The strangest thing,” she said. “This lawyer advised me to take no one’s personal check, and he went back to the telephone and called his office.”

“Go on,” Jerry said.

“Well, it seemed that while he was telephoning, a client was in his office. This client had been looking for some small business that he could go into, something that he could operate on a one-man basis. I’d been telling Mr. Anson that I’d really like to sell out that grocery-store business, and — well, one thing led to another, and Mr. Anson negotiated over the telephone, and I sold the business right there.”

“What did you do about an inventory?” Jerry flashed a glance at Mugs Magoo.

“Mr. Anson gave me his check, based on my own figures, and took immediate possession.”

“And this Miss Darling who wanted to buy the dog food? Did the lawyer sell it to her?”

“Indeed, he did not. He literally put her out of the store, took the keys, and locked up.” There was a moment of silence.

“And so,” she said, “I... I wanted to thank you — personally.”

The telephone rang and Jerry picked it up.

Arthur Arman Anson’s voice came over the wire. “Jerry, my boy, I’ve been doing a little thinking. After all, you’re young, and I suppose the war rather upset your whole life. I think a man must make allowances for youth.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ve covered the overdraft at your bank and deposited a few hundred dollars, Jerry, my boy. But try to be a little more careful with money.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, I will.”

“And, Jerry, in case you should see Miss Calhoun, the young woman who had the grocery store, be very careful not to mention anything about that perfectly cockeyed theory you had. There was absolutely nothing to it.”

“There wasn’t?”

“No, my boy. I went down there and looked the place over. I inspected the can which the photograph shows was partially turned. It was just the same as any other can — nothing in it but dog food. However, it happened a client of mine was interested in a property such as Miss Calhoun has there and I was able to arrange a sale for her.”

“Oh, that’s splendid!” Jerry said.

“Purely a matter of business,” Anson observed. “I was glad it worked out the way it did, because this young woman is very vulnerable to a lawsuit. She’d better get out of the state before papers can be served. As an ethical lawyer, I didn’t want to tell her to do that, but in case you should see her, you can tell her to get out of the state at once. Get me?”

“Meaning I haven’t your high ethics to handicap me?” Jerry asked.

“Very few men could live up to my ethics,” Anson declared.

“Yes, I presume so. Very well, I’ll tell her.”

“Well, I won’t keep you up any longer,” Anson said.

“Keep me up!” Jerry laughed. “Is it by any chance bedtime?”

“Well, it’s after ten o’clock,” Arthur Anson said. “Good night, Jerry.”

“Good night.”

Jerry hung up the phone and turned to Bernice Calhoun. “Under the circumstances,” he said, “don’t you think we should do some dinner dancing?”

“Well,” she told him demurely, “I came to thank you—”

Mugs said, “Did you by any chance hear the news on the radio?”

Jerry Bane looked up quickly. “Should I?”

“I think you should have.”

“What was it?”

Mugs glanced at Bernice Calhoun.

“Go ahead,” Jerry said. “She’ll learn about it sooner or later.”

“This man Gordon she had arrested,” Mugs said, “was released from jail. He was being held on investigation and he dug up some bail. He was released about an hour ago.”

“Indeed,” Jerry said.

“And,” Mugs went on, “the police are somewhat mystified. A witness told them that as Gordon walked down the jail steps, a car was waiting for him and a man said, ‘Get in.’ Gordon acted as though he didn’t want to get in. He hesitated, but finally got in the car. The witness felt certain a man in the back seat was holding a gun on Gordon. He was so certain of it that he went to the police to report, but there wasn’t much the police could do about it. The license number on the automobile was spotted with mud and the man hadn’t been able to get it.”

“Oh,” Bernice said, “then that man must have been connected with the underworld after all! Why do you suppose they wanted him to — to go for a ride?”

“Probably,” Mugs Magoo said, “they wanted to get some information out of him. And with all night at their disposal, they’ll quite probably get the information they want.”

His eyes were significant as he looked steadily at Jerry Bane.

Bane stretched his arms and yawned. “Oh, well,” he said, “tomorrow’s a new day for all of us, and my friend, Arthur Anson, has bought Bernice’s grocery store.”

Bernice said, “I’m so relieved. The lawyer promised me that, as part of the deal on the store, he’d see that I was indemnified in case this man started a suit against me. Now that I’ve sold the store, I feel I haven’t any responsibilities.”

“That’s just the way with me,” Jerry Bane said. “Not a care in the world! Let’s go dance, Bernice.”