It’s the McCoy

Chapter Two “Doctor’s” Orders

There was no sign of Mugs Magoo when Paul Pry, surrendering his parking ticket to an attendant, slid in behind the wheel of his powerful convertible coupe, and gunned the motor into throbbing life.

It was as Paul Pry was leaving the parking station, his eyes darting about in vain search for Mugs Magoo that it happened. One of the bystanders subsequently claimed that Paul Pry swerved the wheel. Another insisted that the young woman had stepped directly in front of the car. It was, after all, merely a matter of opinion, and bystanders are notoriously inaccurate.

Thanks to the young woman’s swift grace, as well as to Paul Pry’s instantaneous reaction to emergency, there was nothing more than a slight jar, as her body lurched against the fender of Paul Pry’s big, cream-colored automobile.

Paul Pry could have sworn that, at the last moment, she had moved her hand with swift rapidity, so that it was only the palm of her hand which thudded against the right front fender, but her position was such that the hood partially concealed her arms from the eyes of the driver, and her back was to Paul Pry, so he couldn’t be certain.

The woman had given a little scream, had held her hands to her slender body, pressing just below the left breast. She had gasped, staggered, and would have fallen had men not rushed to hold her up.

Paul Pry slid out from behind the steering wheel, ran around the car. “I say,” he cried out, “are you hurt?”

She tried to smile, but the pain which was twisting her countenance made the smile forced and strained. “I’ll be all right,” she said gamely.

That was the first good glimpse Paul Pry had of her face. She was the blond woman who had been with Soup Scanlon, the one Mugs Magoo had called Merva Bond.

For a moment her eyes seemed anxious, as though wondering if, perhaps, Paul Pry would give some indication that he had seen her before.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “Tell me, are you hurt?”

“I don’t think so. I think I’m coming along all right.”

“Jump in and let me take you to a hospital,” Paul Pry said.

She laughed then, and her laugh was melodious, reassuring to the anxious ears of the bystanders who had gathered about, and whose sympathies had been all for the girl rather than the driver, in direct ratio to the young woman’s beauty.

“A hospital?” she said. “Good Lord, what would I want with a hospital? I’m perfectly able to travel, as I usually travel, on streetcars.”

“Get in,” Paul Pry invited. “At least, let me take you to your destination. And I’d much prefer, for my own peace of mind, to have some reputable physician—”

Her laugh was quite carefree now. “I’m not the kind that says she’s all right, and then later on shows up with some shyster lawyer and a big claim for damages due to ‘nervous shock.’ And in the second place, it was entirely my own fault. I stepped away from the path of that other car without looking where I was going, and walked right in front of your automobile. You stopped almost instantly, so forget it.”

One of the bystanders said: “Don’t go making any statements until after you’ve seen a lawyer, miss.”

She snubbed his advice with a toss of her head and an upthrust chin. “The crowd,” she said to Paul Pry, “seems to be gathering.”

Paul Pry opened the door of the convertible, extended his hand in a gesture of invitation.

She let her elbow rest lightly, for the moment, on his extended palm. With a quick flash of slender legs she squirmed her supple body into the automobile, around on the seat. She laughed, and said: “I’m ready and, if you insist, I will save carfare. You see, I—” She caught herself midsentence as she was drawing in a breath. A quick twinge of pain erased the smile from her lips. Her hand went mechanically to her left side. “Oh,” she said. “I think I will let you run me to my doctor — if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Paul Pry said, closing the car door and crossing to climb in behind the steering wheel.

Four or five of the spectators, their eyes fastened on Merva Bond’s beauty, ostentatiously took down the license number of Paul Pry’s automobile.

Pry tapped the tips of his fingers on the horn button, eased the car into motion and inched his way through the gathering crowd and out of the parking place.

“You have some doctor in particular that you’d like to see?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “A man in whom I have the utmost confidence, Doctor Paul Warfield. It’s after office hours. He’ll be in the Wendell Arms Apartments now. Apartment C, I believe it is. If you don’t mind, we’ll run by and see just what he has to say.”

“It’ll relieve my mind a great deal,” Paul Pry agreed.

During the drive to the Wendell Arms Apartments, Merva Bond showed herself to be a good sport who was determined to carry on, despite an injury which was causing her some pain. “I don’t know what you must think of me,” she said. “You must think I’m frightfully stupid.”

“I think you’re very delightful, very game, and very beautiful,” Paul Pry gallantly assured her.

Her warm brown eyes surveyed him with approval. “You know,” she said, “convention requires that I get your name and address and all that sort of thing.”

Paul Pry liked to drive powerful and distinctive automobiles. In his particular profession, however, a distinctive automobile was something more than a luxury. It represented a business blunder. He had, therefore, sought to compromise by indulging his flair for automobiles and assisting Mugs Magoo’s lugubrious prayers for his safety, by maintaining an apartment residential address under the name of Rodney Bock. It was this name and address which he gave to Merva Bond who reciprocated in kind by telling him that her name was Vivian Goff, that she was a stenographer working in a title insurance company, and that she had, by dint of careful saving, amassed enough money to leave on a two weeks’ vacation, during which she was determined to do exactly as she pleased, rather than follow some particular vacation plan. The first steps in this rather unusual vacation had been to get herself a manicure, a new dress, a beauty treatment, and take in the ball game.

Paul Pry assured her that it would be a shame to have her vacation spoiled, and he trusted that her injuries wouldn’t inconvenience her.

Having arrived at the Wendell Arms Apartments and followed the blonde’s lead to Apartment C on the seventh floor, Paul Pry was not in the least surprised when Doctor Paul Warfield turned out to be none other than Soup Scanlon, rigged out with a stethoscope, a concave reflector strapped around his forehead, and a gravely professional manner.

“Doctor” Warfield naturally examined his patient in the privacy of a separate room. His manner, when he returned to Paul Pry while the patient was “dressing,” was grave in the extreme.

“The poor girl,” he said to Paul Pry. “I’m afraid she doesn’t appreciate in the least what it is.”

“Good heavens,” Pry exclaimed. “You don’t mean to tell me she’s seriously injured?”

“Yes and no,” Doctor Warfield said, watching Paul Pry with alert eyes. “She’s suffering from an incurable disease which the injury has aggravated.”

“Surely not that young woman,” Paul Pry exclaimed.

The “doctor” nodded gravely. “A malignant condition,” he said, “which would have made itself manifest within the next six weeks or two months at the latest, has given the first preliminary twinges of pain due to the slight jar she received. There’s no external evidence of that injury, not even a bruise on the skin. But the internal condition has been aggravated, brought to her consciousness.”

“You’ve told her?” Paul Pry asked.

“Certainly not. She tells me that she is just embarking upon her vacation. It’s a vacation which she has looked forward to for some time, a chance to spend her savings living her own life in the city as she would like to live it. I fear that at the end of that vacation, she’ll be faced with the realization that she will never return to work. It will be a blessing if you will cooperate with me in the pleasant fiction of making her believe that any twinges of pain she may have from time to time are solely the result of a cracked rib, due entirely to the accident, and will disappear in the course of time. And, of course, that little deception will entail some continuing interest on your part — perhaps even some very nominal financial assistance.”

Paul Pry thrust out his hand, grabbed Doctor Warfield’s and shook it fervidly. “You,” Paul Pry said, “can count on me. I’ll do everything possible. I’ll go the limit.”

“Of course,” Doctor Warfield said, “I want to follow this thing up. I don’t want to pry into your private affairs, but I want to know something about who you are, where you live, what you do, and just what you contemplate doing.”

Paul Pry bowed. “I quite appreciate your position, Doctor,” he said. “The name is Rodney Bock. I reside at Four Hundred and Nine East Brookdale Avenue — the Brookdale Apartments. I’m not home very much of the time, as my business takes me about the country. Pm what you might call a sharpshooter. I know something about the value of real estate and various other things. I travel around the country keeping an eye on the economic pulse of different communities, knowing what towns are due to boom and approximately how long the boom should last. I drift into a town, buy up real estate, hold until I think the crest of the wave is about due, then unload.”

“It’s profitable, I suppose?” Doctor Warfield asked.

“Quite profitable,” Paul Pry assured him gravely. “And as far as this young lady is concerned, you may rest assured that I intend to see to it that everything is done which is humanly possible.”

Doctor Warfield’s tone was that of the physician fully alive to his responsibilities. “All that is humanly possible,” he said, “is that the realization of her condition be kept from her as long as possible and her last few weeks be made happy — if you understand what I mean.”

“I shall do my utmost to make them happy,” Paul Pry promised.