It’s the McCoy

Chapter Five The Rajah of Rajore

Paul Pry tapped at the door of Suite A on the twenty-fourth floor of the Altamont Hotel. A beautiful young woman, with just the suggestion of dusky olive coloring to her skin, opened the door to survey him with dark, smoky eyes. “Yes?” she asked.

“Tell the Rajah of Rajore that Paul Pry is here.”

“Are you with the newspapers?”

“No, I have an appointment.”

“The newspaper men all make stalls like that,” she said. “The rajah said that the next one that fooled me was going to cost me my job.”

“Wouldn’t that be something?” Paul Pry asked. “Just to relieve you of responsibility, I, myself, will walk in and tell the rajah that I’m here.”

He started to push past her.

A burly individual with a thick cane materialized from the shadows to bar his progress. “No, you don’t, buddy,” he said, lowering the cane so that the head was pointed toward the pit of Paul Pry’s stomach.

Paul Pry laughed. “I’m afraid the rajah is getting an imperial complex,” he said.

“The rajah isn’t to be disturbed.”

Paul Pry said: “I’d hate to get you fired, my man.”

“You won’t get me fired for obeying orders,” the man told him, grimly.

“Think not?” Paul Pry remarked, putting a cigarette into his mouth and raising his hand to light it.

“I know it,” the man said.

Paul Pry brought his hands down slowly, casually, until they were just over the poised club. Then his left hand pushed the cane down and to one side. His right heel came down hard against the big man’s instep. Paul Pry’s educated shoulder, with just the right leverage behind it, sent the big man spinning back against the chair. Paul Pry walked rapidly through the rooms of the palatial suite.

The Rajah of Rajore sat in the front room upon a pile of sofa cushions. The entire corner behind him was a bank of cushions. The rajah’s shoes were off, and his legs were crossed. His face held an expression of calm tranquility. The white turban, which was wound up across his forehead, held a vivid pool of crimson light. A huge oval the size of a man’s palm was a crimson magnet, drawing the eyes. A narghile was on the floor in front of him, and the long tube stretched to Mugs Magoo’s thick lips, lips which puffed appreciatively from time to time, drawing clouds of smoke bubbling through the water.

Out in the middle of the floor, a dusky octoroon was swaying in the rhythm of a harem dance, while music was furnished by a phonograph which filled the suite with strains from an Oriental orchestra record.

Over in the corner, somewhat dazed, a newspaperman was taking rapid notes. In front of the rajah were two empty whiskey bottles. Mugs was just starting on a third bottle, when he looked up and saw Paul Pry.

He turned to the newspaper reporter. “It is my imperial will,” he said, “that the interview terminate forthwith. I am now busy with an important matter which Christian infidels must not hear, as it concerns the sanctity of my harem.”

It spoke volumes for the impressive manner in which Mugs Magoo had handled the situation that the hard-boiled, metropolitan newspaperman arose as though taking leave of a royal personage, and tiptoed from the room.

Mugs Magoo, puffing away at the water pipe, said to Paul Pry: “Shut off that damn phonograph. Kick this slave out of here.”

The woman stopped her dancing to say: “I ain’t no slave, and don’t go calling me one.”

Mugs Magoo raised his heavy, filmed eyes. “Come here,” he said.

The woman hesitated a moment, then sullenly walked over toward the pile of sofa cushions on which the Rajah of Rajore sat cross-legged.

“Ever hear of what happens to rebellious wives in my country?” Mugs asked.

“I’m not in your country,” she said. “I’m here.”

“They’re sewed in sacks,” Mugs Magoo went on, “and dropped into the Bosporus.”

“You ain’ goin’ sew me in no sack, mister.”

Mugs Magoo met her flaming eyes. “I didn’t say I was,” he said. “I was just explaining why I have no civilized manners as far as women are concerned.”

“Well, I’ll civilize you,” she said. “In case you don’t know it, Mistah Rajah, that was a damn good dance, an’ I ain’t accustomed to bein’ called no slave.”

Paul Pry fought back amusement from his eyes.

“I think,” Mugs Magoo said, “that you’d make an excellent queen of my harem. When I go back, I think I’ll take you back with me. How’d you like to be the queen boss of the outfit, have about twenty-five women to wait on you, and have your word law?”

She tilted her chin scornfully. “Humph,” she said, as she started for the door. “Get sewed in a sack and dropped in the phosphorous!”

When she had closed the door, Paul Pry roared with laughter. “Mugs, you’re getting your geography mixed. You’re a rajah from India. The Bosporus is where they drop the recalcitrant wives of the sultans. And where the hell did you get that water pipe?”

Mugs said: “I rang up the hotel manager and gave him hell because they didn’t have water pipes in the hotel.”

“You,” Paul Pry charged, “are quite drunk.”

Mugs poured the first drink of whiskey from the third bottle. “Wrong again,” he said. “I’ve only had two quarts this afternoon.”

“You’re drunk,” Paul Pry repeated.

Mugs Magoo raised filmed, dubious eyes. “Damned if I don’t know but what you’re right, Paul,” he admitted. “I guess I’m getting soft. I can’t take it any more.”

Paul Pry said: “Well, keep your head, Mugs, because we have work to do.”

“Bring out the work,” Mugs said, tossing off the whiskey. “Ever try one of these water pipes, Paul? They’re swell.”

“I,” Paul Pry announced, “have come to knock you over the head, render you unconscious, and steal the ruby from your turban. Do you have any suggestions as to how the act should be put on?”

“How’s it happen you ain’t pushing up daisies?” Mugs asked, thickly.

“I’ve confessed to Merva Bond that I’m a thief, and that I have designs on your ruby. She’s very sick, but putting up a brave fight against her injuries. She made me promise that I’d let her see the ruby as soon as I got it.”

“Well,” Mugs Magoo said judicially, “that’s giving you a few more hours to live.”

“Just the way I doped it,” Paul Pry said. “A car of Soup Scanlon’s gang was parked in front of the night club ready for eventualities.”

“You’d have been the eventuality,” Mugs Magoo said. “You’re flirting with dynamite. Ever try one of these water pipes, Paul? They’re—”

Paul Pry said: “Now get your mind on this, Mugs. Do you know Adelaide Faraday?”

“Never met her,” Mugs Magoo said. “What’s her racket, knockout drops, badger game, blackmail, stickup, or just plain moll?”

“It happens,” Paul Pry said, “that she’s the leader of the Four Hundred. It also happens that she’s the owner of a string of diamonds valued at somewhere in the neighborhood of a hundred thousand dollars.”

Mugs Magoo sighed. “That’s nice,” he said. “Get her to try one of these water pipes sometime. She doesn’t know what she’s missing.”

Paul Pry went on patiently. “Now listen, Mugs, we’re coming to the critical period in this whole business. I’ve been thinking about those ads. Remember, one of them was signed Fara, and the other one was signed Day. Now I figure that that was a tip to Soup Scanlon that Big Jim Dolovo was in the market for the Faraday diamonds.”

Mugs Magoo said: “That’s no reason why I should lose so much motion.”

“What do you mean, lose motion?” Paul Pry asked.

“Pouring whiskey into a glass, the glass into me, and holding the empty glass back under the whiskey bottle,” Mugs said. “I could do a lot better getting direct action like this.”

He grasped the neck of the bottle, tilted it to his lips, and let the amber contents gurgle directly down his gullet.

Paul Pry frowned. “Look here, Mugs,” he said. “When I put you on this increased allowance, it was because you assured me you could take it.”

Mugs Magoo regarded the whiskey bottle. The level of the beverage had dropped down a full two inches. He indicated it with a nod of his head. “I’m taking it, ain’t I?”

Paul Pry sat down beside Mugs on the floor. “Now listen, Mugs. Snap out of it. You’ve got to sober up so you can tell me about the suitcase shift.”

Mugs raised the whiskey bottle to his lips, took another long drink, and said: “Hell, I could tell you all about that if I’d had six quarts.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a trick Big Jim Dolovo worked out, but some of the other crooks use it, too. If Big Jim wants to buy the Faraday diamonds for thirty thousand bucks, he puts thirty thousand dollars in a suitcase. Soup Scanlon puts the diamonds in another suitcase just like it. They meet at the Union Depot, only they don’t say anything. One of them puts down his suitcase, and the other one comes along and puts his near it. Then they circulate around for a minute buying tickets and cigars. When they come back, each picks up the other’s suitcase. That’s all. Even if the detectives are watching, they don’t spot anything, unless they’re wise to the play — which they ain’t. Big Jim has a moll to keep watch for dicks who might be a nuisance, and to keep chiselers from getting their fingers burnt. What gave you the idea?”

Paul Pry opened the evening newspaper and turned to the personal column. “Get a load of this ad,” he said. “It reads ‘O.K. J. D. Have everything. Suitcase switch. Feathersteel aeroplane, black, nine by sixteen by twenty-six. Twelve thirty A.M. train.’ And the ad is signed ‘S.S.’”

“Uh-huh,” Mugs said. “He’s got the necklace.”

“O.K.,” Paul Pry said. “Now get this, Mugs. I’m lifting your ruby. You wait until twelve thirty, then sneak out of the hotel. When you’re in the clear, call the management, say you’ve been robbed. Do you get me?”

“Yeah.”

Paul Pry reached over to Mugs Magoo’s turban and removed the imitation ruby. “Now go easy on that whiskey, Mugs, and join me at our hide-out as soon as you’ve reported your loss. Do you understand?”

Mugs Magoo nodded heavily, then raised filmed eyes to Paul Pry, and said: “Paul, did you ever try one of these water pipes? If you haven’t, you don’t know what you’re missing.”