It’s the McCoy

Chapter Six The Suitcase Switch

The Union Station at twelve thirty was a hive of nocturnal activity. Two transcontinental trains pulled out at twelve thirty. Other limited all-sleeper trains pulled out at twelve forty, twelve forty-five, and twelve fifty. Businessmen, intent on dashing to a neighboring metropolis for a morning appointment, bustled about with porters, suitcases and brief cases. Travelers, burdened with hand baggage, escorted by crowds of friends and relatives, repeated good-byes which had been started with the packing, hours before. Paul Pry, an overcoat folded over his arm, followed by a redcap porter carrying two black Feathersteel aeroplane suitcases, each measuring nine by sixteen by twenty-six inches, moved calmly about the station, walking from the information desk to the ticket window, from the ticket window to the baggage office, from the baggage office back to information.

Soup Scanlon drew up in a taxicab. He waved aside a redcap. Carrying a black Feathersteel aeroplane suitcase measuring exactly nine by sixteen by twenty-six inches, he entered the main waiting-room, walked to the bench seats, flung his overcoat over the back of a seat, placed his suitcase near it, and stood for a moment waiting. At length, he strolled aimlessly over to the magazine stand, and started browsing through the current periodicals.

Merva Bond, materializing out of nowhere, seated herself on one of the benches where she could watch the suitcase to advantage. She paid no attention whatever to Soup Scanlon.

Big Jim Dolovo made the springs squeak as he lurched from a taxicab with his duplicate suitcase and entered the station. A plain touring car drew up directly behind the taxicab. A quiet, unostentatious individual, clothed in a dark gray suit, followed Dolovo casually into the station.

Merva Bond’s quick brown eyes saw Dolovo, saw also the shadow which followed him. She raised her hand to stifle a yawn, and Soup Scanlon, looking up over the edge of the magazine he was holding in his hand, correctly interpreted that signal and drifted unobtrusively toward the men’s room.

Big Jim Dolovo walked to the information desk, asked a couple of questions, then moved over to the bench where Soup Scanlon’s overcoat reposed, deposited his suitcase on the floor near his feet, composed himself as though anticipating a wait, and closed his eyes.

Paul Pry said to his redcap, “Wait here until I signal you,” and walked directly toward Merva Bond.

She saw him when he was some thirty feet away, and it was a credit to her training that there was absolutely no indication of dismay apparent on her features. For a moment, her eyes widened slightly. Her face seemed to stiffen into rigid immobility. Then she gave a well simulated start of surprise and a spontaneous laugh as she held her hand out to Paul Pry.

“Well, for Heaven’s sakes,” she said. “What in the world are you doing here?”

Paul Pry looked swiftly around him, and she took advantage of the opportunity to explain her presence with a prevarication so plausible that it spoke well for her inventive genius. “That side’s bothering me a lot,” she said. “After I went home, I couldn’t sleep. I lay and twisted and tossed, and then called up Doctor Warfield. He’s out at the theater and won’t get in until between one and one thirty. I thought I’d go crazy if I tried to stay home, and I wanted to see people, wanted to be where there was something to occupy my mind. I naturally didn’t want to walk the streets without an escort. And then I thought of the station, so I came here to wait and pass the time away.”

Paul Pry’s expression of sympathy was so perfunctory that she looked up at him with surprise. “What’s the matter?” she asked.

Paul Pry, looking nervously over her shoulder, said: “I’ve got it.”

“Got what?”

“The rajah’s ruby.”

“No!” she said.

“It’s a fact. I copped it just a short time after I left you. In one way, I’m sorry. In another way, I have no regret. He’s lousy with money. He has more wealth than he knows what to do with. I’m down to my last hundred dollars. You know what happens when a man can’t put up a front any more. I need this to tide me over. Perhaps I’ll send him some conscience money when I get in the dough again. And... well, perhaps I won’t.”

“I wouldn’t,” she said quickly. “It would be absolutely wasted. After all, the world owes you a living. Let me see it.”

“I wouldn’t dare to. Not here.”

“Oh, please! Let me just hold it in my hand.”

“No, no. I tell you I don’t dare to. You can’t tell who’s watching.”

“Here comes a detective,” she said.

Paul Pry’s hand slid to his hip. “Quick,” she breathed. “Give it to me, and I’ll hold it for you. Don’t be a fool. You can’t smoke your way out of here. Give it to me. I’ll hide it. Quick!”

Paul Pry slipped the synthetic jewel into her hand. “Don’t let him see it,” he said.

“Indeed I won’t,” she laughed. “Just watch.”

She bent over as though to adjust her stocking. Her slender hands ran up the silken contours to disappear for a moment under the folds of her skirt, then returned empty. With the manner of one who is making polite conversation about the weather or the health of a distant relative, she said: “He turned away... No, he’s coming back. He’s looking at you. Don’t look now. I think it would be better if it seemed as though you were just answering a question for me. Raise your hat and turn away.”

Paul Pry bowed, smiled, raised his hat. “How,” he asked under his breath, “did you happen to know this detective?”

“Don’t be silly,” she said. “Life hasn’t always been a bed of roses for me either, my dear. You can trust me.”

She smiled, turned, and walked casually away in the direction of the women’s room.

Big Jim Dolovo, his eyes closed, his posture giving every indication of sleep, stirred. He went through the motions of waking up. He stretched, yawned, then arose and sauntered toward the door to the women’s room.

Paul Pry beckoned to the redcap who brought up the two suitcases. “I think that’s all,” Pry said, handing him a two-dollar tip.

“Yes, suh. Thank you very much, suh,” the beaming redcap said. “There’s nothing else you want, suh?”

“Nothing else,” Paul Pry said. “I’ll wait here.”

His two suitcases were within a few feet of the suitcase which had been left by Soup Scanlon, near that which had been carried by Big Jim Dolovo. The redcap turned away, intent upon getting another customer. Paul Pry took two swift steps. His fingers closed on the handles of the two suitcases he wanted.

It was at such moments that Paul Pry enjoyed life to the utmost. Far more than the possibilities of financial gain, which were to him a secondary consideration, was the excitement of matching his wits against crooks. As Mugs Magoo so frequently complained, he was quite as apt to risk his life to outwit some crook in a case where the reward was hardly worth the effort, as he was to embark upon some adventure which offered a fortune in return.

Paul Pry, however, was never as completely at the mercy of circumstances as a casual onlooker might suppose. The cane, which he carried under his left arm, concealed a long, slender blade of highly tempered steel. In Paul Pry’s deft hands, this sword-cane could become as smoothly rapid as the darting of a snake’s tongue. And at close quarters, a trained wrist can flick a thin blade of tempered steel far more quickly than one can drag a heavy revolver from a holster, point it, and squeeze the trigger. Moreover, and in addition to the blade, there was concealed in the handle of the cane a small cartridge of tear gas which could be released by pressing a concealed button.

“Boy,” Paul Pry called sharply.

The redcap porter turned to encounter Paul Pry’s disarming smile and the two extended suitcases.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Paul Pry said. “Get me a cab.”

The redcap, during the past quarter-hour, had learned that this man was eccentric. He had also learned that he tipped well. Far be it from him to argue with the vagaries of a man who gave two-dollar tips. He accepted the two suitcases without question as being the two he had just deposited, and started at once for the exit.

Shortly thereafter, Soup Scanlon once more entered the main waiting-room, glanced swiftly around him, then proceeded to pick up the Feathersteel suitcase which reposed in front of the seat which had been occupied by Big Jim Dolovo. Two minutes later, Big Jim Dolovo picked up the remaining suitcase. His worried eyes were fastened on the door of the women’s room.

In the taxicab, Paul Pry opened both of the suitcases. He surreptitiously removed a tissue-wrapped package from one, an oblong package of currency from the other.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

“The Altamont Hotel,” Paul Pry said, concealing his loot in an inner chamois-skin belt which was buckled around him next to his skin.

At the Altamont Hotel, Paul Pry worked with swift rapidity. He gave the bellboy a dollar bill and said: “Rush these suitcases up to the Rajah of Rajore. He’s waiting for them.” And then with the eyes of the bellboy on him, Paul Pry crossed to the desk, registered as Rodney Bock, secured a single room with a bath, and paid six dollars in advance. Thereafter, Paul Pry disappeared.