The Adventures of Paul Pry

Wiker Gets the Works

“Quick, get a squad here,” Paul Pry breathed into the transmitter. “There’s a gangster hiding in my clothes closet with a machine gun, waiting to shoot me.” And even as he spoke he stared straight into the empty closet. No, Paul Pry wasn’t cuckoo. His eyes were glittering slits of concentration as he laid the beginnings of his crafty trap.

Paul Pry’s piercing eyes stared into the glassy orbs of “Mugs” Magoo, the man who never forgot a face.

“So I’m to be put on the spot, eh, Mugs?”

Mugs Magoo, one-armed, ragged, unshaven, reached for the bottle of whiskey. His glassy eyes never left Paul Pry’s face.

“I’ll say! I warned you, warned you fifty times. Now it’s come, just like I said it would.”

Paul Pry crossed the room to a closet which was filled with drums. He selected a favourite, a Hopi ceremonial drum, sat down with the wooden cylinder between his knees and tapped the taut rawhide with a stick of juniper at the end of which was a padded ball of buckskin.

There boomed forth a muffled pulsation of sound, a deep, resonant sound in which there was mingled a vibration of that which is utterly savage and untamed.

“Warned me?” he asked, almost dreamily.

“I’ll say! Not once but fifty times. Remember, before that last job I told you. I was sitting right here in this room, and I told you if you kept on monkeying with ‘Big Front’ Gilvray, he’d have you bumped. And what did you do? Went out and copped the Goldcrest necklace after the Gilvray gang had spent weeks trying to pull the job. You got Inspector Quigley to turn in the necklace for the reward, but that didn’t fool Gilvray none. He knew who upset his apple cart.”

Paul Pry ceased his drumming and grinned. There was something boyishly appealing about that grin, yet his eyes were hard as twin diamonds.

“And Gilvray sent me a note telling me I’d soon be pushing daisies,” he said.

“I’ll say!” agreed Mugs Magoo, without enthusiasm. “Why you couldn’t have pulled your stuff with different gangs is more than I know. But you had to keep after Big Front Gilvray. Every time he pulled a job you slicked him out of the sway and copped a reward. No crook’s going to stand for that racket.”

And Mugs Magoo, shifting his glassy gaze from Paul Pry’s face to the whiskey bottle, hesitated, reached toward the bottle, sighed, withdrew his hand, sighed again and grabbed the bottle.

Paul Pry, his diamond eyes unblinking, snapped a question at his accomplice.

“Precisely,” he demanded, “what is the reason for your latest prophecy of doom?”

Mugs Magoo poured the whiskey into the glass.

“‘Woozy’ Wiker,” he said, then, after an interval, added, “from Chicago.”

Paul Pry laughed, and his laugh contained no note of apprehension. It was the laugh of one who derives nothing but enjoyment from life.

“Woozy Wiker? Really, Mugs, your friends do have the most delightful names! First it’s Benjamin Franklin Gilvray, who’s known as Big Front Gilvray because he likes to throw a big front. Now it’s Woozy Wiker! How does the estimable Mr. Wiker get his nickname?”

Mugs Magoo shook his head doggedly.

“Go ahead and laugh if you want to. I’ll tell the undertaker to pinch up your cheeks into a grin so you’ll look natural.”

Paul Pry’s laugh died into a chuckle.

“Come on, Mugs, be a sport. Have another drink if you must, but tell me about Woozy Wiker, from Chicago.”

Mugs Magoo regarded the whiskey bottle with a dour eye, sighed, shook his head, gazed at his empty glass, and then shifted his eyes to Paul Pry’s face.

“Woozy Wiker puts ’em on the spot,” he said. “He can pretend he’s drunk better than any guy in the world. When he’s working up a job he likes to act like he’s plastered. But he’s deadly. He bumped off Harry Higley, though they never proved it on him. He got Martha the Moll on the spot after she was suspected of telling the police all about the Dugan murder. They never even arrested him for that, but they know.”

Paul Pry tapped a few gentle notes on the drum.

“And now Big Front Gilvray has sent for him?”

“Yeah. He’s here. I seen him on the street this morning. Him an’ Gilvray was together. I tell you the Gilvray gang’s getting desperate. They used to be high-class workers that went in for slick stuff. You’ve been copping the gravy from their jobs and now they’ve got violent.”

Paul Pry nodded cheerfully.

“And they got Woozy Wiker, the one man who can pretend to be woozy, eh, Mugs?”

“I’ll say! And that ain’t all they’ve got. Did you read about the Marple hold-up?”

“Marple — Marple — let’s see, Mugs, wasn’t that the hold-up that was pulled yesterday afternoon? They killed an officer, I believe.”

Mugs Magoo sighed as he glanced at the whiskey bottle, then at his empty glass, and turned toward Paul Pry.

“That’s the one,” he said. “That cop never stood a chance.”

“Why?” asked Paul Pry, his eyes glittering with sudden interest.

“Because he didn’t know what he was up against.”

“Well, Mugs, what was he up against?”

“He was up against Woozy Wiker’s armoured car, that’s what. Remember the newspapers said there was a grey Cadillac that took the bandits from the hold-up? And that this motorcycle cop took after ’em and there was a gun battle?”

Paul Pry nodded. “Go on, Mugs.”

Mugs turned his glassy eyes back to the whiskey bottle, poured himself another drink.

“That grey Cadillac is Woozy’s private car. It’s built especially for hold-up jobs. The body ain’t thin metal. It’s regular armour. The windows are all of bulletproof glass.”

Paul Pry whistled.

Mugs Magoo tossed off the drink and nodded sombrely.

“Yep. That’s the lay. Woozy Wiker comes on from Chicago and throws in with Gilvray. They go in for violence. And they’ll make a lead mine out of you as a sideline. I thought of Woozy when I read of the grey Cadillac. Then this morning I seen him an’ Gilvray together.”

Paul Pry took up the juniper drumstick. “And you think they’re going after me?”

“I don’t think it. I know it. You got a date with a wooden kimono — an’ I ain’t foolin’.”

Paul Pry’s stick beat the drum faster and faster. His eyes glittered with diamond-hard concentration, and the ghost of a smile played around the corners of his mouth.

“Mugs,” he said, dreamily.

Mugs frowned irritably.

“If you’re goin’ to say something, lay off beating that damn drum. I can’t hear.”

Paul Pry lowered the force of his strokes. The drum throbbed to muffled cadences which were barely audible.

“No, Mugs. I like the drum. I think it’s a war drum. I’m not certain, but it’s got a savage hum to it. Can’t you visualize a big fire in the night, dancing feet, war paint, shaking spears, savage wails—”

Mugs Magoo interrupted.

“No. I can’t, I can’t visualize nothing except machine guns spattering lead, a black hearse, a big funeral, and a meal ticket that’s pushing up daisies. What am I going to do for whiskey after you’re gone?”

Paul Pry laughed outright.

“Spoken like a man, Mugs! No false mush of maudlin sentiment, no blah over lost friendship. To you, I’m a meal ticket. Your interest is purely selfish. And, after all, that’s life — if we were only frank enough to admit it.”

“Aw, chief, I didn’t mean it that way. But I was sure down and out until you came along. Since then things have been too good to last. I knew there’d be a wind-up.”

Paul Pry set the drum to the floor and centred his gaze upon Mugs Magoo.

“Mugs, if you’ll give up drinking, I can get you back on the force as camera-eye man!”

Mugs waved his empty sleeve.

“Not with one arm gone.”

“Yes. Even with one arm gone. You’re invaluable as a camera-eye man, and I can land the job for you.”

Mugs Magoo regarded the whiskey bottle, took a deep breath.

“Nope. There ain’t no use. I know myself better’n anybody else. I got kicked off the force for booze before this arm went bye-bye. I can’t lay off the stuff, and I’m finished trying. I went down until I was selling pencils in the street, and then you came along, found out about my knack of remembering faces and connections and put me to work spotting gangsters for you. I’m good for that — an’ that’s all. But you were goin’ to tell me something when we got started arguing about that drum. I know from the way you looked and the way you spoke sort of dreamy like. What were you going to spill?”

Paul Pry tapped the arm of the chair with drumming fingers.

“Remember the girl who had her diamonds switched at Forman’s?”

Mugs Magoo nodded. “She claimed that’s what happened. She didn’t have no proof.”

Paul Pry’s eyes were diamond hard now. His lips were unsmiling.

“True. She didn’t have proof. But I believed her, and you believed her, Mugs.”

“Well, even if I did, what of it? We couldn’t do anything.”

“I have her name and address, Mugs.”

“Well, what’s all this got to do with Woozy Wiker?”

“Just this, Mugs. Suppose the Gilvray gang should pull a hold-up where Forman lost a lot of jewels, and suppose I should recover those jewels and stick Forman for a big reward. And suppose, further, that I should give the girl a cut from the reward! Don’t you think that would be justice all around?”

Mugs Magoo paused with his hand halfway to the whiskey bottle. His glassy eyes were wide with alarm.

“For God’s sake, chief, don’t go getting any crazy notion into your head like that! You’ve got to find a hole to crawl in, and then pull the hole in after you. You’ve gotta lay low until after Woozy Wiker gets done. Even then, you’ll have a hell of a time; but maybe you can make it.

“That’s what I came around for. I’ve got a hideout staked out for you. You’ll have to stay in your room night and day, and have your meals sent in, and you’ll have to have a bodyguard, but maybe you can last it out. Gilvray’s got enemies. He ain’t going to last forever. But this business of trying to collect any more rewards — Gosh, chief, you’re nutty!”

Paul Pry shook his head, a single swift shake of negation.

“Woozy Wiker doesn’t know me, of course.”

“No. But he’ll get someone to point you out. That’s easy.”

“But suppose I should beat him to the punch and get you to point him out to me, first?”

“What good would that do?”

“It might do a lot. You admit the Gilvray gang is hard up for ready money. That robbery yesterday proves that. Wiker will go after the big gems first. I’m sort of a side issue.”

Mugs Magoo sighed.

“Yeah. Harry Higley was sort of a side issue. So was Martha the Moll. They’re both of ’em pushing daisies. This guy Wiker is tough, I’m telling you.”

Paul Pry nodded, but his eyes had ceased to be glittering hard. There was a look of dreamy concentration about them, and when he spoke his voice was soft, almost crooning.

“I could let my beard grow for a day, and plaster powder on my face. That would make it seem as though I had just shaved off a heavy beard.”

“What good would that do?” asked Mugs Magoo.

“It would make me look more like a Russian.”

“Like a Russian! For God’s sake, chief, have you gone cuckoo?”

“Like a Russian,” went on Paul Pry, heedless of the interruption, “who would be likely to bring the unsold crown jewels of Russia to this country for sale.”

Mugs Magoo took the whiskey bottle, held it to the light, regarded it dubiously, then shook his head.

“Nope,” he said, “it’s only half gone. That ain’t enough to make me drunk. But I’m either drunk or you’re crazy. And I can’t get drunk any more on half a quart of whiskey, even if it is before breakfast!”

But Paul Pry was on his feet, moving with the swift efficiency of an athlete.

“Where can we contact Woozy Wiker?” he asked.

Mugs shook his head. “That’s easy. How can we keep from contacting him?”

“You know where we can find him?”

“Sure.”

Paul Pry reached for his hat. “Come on, Mugs,” he said.

It was mid-morning. The shopping district showed an occasional burst of life. For the most part it was peopled with stragglers, advance guard of the rush which was to come in the later hours.

The banks bustled with ordered activity. Well-dressed businessmen came and went. It was the hour when the city prepares itself to worship the great god, business.

Mugs Magoo sat sprawled against the wall of a bank. In his lap was a hat, filled with pencils. A few coins jingled against the black felt. Upon his face was exactly that expression of weariness which must ever be affected by the beggars of life. His empty sleeve dangled where it was in plain sight of the casual observer.

The glassy eyes, the unshaven countenance, the ragged clothes, the sprawled figure were all typical of the street beggars who plays upon the emotions of the sympathetic passer-by.

So perfectly did he act his part, that no one could notice that the glassy eyes surveyed each face, that the hand twisting and turning the hat, extending it at times in a gesture of invitation, was really giving a series of signals.

Paul Pry, lounging at well-dressed, indolent ease upon the opposite corner, had opportunity to see every signal and to interpret those signals.

For Mugs Magoo never forgot a face, and he knew the characters of the underworld as no other man. Once let him spot a face, and he would instantly remember it even though he saw it the second time after a lapse of ten years, and in another city.

Paul Pry watched the hat which was manipulated by Mugs Magoo’s hand, and knew much of the people who hurried by. He knew that a prosperous-appearing individual was a gambler, that a man who looked like a banker was a stick-up artist, that an innocent-appearing girl was the active end of a badger team.

But these things held no interest for him.

Then, as a thin individual with swiftly nervous steps walked the pavement as lightly as a cat, Mugs Magoo tilted his hat.

Paul Pry gave a flip to his polished walking stick and strolled in the same direction as that taken by the slender individual with the catlike steps.

Mugs Magoo put his pencils in his pocket, cupped the coins in his hand and clamped the hat on his head, then looked about him for a street car. His duties for the day were over.

The man with the restless eyes, the nervous feet and the hatchet profile was Woozy Wiker — from Chicago.

Wiker went into the bank. In his hand was a satchel, and, as he walked, he held to that satchel with a grip that whitened the skin over his knuckles.

He walked to the window over which appeared a gilt sign bearing the message “R to Z.” Paul Pry strolled to the same window, and his manner was excited.

Wiker was at the head of the line, but Paul Pry darted forward with a nervous excitability and insinuated himself in the line of half a dozen people, directly in front of the gangster.

“Parrrdon!” said Paul Pry, speaking with an accent that matched his nervous manner. “I was here. I go away for one minute, one second. You come and take my place.”

“Say-y-y-y!” growled the gangster, his bony jaw thrust forward, his right hand holding the satchel well behind him.

“And I only want to ask a question, for one minute, my friend, one little question, but an important question. The safety of one million dollars depends on that question.”

The hostility faded from the gangster’s eyes.

“Yeah?” he said, and his tone was filled with cautious interest.

Paul nodded with nervous excitability.

“One second it takes, and that is all.”

“Go to it, guy,” said Woozy Wiker, and stood back slightly that Paul Pry might be assured of his place in the line.

Paul Pry was well dressed, but his face had the peculiar hue of a man who has but recently shaved a beard. There was a certain unfamiliarity with his surroundings in his manner which a shrewd observer would have noticed. And Woozy Wiker was a shrewd observer.

The line transacted its business with swift rapidity. These were businessmen who knew exactly what to do. Their checks were properly endorsed. Their deposit slips were written neatly and accurately. The teller was able to scan the figures, mark totals, smile, and reach for the next deposit.

Paul Pry came to the window. Behind him the gangster, holding tightly to his satchel, bent his head slightly forward and to one side, the better to listen.

Paul Pry regarded the face of the teller through the wicketed window, and made a swift gesture with his hands, the gesture of a man of foreign mannerisms.

“Parrdon!” he said.

“Well?” said the teller, noticing that Paul Pry’s hands bore no cheque, no deposit, no currency.

“Forman, the jeweller, is he trustworthy? Can he be trusted with gems that are worth a million, a million and a half? Gems that — that came from Russia?”

The teller regarded Paul Pry with the stare of a man whose mind has been hopelessly crowded with routine and suddenly is confronted by something utterly unusual.

“Forman... Forman... Say, what’s the idea?”

Paul Pry lowered his voice.

“Certain very valuable jewels are to be shown to a customer. He wants them left with Forman for examination. But I must not take chances. This Forman, is he honest?”

The teller glanced swiftly toward the uniformed figure which patrolled the marble-flagged floor in stately impressiveness — the majestic dignity of the law.

“You’re at the wrong window,” he said. Then his eye caught that of the special officer. His hand beckoned.

“But I only ask for the single answer, is he honest or is he not?” insisted Paul Pry.

The special officer moved forward swiftly.

“Why come here?” parried the teller, sparring for time.

“Because he said I should inquire at his bank.”

And the teller laughed.

“Oh,” he said.

At that moment the officer arrived.

“This gentleman,” said the teller, “is a foreigner. He evidently is looking for one of the vice-presidents. Will you take him to Mr. Adams? He has a question to ask. It’s quite all right, Jamison. Just see that he gets in touch with Mr. Adams.”

And Paul Pry, shrugging his shoulders in a quick gesture of nervous excitement, was escorted to the offices at the other end of the bank. The line shuffled forward, and Woozy Wiker, from Chicago, lifted the satchel to the window.

“Please count that and make a deposit,” he said.

The special officer grasped Paul Pry firmly by the arm, and escorted him to the office of Arthur Adams, the first vice-president.

The question which Paul Pry asked of Mr. Adams was not the same question which he had asked the teller at the wicketed window. It was a routine question dealing with the use of certain foreign bonds for a short-time loan, and the question was answered with cold cordiality; the cordiality which a bank exhibits toward a prospective depositer, the coldness which bankers generally reserve for prospective borrowers.

Paul Pry bowed his thanks and left the office.

Woozy Wiker was waiting for him at the entrance.

“Get the information?” he asked.

Paul Pry shrugged his shoulders.

“Information! Bah! They are afraid, these bankers, to answer questions. Understand, I have a mission, a trust. I am to raise one million dollars for the Bolshevik government. I am a special emissary. I mind my own business, and I ask that others mind theirs. I obey the laws of the country in which I am, and I ask that my own be respected.

“Certain very valuable things are to be exhibited to a customer. The customer says that these things are to be left at Forman’s for his inspection. Cannot give a jeweller a million dollars without knowing that he is all right. I must find out. And the bank thinks that I am crazy because I ask. It is a strange country to me, yet I have lived in it as a child.”

Woozy Wiker nodded sympathetically.

“I guess Forman is all right,” he said.

Paul Pry nodded. “That is what the bank says,” he explained volubly. “But before they will say for sure there is so much red tape that I must unwind, just to find out if a man is honest or if he is not honest.”

“What,” asked Wiker, “led you to come to the window where that teller was located — I mean the window R to Z?”

Paul Pry’s eyes were twinkling with cunning.

“Am I a fool?” he said. “Before all the other windows was a big line. I looked them over. I asked the first man I could reach. I knew that he would then direct me to the proper man to answer me. And I thank you for your courtesy, and I must go at once to get some very valuable things to take to this Alexander Forman who is honest. They must be there at four o’clock this afternoon.”

Woozy Wiker fell into step with him. “Can I help you?” he asked.

“Poof!” said Paul Pry, and darted away into the stream of traffic as a wary trout darts from the shadow of a fisherman. There was the slamming of a taxicab door, and Woozy Wiker was left standing on the pavement, regarding the place where Paul Pry had been standing.

The lead-coloured eyes of Woozy Wiker were filmed with thought.

Paul Pry went directly to a store which made a specialty of selling odd pets. The aisles were lined with cages from which were emitted various squawks, screams, catcalls and odors.

“I want a large rat,” he said.

“White?” the attendant asked indifferently.

“I would prefer more of a domestic colour.”

“You mean a dun?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll see what we have.”

“And it should be an active rat, one that is naturally inclined to be restless.”

“Just a minute,” said the clerk in a tone of wearied patience. He was gone some three minutes and emerged from the tangled piles of cages in the rear with a small wire cage. In it were two large rats.

“These are known as pack rats. They are very large, and very restless.”

Paul Pry produced a billfold.

“I will take them both,” he said briskly. “They are exactly what I have been looking for.”

Five minutes later he emerged from the store with a bulky package under his arm and sought another taxicab. This time he went directly to a place which specialized in safes. There were huge wall safes, small portable safes, strong boxes, bond containers, fireproof filing cabinets.

A clerk regarded him with professional affability.

“I want,” said Paul Pry, “a metal lock box that will resist any attempt at opening it for about five minutes.”

The clerk’s affability vanished under an expression of wide-eyed astonishment.

“Five minutes?” he asked.

“Five minutes of protection,” assured Paul Pry.

“Yes, sir. And how big a box?”

“Oh, one that’s about big enough to hold a million dollars’ worth of crown jewels.”

“Huh,” gulped the clerk. “Why you’d want one of our special burglar-proof, torch-proof, tamper-proof—”

Paul Pry interrupted. “I want a metal container that will last for just about five minutes,” he said.

The clerk wilted under the diamond-hard glitter of Paul Pry’s eyes.

“Yes, sir,” he said, and moved with such swift alacrity that it was less than ten minutes later when Paul Pry walked from the store and summoned another cab. This time he had two packages under his arm.

Mugs Magoo was sitting in Paul Pry’s apartment when that individual returned with his strange purchases. There was an empty whiskey bottle on the table; another one beside it showed but half full.

Mugs Magoo’s glassy eyes regarded Paul Pry lugubriously.

“You still here?”

“Where did you think I’d be?” asked Paul Pry.

“Pushin’ daisies,” said Mugs.

Paul grinned, unwrapped his purchases, set on the table the cage containing the huge rats, the lock box which was almost a young safe; almost, but not quite.

Mugs Magoo nodded gravely.

“Quite all right,” he said.

“What’s quite all right, Mugs?”

“You acting this way — now.”

“What do you mean, now.”

“I mean before you started to act goofy I wasn’t cock-eyed enough to be drunk, and it showed that one of us was going crazy, and I don’t want to go crazy — not right now. But this time I’m just plastered enough so it all seems quite natural. That’s why I’m going to take another drink, and ain’t even going to ask you are they really rats in that cage or are they the beginnings of me going goofy.” And Mugs Magoo poured himself another drink.

Paul Pry regarded the rats, gazing at him with black eyes and inquisitive whiskers. Their restless paws scratched at the bars of the cage.

“Mugs,” he said, “it has been observed that everything contains, within itself, the seeds of its own destruction.”

Mugs Magoo tossed off the drink.

“Uh-huh.”

“Apparently you’re not impressed.”

“Whatcha want me to do? Fall on your neck and weep?” asked the glassy-eyed Mugs Magoo. “I know that. I can’t wrap up the idea in the same high-soundin’ words that you used, but I can tell you the same thing. Ain’t I been preachin’ it for a long time? I told you you’d get yourself put on a marble slab, picking on Big Front Gilvray and copping the swag as fast as he got it.

“You’ve been pretty successful. You’ve picked up around twenty thousand dollars in reward money, net to you. And you’ve carried it too far. It’s this seeds of destruction business you’re talking about. You been too successful. If you’d missed once or twice, Gilvray would just be annoyed. But you’ve got him where he’s got to bump you off to keep in business.”

Paul Pry laughed.

“Well reasoned, Mugs. He’s got to bump me off to keep in business. I don’t intend to be bumped off. Therefore, he’s got to quit business.

“But what I had reference to, Mugs, was another matter. I mentioned that everything contained within itself the seeds of its own destruction. I was referring to the scheme of holding up business places in an armoured car with bulletproof windows.”

“Huh,” remarked Mugs Magoo, “that don’t contain no seeds of destruction. It’s got the Chicago cops paralysed. They can’t do nothing. A bus that looks like an ordinary touring car turns out to be a fort. A copper chases ’em and gets sprayed with lead, and don’t have a chance. They’re sitting behind bulletproof windows, and giving him the works, and laughing at him all the while they’re doing it.”

Paul Pry nodded enigmatically.

“Yet there’s one factor, one particular factor that is the weak point in the entire scheme. That car has to be operated in a certain manner in order to be effective.”

“Well, what’s the answer?” asked Mugs, his bleary eyes peering at Paul Pry.

“There isn’t any — yet. But there will be some time this afternoon — if the police will do what I rather expect they will.”

Mugs Magoo poured another drink.

“Aw, go push daisies,” he said. Then after an interval, “What you counting on the police doing?”

“That,” said Paul Pry, “is where I want your opinion. You have been a police officer, and you know police psychology. Suppose there was a desperate gangster hidden in that closet, ready to shoot me down with a machine gun, and suppose I managed to notify the police. What would they do?”

Mugs Magoo let his bleary eyes rest upon Paul Pry’s countenance.

“You mean what’d the gangster do while you were doing all that?”

“No. What would the police do?”

“After they got here?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Tell the coroner to come and sweep up the remains.”

“No. I mean if the gangster was still in the closet.”

Mugs snorted.

“Oh, that! Well, in my time they’d send one man to bust open the closet door and slam that baby to the hoosegow, and if the gangster got tough, he’d have a face that looked like a hamburger steak. But them times have passed. Now they’d send a squad with tear bombs and machine guns and riot shotguns, and they’d keep well back out of the way and bang lots of tear bombs into the room until they smoked out the bandit. Then they’d take him to the station and he’d be a hero to all the other gangsters. Half an hour later a judge would slam his fist on a habeas corpus for some slick lawyer that voted for him last election. Then the case would never come to trial.”

Paul Pry nodded, walked to the telephone, called the police headquarters.

“Quick,” he breathed into the transmitter, his voice low, but fairly trembling with excitement, “this is Paul Pry. You know the gangs have threatened to get me. Well, there’s a gangster in the closet of my room with a machine gun, waiting for me to come into the other room so he can shoot me. Get a squad here quick. But don’t take any chances. He’s desperate. He’s got a machine gun and a thousand rounds of ammunition.”

And Paul Pry hung up the telephone.

Mugs Magoo poured himself a drink, looked longingly at the bottle, and returned it to the sideboard. With the stately dignity which comes only to those who are carrying their liquor as gentlemen should, he stalked toward the door.

“Going, Mugs?”

“Yep. You’re pulling another fast one, and I don’t want to be in on it. Remember that stuff about the seeds of destruction? Well, you’ve got ’em, right in here.”

And Mugs Magoo tapped his forehead with a significant forefinger, picked up his hat, opened the door, slammed it and walked firmly down the corridor.

Paul Pry regarded him with a grin, then turned to the closet. From it he took a miscellaneous assortment of old clothes and shoes, and stored them in another closet. Then he took some walnuts and placed them on the floor of the closet. He crumpled a newspaper, tossed it in. Next he liberated the two rats in the closet and closed the door.

Ten minutes later the police arrived.

Paul Pry met them at the door on tiptoe, his eyes wide and startled.

“He’s in there,” he said, and pointed.

The sergeant led his men into the room. As Mugs Magoo had predicted, they were armed to the teeth and carried a basket of tear-gas bombs.

“Who is it?” whispered the officer.

“I don’t know. I came in and heard him in there. He doesn’t know I’m here. He’s waiting — listen.”

And Paul Pry, freezing into an attitude of tense attention, held the others in rigid silence. A second passed, two seconds, ten seconds. One of the officers stirred.

Then from the closet came the sound of something moving, a rattle that terminated in a rustle.

Paul Pry looked triumphantly at the sergeant.

“One of Gilvray’s gang,” whispered the sergeant to his men. “This baby tangled with him and they’re for putting him on the spot. Get out on the side where he can’t shoot at you through the door. Take a tear-gas bomb and hold it ready. All set?”

The men moved cautiously. Guns were trained on the closet. Some of the men took tear bombs and held them ready, and Paul Pry was one of these. He held a bomb in each hand, apparently badly shaken up, but ready to do battle.

The noise in the closet grew in volume.

“All ready?” asked the sergeant in a louder voice.

“All ready, sergeant,” said one of the men.

“Hey, you in the closet!” bellowed the sergeant.

There was no answer. The rattlings and rustlings died away.

The sergeant motioned significantly to his men.

“Come on out,” he bellowed. “This is the law. You’re under arrest for breakin’ in here, and we got you covered with riot guns.”

There was no answer.

“Come out or we’ll shoot through the door!” yelled the sergeant.

Still no answer. The men looked at one another, perplexed.

“He’s in there all right,” said the sergeant in a conversational voice.

One of the men flattened himself against the wall and stretched forth a long arm.

“Shoot when I open the door, unless he gets his hands up,” he whispered.

The men tensed, the knob turned, and the door swung open.

A big rat glided out into the apartment, surveyed the threatening faces with shiny black eyes, twitched his whiskers in alarm and scuttled back into the shadows.

“Hell!” said the sergeant.

Somebody laughed. Paul Pry sank into a chair.

“Oh my Lord!” he said, and went limp.

“Release from the strain,” explained the sergeant to his men. “Don’t blame him for having the jumps. Gilvray’s got him marked for a date with the undertaker. Give him a shot of that whiskey on the sideboard. Guess I’d better have one myself, come to think of it.”

The sergeant reached for the whiskey as he talked, poured a drink for himself, then one for Paul Pry. After Paul Pry had drained the glass the sergeant had another for himself and set the bottle back on the sideboard.

The men looked at each other. One of them approached the bottle. Then the others gathered about the sideboard.

“Feel better?” asked the sergeant.

Paul Pry straightened up, nodded.

“My gosh, what a scare. I was certain it was someone in that closet waiting for me; and you know I’ve had trouble with some gangsters.”

The sergeant nodded.

“I know,” he said.

Paul Pry smiled wanly, produced a box of excellent cigars. The men helped themselves, cracked a few jokes, and trooped from the room.

Paul Pry listened to their steps shuffling in the corridor, and smiled. He reached in his hip pocket and produced a round metallic object.

The smile became a chuckle.

A big sign stretched vertically along the front of the imposing store. That sign spelled the magic word “F-O-R-M-A-N-’S.”

At night the letters were lit one by one until the whole word flashed its message. Then a glittering diamond appeared both above and below the sign. Then all was dark for two seconds, at the end of which time the whole sign blinked on and off three times, then returned to its spelling of the word, a letter at a time.

Forman was proud of that sign. He was proud of all sorts of display which featured his name.

Back of the sign, the windows of the store were arranged after Forman’s own idea. Always in the centre of the display window was a field of black velvet. In the middle of this velvet reposed some expensive article of jewellery with a price tag that was utterly prohibitive.

But in the foreground, between it and the casual observer, was always some attractive bargain, a large flawed diamond, some flashy article of jewellery which would appeal to the cheaper trade. Against this article of jewellery was a price card bearing a figure that was crossed out in red ink. Below had been written another figure which, in turn, was crossed out with black ink. Below that figure was a pencilled figure which was always less than half the original price written at the top of the card.

Each price card had a printed slogan at the top.

Whenever an article was considered a special bargain a cardboard silhouette of a red hand with a pointing finger and the words, “LESS THAN HALF” stamped upon it in white ink was placed so it pointed at the article. These articles were always placed in the foreground of the window. Back of them came the black velvet, and back of this black velvet were grouped trays of gems.

Forman did a big business and prided himself upon his knowledge of both diamonds and human nature. He traded in both to equal advantage.

The hour was four o’clock in the afternoon.

Paul Pry emerged from a taxicab directly in front of Forman’s, looked up and down the street. Under his arm he carried a locked box that was almost a portable safe. Paul Pry paid the taxi driver, walked swiftly into the store.

Three seconds later a man, walking with the rigid dignity of one who is endeavouring to conceal a bad case of alcoholic inebriety, stepped slowly to the show window, walked inside the store. Woozy Wiker, of Chicago, was strutting his stuff.

A clerk approached Paul Pry and was waved aside. Paul Pry’s business was with none other than Forman himself. A clerk approached Woozy Wiker, and was fixed with a glassy eye that seemed to have difficulty in focusing.

“Gonna get married,” enunciated Woozy Wiker, pronouncing each word as though it required a special effort. “Wanna get ring for shweetes’ lil’ girl inna world.”

And his hand, fumbling in an inside pocket, produced a roll of bills which thudded upon the plate glass of the counter with a solid sound. The outer bill was so rolled as to disclose the figures in the corner, a one followed by three ciphers.

“Don’ care what it costs,” said Woozy Wiker.

While Woozy Wiker was propping himself against the edge of the showcase, Paul Pry was engaged in sizing up a man who walked toward him with shuffling gait and shrewd eyes.

Forman was past fifty. His head was thrust forward and down as though the spindling neck had grown tired of holding up the weight of the head. There was something about that long, bowed neck that reminded one of a drooping sunflower stem.

His nose was the dominant feature of his face, a long nose, high in the bridge, expanded in the nostrils. Back of the nose were eyes that studiously held no expression whatever. His skin was dark. The man looked to be of Russian extraction because of his high cheekbones. As a matter of fact, he was part Armenian, but he never disclosed his ancestry to anyone. Exactly where Forman came from was as much of a mystery as the exact source from which he purchased his diamonds. It was rumoured that some of those diamonds had never paid duty.

He shuffled toward Paul Pry, and the expressionless eyes flicked once, and only once, to his face. They dropped almost immediately to the metal box which Paul Pry carried.

Pry leaned forward and lowered his tone.

“I want to arrange for the purchase of a very expensive piece of jewellery, something that will run around fifty thousand dollars. But I want a bargain. I understand you carry some bargains that could be sold — for cash.”

Forman bowed.

“All my sales are for cash,” he said, and his voice was as expressionless as his eyes.

Paul Pry nodded, the nod being a mere gesture of courteous affirmation, carrying no assurance of conviction with it.

“When I said for cash,” he explained, “I meant for gold and currency. No cheques.”

Forman let his eyes drift to the heavy metal box once more. There was almost a trace of expression in those eyes.

“Ah yes,” he purred, “cash.”

“Cash,” repeated Paul Pry.

“I have,” said Forman, and his tone had commenced to take on just the edge of an expression, “something particularly choice in a diamond necklace — for sixty-one thousand dollars.”

Paul Pry pointed to the box.

“I have with me precisely fifty thousand dollars — in cash.”

“Ah yes,” said Forman, “in cash.”

He hesitated for just the right interval of time. When he spoke, his voice had assumed a certain timbre of expression which was definite.

“I might consider making a special price — for cash. Your name?”

“Pry,” said that individual, and extended his hand.

Forman’s hand was lukewarm, padded with a protective coating of flabby fat. It was the sort of hand that could be grasped and squeezed into any shape, like a chunk of moist putty.

“Pleased to meet you,” said Forman. “Come upstairs to my office, and we’ll talk business.”

Paul Pry clasped the box under his arm, followed the jeweller up the stairs. Behind him, Woozy Wiker, from Chicago, was leering at the clerk.

“Don’ want those small diamonds. Wanna large diamond.”

The clerk nodded, sighed. “Wait here just a moment,” he said, and stepped into the back room to consult with the stock man.

Paul Pry sat down in the office, looked about him appraisingly. Forman pressed a bell, gave a clerk instructions in a low voice, opened a box of cigars, passed over a perfecto and let his expressionless eyes drift to the strong box.

“Rather an unusual way of purchasing jewellery,” he said.

Pry smiled.

“Not so bad. I have a strong box in which to bring the cash, and it makes a good wrapping for the jewels when I take them away.”

There was a tapping at the door and the clerk brought in a handsome case, Forman took it, snapped back the lid and disclosed the cold fire of the sparkling diamonds.

Paul Pry allowed his face to register enthusiasm. Forman’s eyes were on that face while his fingers toyed with the diamonds.

“Priced at sixty-one thousand dollars,” said the jeweller.

“Fifty thousand is my limit.”

“You like the piece?”

Paul Pry took it in his hands, studied it carefully.

“The design and workmanship isn’t exactly what I had in mind, but when one is getting a price concession of eleven thousand dollars—” He let his voice trail off into significant silence.

“Yes,” purred Forman, “when one is getting a price concession of eleven thousand dollars—” And he let his own voice trail off into silence.

Paul Pry took a bunch of keys from his pocket, fumbled them in his fingers. The expressionless eyes of Forman’s swarthy countenance clamped upon the strong box in a rigid gaze of masked interest.

Paul Pry scowled. Then he tossed the keys to the polished mahogany of the table and explored his pocket with fingers which grew more and more frantic in their search.

He raised his eyes.

“Must have left it in my other waistcoat.”

“The key?” asked Forman.

“The key,” said Paul Pry.

Forman’s face became utterly wooden in its masked expression.

“Ah, yes,” he said.

“I know,” said Paul Pry, getting to his feet. “You think this is all part of some elaborate skin game. I’ll show you how wrong you are. I’ll get that key and be back inside of twenty minutes. I’ve got an apartment not three blocks away. And you can sit right here and keep the box and the jewels right before you on this table. I’ll open that box and show you whether or not I mean business.”

There was no expression upon the dark face, yet it seemed that the studied lack of expression had melted into a more natural repose of feature.

“Very well,” said Forman.

And Paul Pry, arising from the chair, rushed from the office with rapid strides. He took the stairs two at a time, and walked swiftly through the store.

It was obvious to anyone who had seen him enter that the strong box had been left behind. Woozy Wiker, from Chicago, turned so that his head was lowered over the diamonds. His shoulders were hunched up.

“Gotta see th’ li’l lady ’bout thish,” he said, and scooped up the roll of bills he had thudded to the glass counter. “Ain’t none of thoshe diamon’s big ’nough for li’l lady. Nishest girl inna worl’.”

And he straightened back from the counter, walked to the door with rigid dignity, leaving behind him a flushed and very exasperated clerk.

Once at the door of the store and his manner underwent a sudden change, this Woozy Wiker from Chicago. He became as swiftly efficient as Paul Pry had been. He walked with nervous rapidity upon catlike feet to the alley where a grey Cadillac was parked. In this Cadillac sat three men.

“Ready,” he said.

The car purred into action, swept around the corner of the alley, parked at Forman’s store.

Two men got out on the run, entered the swinging door.

“Where’s Forman?” called one of the men to the clerk who was reassorting the scattered diamonds left by Woozy Wiker in a state of utter confusion.

The clerk jerked his hand toward the back.

“Office,” he said, and went back to his task.

The men had been headed toward the office, and their steps were fast. They had flung the inquiry in a terse sentence at the clerk and had not hesitated for an answer. These things would have been apparent to the clerk, had he but taken the time to consider it. But he was nervous and irritated. A fat commission which had seemed to be fairly within his grasp had lurched from the door in a state of alcoholic indecision, and the clerk’s feelings were exceedingly bitter.

The two took the stairs to the office with springy steps. Their hands were flashing under coats as they gained the top step. By the time they turned and flung open the heavy door, those hands glittered with blue steel.

Forman sat at the table. Pushed to one side was a diamond necklace, ignored. His expressionless eyes were fastened upon a metal box. In such a manner might a snake stare at a mouse which was soon to become a meal. He did not look up as the door opened.

“Back already?” he asked.

“Put ’em up!” said one of the men.

Forman looked up then, and his eyes assumed expression for the first time. The dark face twitched. Then panic gripped him. He reached for the metal box.

“No, no!” he shouted.

“Let him have it, Bill,” said one of the men.

One of the blue steel weapons flashed in a swift arc. That arc terminated upon the skull of the swarthy jeweller. There was the peculiar “konk” made by steel upon arched bone, and the grasping hands became limp. The inert figure of Forman settled in the chair, slumped over so the bleeding head rested upon the mahogany table.

The man who had clubbed the gun barrel grabbed the box.

“Lookit the sparklers!” said one of the bandits.

And, as he spoke, he scooped them into his pocket.

They searched the jeweller with swiftly efficient fingers. They made a quick search of the table drawers, and that search netted them three more show pieces of gems and some eight hundred dollars in cash.

Then they started down the stairs.

They were halfway to the door when one of the clerks, noticing the grim efficiency of their swift strides, raised his voice. The men didn’t stop.

“Stop thief!” yelled the clerk, but they were then almost at the door.

One of the men whirled, a blue steel weapon flashed fire. At the roar of the explosion, glass shattered in the showcase behind the clerk. The clerk flung himself down behind the counter. Other clerks did likewise. A woman who had been examining opals screamed and slid to the floor in a faint. Somewhere a bell clanged an imperative alarm. On the sidewalk, passing pedestrians, sensing that something was wrong, stared in wonder. The two men forced their way through the swinging doors, sprinted across the kerb and into the grey Cadillac.

Someone shouted. The Cadillac purred away into traffic. Men ran from the store, waved their arms, yelled wildly. The traffic officer at the corner heard the shouts, raised his hand.

The grey Cadillac paid no attention to his signal. It flashed by with constantly increasing speed. The officer tugged at his weapon, drew it, then recognized the futility of firing in that crowded shopping district thronged with early home-goers. He turned and rushed toward the jewellery store.

At the second corner the Cadillac turned on screaming tyres and tore into the boulevard. Behind it, a low roadster purred smoothly. That roadster had swung out behind the grey car somewhere after the first intersection had been passed.

The men in the Cadillac paid no attention to it. Bulletproof windows tightly closed, grey painted steel enclosing them, they had nothing to fear. If the officers pursued, they had machine guns with which they could mow down the minions of the law.

Woozy Wiker, sitting in the front seat, wrestled with the lock of the strong box with a jemmy. The car was flashing past intersections with swift speed.

One of the men looked behind, said something to the driver. The grey car slowed to a sedate speed and turned into a side street. Two pairs of cruel eyes surveyed the low roadster which purred behind.

The roadster slowed, rounded the corner, slid to the kerb. Two hands reached for the weapons which were kept in the grey Cadillac.

But the man who slid from the roadster seemed interested in some house number. The men in the Cadillac hesitated. Woozy Wiker, from Chicago, gave a final wrench to the lock of the strong box. The Cadillac gathered speed.

The man who had slipped from behind the steering wheel of the roadster made a swift leap toward the machine he had vacated. The Cadillac swung for the corner.

The lid of the strong box came up. There was a faint hissing noise. Someone choked. The driver gasped some comment, strangled mid-sentence, and reached a hand for a window. The two bandits in the rear seat flung toward the windows.

The hissing noise grew in volume.

The car swayed, lurched, wobbled, crashed into a telephone pole, rolled to its side. A fender ripped off. There was the scream of steel upon cement, and then the car swung on its side. The wheels that were free of the pavement continued to revolve.

Men ran from houses and stores. Women screamed. But the first to reach the wreck was Paul Pry.

Four men were in the closed car, four men who were unconscious. On the front seat was a black bag. A metal strong box had been forced open and the impact of the collision with the telephone pole had flung it forward. A police tear-gas bomb was still hissing its deadly stream of poisoned gas into the confines of the car.

Paul Pry held his breath, made a swift grab for the black bag, thrust it under his coat, jumped back.

“The car’s full of gas, keep away!” he yelled at those who came up on the run. “I’ll get an ambulance.”

He whirled and dashed away. No one thought to look at him. Their eyes were fastened on the sprawled bodies within the armoured car. One, more brave than the rest, held his breath, rushed forward and dragged out one of the forms.

The hissing noise ceased. People standing near the car choked and wiped away tears which streamed from their eyes. A strong wind swept away the gas.

Paul Pry climbed into his roadster and drove away.

By the time the police were notified of the strange accident, the men who had been in the car had recovered consciousness and melted into the crowd. The police were very, very busy about that time throwing a cordon about the shopping district so that a grey Cadillac should not escape. When they learned of the accident they came, looked, and came in still larger numbers. The grey Cadillac lay on its side. Beneath its seats was an assortment of lethal weapons, ranging from revolvers to a sub-machine gun.

But the occupants of the car had escaped, and there was no trace of the gems which were missing from Forman’s jewellery store. To be sure, there was a metal box in the car, the lock showing that it had been forced. But there was nothing in that box. A tear-gas bomb, bearing the stamp of the police department, was found in the car. Its presence was not explained.

Forman had recovered consciousness by the time Paul Pry returned to the store, bearing the key to the lock box. The place was filled with excited clerks, and a cordon of police kept out those who had no business.

Forman looked at Paul Pry.

“See my lawyer,” he said, and groaned.

“I have the key to the box. What’s happened?” asked Paul Pry.

“See my lawyer,” said Forman and sopped the wet handkerchief he held in his hand to his forehead.

“But my box!” protested Paul Pry.

“See my lawyer,” said Forman.

Out in a big house in an exclusive residential district Benjamin Franklin Gilvray, known to the underworld as Big Front Gilvray, stared at a man whose face was bruised, whose clothes were torn.

“And that’s all there was in the box?”

“Every damn thing — the tear-gas bomb and the paper in the envelope.”

Big Front Gilvray’s eyes were glittering with rage. His mouth was twitching, and the flabby facial muscles distorted his features as they writhed in an ecstasy of rage. He read again the note in his hand.

Big Front Gilvray dashed the note to the floor, stamped on it with his heel, and began to curse. The gangster who sat opposite him cowered under the blast of that blistering profanity.

Inspector Quigley sat in Paul Pry’s apartment, and his expression was anything but placid.

“Look here, Pry, you admit you planted that box so there’d be a robbery. You pinched the tear-gas bomb from the police department. Now you’ve assigned your claim against Forman to some girl, and you’re dickering with me to turn in the jewellery for a reward. This is the fourth time you’ve recovered stolen property and claimed a reward on it. It begins to smell fishy.”

Paul Pry shrugged his shoulders and reached for a cigarette.

“Suit yourself, inspector. You know that Woozy Wiker was imported from Chicago to kill me. I knew he would do it unless I beat him to the punch. You know as well as I do the police are powerless to prevent these gang killings.

“I planted the box, figuring that he’d steal it and it alone. The tear-gas bomb just happened to be left in my pocket after the police had armed me to capture a gangster. That turned out to be a false alarm, a couple of rats in my closet, you know.

“How was I to know that bandits would make their escape before the police arrived on the scene? How was I to know that Forman would leave out a few choice bits of jewellery for the bandits to take?

“I thought the bandits would grab the box, try to make their escape in their Cadillac, spring the tear-gas bomb which I’d fixed to go off when the box was open, wreck the car, and fall into the hands of the police. You see, that Cadillac had to be operated with the windows tightly closed to guard against bullets. It was the one weak point in the scheme of its operation. The seeds of its own destruction, one might say.

“I admit that I was the first one on the scene of the accident, that I grabbed a black bag, not knowing at the time what was in it. Then I ran to look for the police. Before I could find an officer and get back, the men had gone.”

Inspector Quigley bit the end from a cigar, scraped a vicious match across the sole of his shoe.

“We were sending the officers out to put a cordon around the district,” he said.

Paul Pry nodded.

“Of course, but I couldn’t know that. And— Well, inspector, it wouldn’t look very well in print. You threw out your officers, left the shopping district unprotected, and allowed the criminals to escape.

“How much better it would be for you to announce that you had recovered the stolen jewellery, captured the armoured Cadillac, and expected to make some important arrests within the next twenty-four hours. Then you could collect the reward which Forman has offered for the recovery of the jewellery.”

Inspector Quigley flung the burning match into the gas fireplace and grunted.

“And split the reward with you, eh?”

“Of course,” said Paul Pry. “You take the credit and half of the reward. I get half of the reward and take all of the risk. You know, inspector, I’ve made you a pretty penny in reward money the last few months, and it’s all been legitimate.”

Inspector Quigley regarded the smoking end of the cigar with judicious deliberation.

“How about this claim your lawyer has presented against Forman for the loss of fifty thousand dollars cash that was entrusted to his possession. You must admit there wasn’t fifty thousand dollars cash in that box.”

Paul Pry looked his innocence.

“Why, how can you say that? No one knows just exactly what was in that box except the bandits who stole it, and they won’t testify, of course.”

“Of course,” echoed the inspector.

“And then again,” resumed Paul Pry, “that claim has been assigned to Miss Virginia Smithers, a very estimable young lady who claims Forman swindled her out of seventeen hundred dollars’ worth of diamonds through a substitution. I understand my attorney is compromising the claim with Forman for exactly seventeen hundred dollars — the claim for the loss of the fifty thousand dollars in cash.”

“Humph!” said Inspector Quigley.

It was significant that he had come alone, that there were no outside witnesses to his interview with Paul Pry.

“Humph!” he said again.

“The reward offered for the return of the jewels is seven thousand five hundred dollars,” reminded Paul Pry. “You can figure fifty percent of that as well as I can. It takes no great problem in mental arithmetic.”

Quigley nodded, again regarded the smouldering tip of his cigar.

“What I’m trying to convince myself of is that you ain’t sort of an accomplice,” he said. “I couldn’t compound a felony.”

“Of course not,” agreed Paul Pry with a smile. “If you think I have committed a felony, you have only to ask the district attorney if he’d like to prosecute me before a jury. His case would disclose that I was at war with a gang, that I was fighting for my life against methods which admittedly leave the police powerless. My life was threatened by a notorious gangster killer from Chicago, I set a trap to defend myself. Unwittingly, that trap included the recovery of stolen gems. I offer to surrender those gems to the police and split the reward.

“If such a case were prosecuted against me, you’d have a hard time proving the facts. You’d make the police the laughing stock of the country. The district attorney would be laughed out of court, and you’d lose the reward.”

“And if you even spoke to the district attorney about it and got his advice, he’d want you to split your half of the reward with him. One fourth of seven thousand five hundred dollars is much less than one half of that sum.”

Inspector Quigley sighed.

“Get me the sparklers,” he said. “I’ll turn ’em in for the reward.”

Paul Pry smiled.

“About this Woozy Wiker, from Chicago,” he began, “don’t you think—”

Inspector Quigley interrupted.

“You can forget him. Gangs have rather an effective way of handling gangsters who have done some pretty crude bungling, particularly when those gangsters are away from their home town and all their friends. Woozy Wiker’s body was found at daylight this morning. He got the works.”

“Got the works?” asked Paul Pry.

“Yes. They took him for a ride. There were ten bullet holes in him. And it’s a damned good riddance. He was a notorious killer. He’d taken half a dozen of ’em for a ride. Now he goes for a ride himself. He gets the works.”

“I see,” said Paul Pry, “Wiker gets the works. I believe there’s something in the Bible about he who lives by the sword dying by the sword, isn’t there?”

“How should I know?” asked the inspector. “Get me those sparklers so I can turn ’em in. I’m buying a new car today, and the money’ll come in handy.”