The Adventures of Paul Pry

A Double Deal in Diamonds

The corpse had been dumped from an automobile, a cryptic message pinned to its coat — “This smart aleck won’t do any more meddling.” But somebody had made a mistake in identity. The “smart aleck” was not only very much alive but ready to prove it, as “Big Front” Gilvray was soon to find out.

Paul Pry jabbed at a dummy with the flashing blade of a sword. There was, in the lithe, swift strength of the man, the suggestion of a steel spring. His wrists flicked, the blade flashed, the dummy spun half around as eighteen inches of cold steel ripped through its back.

The door of the room reverberated to a knock.

Paul Pry whipped out the blade, sheathed it and stood listening, his head slightly cocked to one side.

The room boomed once more to the knocking, and the knocking took up a certain rhythmic cadence. A long, a short, two longs, a short — silence.

Paul Pry moved to the side of the door and placed his eye to something that looked like the end of a field glass, and which was, in fact, the eyepiece of a periscope.

He saw two men standing before the door. One of them was “Mugs” Magoo, the one-armed man who acted as special agent for Paul Pry. The other wore a uniform with gold lace, brass buttons and cap.

Paul waited until the uniformed figure turned so that the features were visible through the periscope. When he had recognized Sergeant Mahoney of headquarters, he swung back a heavy iron bar, lifted a clamp, shot a spring lock and opened the door.

“Gentlemen, come in,” he said.

Sergeant Mahoney pushed forward.

“You’re barricaded with enough bolts and bars,” he growled.

Paul Pry smiled affably.

“Yes,” he said.

Sergeant Mahoney tapped the door.

“Steel,” he remarked.

“Bulletproof,” said Paul Pry.

“Gimme a drink. You guys can put on the talk-fest,” grunted Mugs Magoo.

Paul Pry closed the steel door. He shot the iron bar into place, then turned the clamp that shot bars into deep recesses in the floor. The spring lock clicked. Motioning the men to chairs, he took out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

Sergeant Mahoney surveyed the swinging dummy with interest.

“Practisin’ up on his fencin’,” explained Mugs Magoo, as he filled the glasses.

Mugs and the sergeant had a drink. Paul Pry smiled courteously at them.

“You’ve got to leave town,” said Sergeant Mahoney, setting down his empty glass. “I’m arranging for a police escort at noon. We’ll put you in a drawing room on the 12.30 train, and we’ll have plain-clothes men—”

“Whoa, back up!” smiled Paul Pry. “What’s it all about?”

“‘Big Front’ Gilvray has ordered your death.”

“Well, that’s no news, and why not escort Big Front Gilvray out of town?”

“Because he wouldn’t go, and we haven’t got anything definite on him. If we did have, we’d have a battle and a lot of men would get bumped off. B F Gilvray is one gangster who has both brains and guts.”

Paul Pry made a gesture with his right hand, a sweeping gesture that indicated his private opinion of B. F. Gilvray, arch-gangster.

“He’s been gunning for me two months now. I’m still here.”

“That’s not the point. He was mildly irritated before. He’s in earnest now. The gang’s been ordered to get you and get you right. And Gilvray’s one of the toughest men in the game.”

Paul Pry yawned and lit a cigarette.

“He may seem that way to you,” he said. “To me he’s just the goose that lays the golden eggs.”

Sergeant Mahoney sighed and leaned forward in his chair.

“All right. I’ve got to give it to you. Here it comes. You’ll leave town at noon today, and you’ll stay out. You started picking on Gilvray for some reason or other that no one knows about. You trailed his gang around. Every time they pulled a crime you managed to cop the take and turn it in for a reward.

“Naturally, Gilvray got sore. He’s going to kill you, and that’s making the situation one we don’t like. You two are really staging a war, and we’re not going to stand for gang wars.

“Of course, we’re going to try and get something on Gilvray and send him to the pen. But he’s slick. We haven’t been able to get anything pinned on him yet. And he’s a hard-boiled egg.”

Paul Pry yawned again.

“I’m picking on him because I don’t like him. His name is Benjamin Franklin Gilvray. They call him Big Front because he’s such a four-flusher. And if you think I’m going to let the police run me out of town because a crook doesn’t like me, you’ve got another guess coming.”

Sergeant Mahoney fished a heavy hand in the inside pocket of his uniform coat.

“These,” he remarked, “will make you change your mind.”

And he flipped four glossy-surfaced photographs out on the table. Paul Pry picked up those pictures, one at a time. They were photographs of a dead man, taken from different angles. They showed the corpse as it had been found, and the pictures were gruesome in the extreme.

The body had evidently been thrown from an automobile. It had been dumped out on the roadside with the callous cruelty of gangsters to whom a corpse is merely carrion. It was lying on one side, an arm twisted back, the legs sticking stiffly out behind with the shod feet pointed at different angles.

Over the chest of the body was a matted mass of stain which appeared on the photograph to be tar. In the centre of the stain were three black perforations. Pinned to the coat was an oblong strip of paper, upon which had been printed a message.

The third photograph showed the features of the cold face. They were startlingly like the features of Paul Pry. The fourth photograph showed the oblong of paper and the printing which was on it. Paul Pry held the picture to the light so that he could read the scrawled message.

The message was, naturally, unsigned. Paul flipped back the photographs.

“You mean they thought this chap was the one who had been meddling?” he asked.

“I mean,” said Sergeant Mahoney, “that they thought this chap was you. He was seen near here, and their choppers picked him up and took him for a ride. He turns out to be a banker from Detroit, in the city on a business visit, and there’s going to be hell to pay.

“We can’t prove anything. Big Front Gilvray’s got an airtight alibi — but we know what we know. So I picked up Mugs Magoo and told him I had to see you. And I’m telling you you’ve got to leave town until we can get the thing worked out somehow.”

Paul Pry crossed to the sideboard, filled the two glasses and handed them to his guests.

“Do you know, sergeant,” he said slowly, “I have a funny hunch about Big Front Gilvray.”

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

“I think the goosie is getting ready to lay another golden egg.”

Sergeant Mahoney strangled on his drink, then wiped his eyes, his face red from the fit of coughing.

“You mean to say you still refuse to leave?”

“Absolutely, and if the police try to make me, I’ll tell the whole story to the newspapers. Do I make myself plain, sergeant?”

Sergeant Mahoney jerked his cap down on his forehead and strode toward the door.

“Perfectly,” he snapped, “and the police protection you can count on is exactly zero. You’ve cleaned up over twenty thousand dollars in reward money just from riding Big Front Gilvray around. You’ve made him the laughing stock of the underworld — and you’ll be pushing daisies this time next month!”

Paul Pry stifled a yawn.

“Let the sergeant out, Mugs,” he said.

Mugs Magoo stared at Paul Pry with glassy eyes that seemed to be pushing from their sockets.

“Are you crazy?” he asked.

Paul Pry shook his head.

“Certainly not. As Sergeant Mahoney remarked, I’ve cleaned up over twenty thousand dollars in golden eggs Big Front Gilvray has so kindly laid for me. Why should I be crazy to figure on another golden egg?”

Mugs Magoo reached for the whiskey bottle and filled his glass.

“You show your face outside of this hang-out and you’ll be stretched on a marble slab.”

Paul Pry shrugged his shoulders.

“But you certainly wouldn’t want me to let Gilvray go unpunished for his murder. Come, Mugs, do as I tell you. Go out and find Gilvray’s scouts. I want to know who they are.”

Mugs Magoo had derived his nickname because of a camera-eye and a memory that was utterly infallible. He never forgot a face, a name or a connection. At one time he had been a trusted officer. A political shake-up had thrown him off the force. An accident had taken off his right arm at the shoulder. Booze had done the rest.

He had been utterly down and out when Paul Pry had rescued him from the gutter and turned the man’s remarkable knowledge of the underworld to advantage.

“Gilvray’s desperate,” mumbled Mugs Magoo.

“For heaven’s sake! Do I have to listen to all that again? You’re as bad as Mahoney. What I want to know is how Gilvray gets the information for his hauls.”

“Scouts, of course. Same way all the rest of ’em do. They have people circulating around the jewellery stores, the nightclubs, the wealthy residential districts. They spot out the lay—”

“All right, Mugs, what I ask you is simple enough for a man of your contacts. Spot the scouts Gilvray is using.”

Mugs sighed, and poured himself another glass of whiskey.

“I’m goin’ to have a hard time gettin’ my whiskey after you’re gone,” he said.

“Gone?” asked Paul Pry.

“Yeah. Pushin’ daisies,” said Mugs Magoo, and lugubriously started upon his mission.

When he had gone, Paul Pry put on his hat and a topcoat, slipped to the kitchen of his apartment and listened.

That apartment was his hideout, a veritable fortress. The windows were steel-shuttered and iron-barred. The doors were bulletproof — and there was a secret exit which even Mugs Magoo didn’t know about.

Paul Pry pushed up a trapdoor in the top of the kitchen closet, crawled between walls for some twenty feet, opened another trapdoor, found himself in a vacant apartment, slipped through that apartment to a side door, emerged in a corridor, and finally reached the sidewalk half a block from the entrance to the narrow building where his own apartment was located.

Paul Pry paused in the doorway to survey the street.

He noticed a plain-clothes man on duty, lounging directly opposite the doorway to his own apartment. He also noticed a touring car in which two men sat. Those men were well tailored, but there was an alert watchfulness about them which made them seem far from being gentlemen of leisure.

Paul Pry waited in the doorway until a cruising cab driver caught his signal and pulled to the kerb. Head bent forward, so that his hat covered his features, he skipped into the cab and gave the address of an interurban depot.

From that point on his moves were made openly and apparently as part of a well-laid plan.

He took an interurban car for Centerville, a rather distant and somewhat isolated suburb. There he went to the main hotel and registered as Harley Garfield of Chicago. He paid a week’s rent on his room, tipped a bellboy for getting him settled, stated he would have some baggage sent up later, and then sought out the most pretentious jewellery store in the town.

The proprietor himself came forward.

He was snowy-haired, walked with a limp, and his eyes were filmed with age. Yet there was a dignity in the man’s carriage. About him was that subtle something that characterizes an aristocrat.

“I want,” said Paul Pry, “to get some diamonds. I want a rather expensive necklace. I am willing to go as high as fifty thousand dollars.”

The filmed eyes showed a trace of expression which was instantly suppressed.

“Your name?” asked the jeweller.

“Garfield. Harley Garfield, of Chicago.”

And Paul Pry extended his hand.

“Moffit,” said the jeweller, shaking hands. “I am pleased to meet you. Living here at present, Mr. Garfield?”

“At the hotel. Room 908.”

“And you wanted a very fine string of diamonds.”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry I haven’t anything in stock, but you will understand how utterly impossible it is for a store of this size to keep a stock that would compare with the city stores.

“I’ll give you a card to my wholesaler and you can go to the city and have the best selection available. Or you can go in with me, if you’d prefer, and I’ll introduce you personally and assist in the selection.”

Paul Pry smiled and shook his head.

“Neither. I hate the city. Cities depress me. I had a nervous breakdown and my physicians advised me to avoid noise. That’s why I’m here where it’s quiet.”

There was just the finest trace of frosty suspicion upon the features of the jeweller.

“I’m sorry I have nothing in stock,” he said.

Paul Pry took a wallet from his coat pocket and flipped it open.

From its interior he took bills of thousand-dollar denomination. One by one, he counted them out upon the counter. The jeweller gazed at them with eyes that grew wider as each bill was deposited upon the counter.

“I am a businessman,” said Paul Pry. “I want to purchase a diamond necklace through you. I want the benefit of your judgment. And I am in a hurry. I, also, am hard to please. I am giving you twenty thousand dollars in cash as an evidence of good faith.

“Please give me a receipt. In that receipt you will mention that if I am satisfied with such necklaces as you can show me I will pay for one in cash. If I do not select one which pleases me, you will return my money less the sum of five hundred dollars which will compensate you for your trouble and expense. Now when can you have the first batch of necklaces here for my inspection?”

Moffit picked up the stacked money with trembling fingers. He counted it, examined each bill, then wrote out a receipt. Then he consulted the timetable of the interurban.

“Our train service is very poor,” he said. “I can have some necklaces for your inspection at 3.38. The car leaves the city at 2.10, and I will have the stones sent on that car.”

Paul Pry nodded.

“Very well. I will be here at 3.45. That will give you a chance to have the necklaces properly displayed.”

Moffit tugged at the fingers of his left hand with his right hand until the knuckle joints popped, one by one.

“I’d like to have you here as soon as possible. If you don’t want the necklaces I’d want to send them back on the 4.15. I haven’t facilities for keeping such valuable gems here.”

Paul Pry nodded casually.

“I’ll make a selection by four o’clock,” he promised. “Good morning, Mr. Moffit.”

The jeweller looked at his watch.

“It’s afternoon now,” he said. “I’ll telephone my wholesaler before I go to lunch.”

Paul Pry smiled.

“My mistake. Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Garfield.”

Paul Pry sauntered down a side street from which he could watch the door of Moffit’s jewellery store. In precisely five minutes he saw Mr. Moffit emerge and hobble excitedly toward the bank. From time to time, the snowy-haired gentleman glanced apprehensively over his shoulder.

Paul Pry smiled and returned to his room in the hotel, where he made some casual inquiries about train service, placed a telephone call to the baggage department of the depot, and then summoned the porter.

“My baggage is lost,” he informed that individual. “What’s the best way to get action?”

“There ain’t any,” said the porter. “You cuss out the local man. He ain’t got the baggage. He puts in a tracer. You can’t cuss the man that lost the baggage and there ain’t no satisfaction in cussing anybody else. If they find it, they’ll send it to you. If they don’t you’ll have an argument with the claim department. I can’t help you.”

Paul Pry gathered himself in erect dignity.

“I,” he announced, “shall go directly to headquarters. How can I get to the city?”

“Interurban.”

“No other way?”

“Automobile.”

“There isn’t a train for two hours, and automobile will be almost as slow as a train by the time I’ve fought my way through all the traffic.”

The porter shrugged.

“Airport down here. A guy’s barnstorming at five bucks a throw.”

Paul Pry snapped his jaw shut.

“Here,” he said, “is where you see some action on a baggage claim. I’m going to talk turkey to the higher-ups in that railroad company, and I don’t mean maybe.”

He pulled his hat on with a vigorous gesture of defiance to the world in general, left the hotel, found the barnstorming aviator and arranged for passage to the city.

The plane roared from the field, clipped against the blue of the skyline like some great bird and droned into the horizon. Paul Pry consulted his watch, made careful note of the time, sat back in his seat and smiled.

The vacant stretches of rocky woodland flashed past, relieved by occasional buildings clustered in little grounds. A great body of water showed dark and sluggish. In the distance the congested district of the city showed as a white haze of buildings.

Momentarily those buildings became more clear. The ground below presented scattering dwellings which gave place to small communities, and finally merged into a compact mass of structures. The streets became congested, walled by higher buildings, and finally became deep canyons. Towering skyscrapers seemed to stretch clutching fingers at the undercarriage. The roar of the motor suddenly throttled down to a mere clicking. The plane stood on one wing, drifted down in a steep slant. A field opened up below. The plane straightened into a flat glide, and little jars ran up from the landing wheels.

Paul Pry took off helmet and goggles, shook hands with the pilot, handed him a bill, and strode purposefully toward that end of the field where taxicabs were clustered.

“Stillwell Hotel,” he snapped at the driver as he entered the cab.

The cab speeded down the cross streets, stopped and eased its way into the traffic of the boulevard. At the Stillwell Hotel, Paul Pry walked across the lobby, engaged another cab, and was taken to the interurban depot.

He had twenty-five minutes to spare.

He employed that twenty-five minutes in studying the faces of such passengers as presented themselves at the gate marked Centerville.

The women he dismissed with a single glance. A florid gentleman with a suitcase and an anaemic man with a briefcase were also passed up. It was when a young man appeared, striding purposefully, a black handbag under his arm, that Paul Pry’s eyes became diamond hard.

That man glanced at a wristwatch, clamped the bag under his arm in a solid grip and turned his eyes to the sporting section of the newspaper which he carried.

For ten minutes he was engrossed in the paper, then the gate slid back upon well-oiled rollers, and the little group filed toward the interurban car.

The young man glanced about him, took mental note of the occupants of the car, set the black handbag on the seat beside him, and turned his attention toward the newspaper again. The black bag was distinctly studded with brass rivets.

Apparently, the transportation of small fortunes in gems was merely a matter of daily routine with the young man. He watched the bag as a mere routine, not nervously or apprehensively.

The car jolted out of the depot, clanged its way into the subway tunnel, rushed through the darkness, and finally began a long sloping climb. Out into the daylight and the city streets it emerged. On either side were thronged sidewalks and tall buildings.

The man with the bag lurched and swayed with the motion of the car, his eyes still devouring the sporting page of the afternoon newspaper. The black bag reposed on the seat beside him.

Yet the man was watchful, as was shown when the car came to a stop at its first station. The sporting page came down and the man’s eyes came up, searched the faces of the passengers, turned to the black bag.

Two people got off. The bell clanged. The car lurched forward, gathered speed, and the sporting page came up again.

Paul Pry lounged back in his seat. He was sitting where he could command a view of the young man, and to say that any single motion missed the diamond-hard glitter of his appraising eyes would be to distort the facts.

At 3.37 the car jolted to a stop at Centerville. Paul Pry glanced from the window. He saw that a paunchy individual in olive drab with a gold star on his vest and a big cigar in his mouth was scrutinizing the faces of the passengers as they descended from the car.

The man with the black bag, now quietly watchful, eased his way to the vestibule of the car, walked down the steel steps with a catlike tread, glanced at the paunchy individual and bowed.

The officer came forward, extended a fat hand, talked for a few minutes in a mysterious undertone, and then escorted the messenger to the jewellery store of Samuel Moffit.

Paul Pry waited for five minutes, then strolled casually toward the store. But he did not enter. Instead he waited to see if the messenger was coming out. When he found that the messenger remained inside the store, Paul Pry walked briskly to his hotel, went to his room, and telephoned Moffit.

“Garfield speaking, Mr. Moffit. Did the gems come?”

“Yes. I have them here.”

“Sorry I can’t get down right away. I have a long-distance call coming in. I’ll make it as soon as I can.”

Moffit’s voice sounded a little nervous.

“I’d like to get the messenger back on the 4.15, you know,” said Moffit.

Pry hesitated.

“Tell you what you do,” he said at length, “bring the stones on up to my room, 908. I’ll look them over here. That will be better than coming down to the store, anyhow.”

“Very well,” said Moffit, but his tone was suddenly cold.

Five minutes later there were steps in the corridor, followed by a knock at the door.

Paul Pry flung it open.

“Mr. Garfield,” said Samuel Moffit, “shake hands with Phil Kelley, our chief of police.”

Paul Pry extended his hand.

“Chief, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” Kelley’s hand was flabby, but his eyes were hard, and he clamped the cigar in one corner of his mouth with an aggressive snap of his bulldog jaw.

“Howdy,” he growled.

“I’ve got a fortune in diamonds here,” said Moffit, “and I wanted an escort. I’d be responsible if anything happened to them after they got to Centerville. Before that time it’s up to the wholesaler.”

“I see,” said Pry in a tone of voice which indicated that the information was of no interest to him. “Let’s look at the stones.”

They spread them out on the table.

Chief Kelley twisted the cigar in his massive jaw and kept his eyes glued to Paul Pry’s hands.

Paul Pry examined the stones and convinced Mr. Moffit in short order that here was one man who knew diamonds when he saw them.

“These stones aren’t well matched,” said Paul Pry, pushing aside one necklace. “The settings are obsolete on this one. There are flaws in these stones. Hello, here’s something! I didn’t want a bracelet, wonder why they put that in. It’s a nice bit of workmanship, however.”

Moffit cleared his throat.

“They always do that when they’re sending something special down. They include something else they think a customer might be interested in.”

Paul Pry examined the bracelet with greater care.

“A mighty fine piece of work. What’s the price on it?”

“I can let you have that at four thousand. It’s much lower than I’d have to ask you for it if I was carrying it in stock.”

Paul Pry pursed his lips.

“Mr. Moffit,” he said, “I’m going to speak frankly to you. This bracelet is a very artistic piece of work, and is well priced. But your wholesaler hasn’t played fair on the necklaces. He’s unloaded a bunch of junk on you. As an experienced jeweller, you must recognize that fact.”

Moffit reddened.

“To tell the truth, I owe them a lot of money. I guess — well, I guess they figured any buyer for a very expensive necklace out here in the country would be — well, he wouldn’t know diamonds so well.”

He blurted his explanation like a schoolboy caught cheating during examinations.

Paul Pry instantly set him at ease.

“That’s all right, Moffit. It isn’t your fault. I’m going to send these all back. But I’m going to take that bracelet. That’s one bargain they slipped in, thinking they’d have to give the customer a good bargain on something he hadn’t ordered.”

Moffit talked frankly and rapidly now.

“They do that all the time. That’s the handicap the country merchant has to fight. They knew you wanted a necklace, so they sent a bunch of poor ones at fancy prices. But they wanted to tempt you to buy a bracelet into the bargain, so they sent a mighty nice value in one.”

Paul Pry’s eyes gleamed in a frosty smile.

“Well, Moffit. I’ll take the bracelet and we’ll send the others back. But I won’t call the deal off on the necklace. You can telephone your wholesaler that you’re dealing with a man who knows something about diamonds.

“Tell him that the customer simply threw up his hands when he saw the bunch of junk they’d sent down. Your profit on the bracelet will compensate you for your time. You’ve got twenty thousand of my money. Take out four for the bracelet, and leave the rest in your safe.

“Then within a day or two, I’ll give you a chance to let the wholesaler send down a bunch of new necklaces. He’ll be sore at losing a sale, and will conclude he’s got to play square. He should send some good buys with the next bunch.”

Moffit’s face lit into a smile.

“Garfield,” he said, “that’s mighty white of you! I haven’t got your money in my safe. I’m keeping it in the bank. If you want, I’ll refund the sixteen thousand right now.”

Paul Pry shook his head.

“Not at all,” he said, and thrust the bracelet in his pocket. “You can get these necklaces back to the store in time to let the messenger catch the 4.15. But you’ll have to hurry.”

Moffit scooped the necklaces back into the black bag. It was the same black bag that the messenger had carried on the interurban.

“Check these things with me, will you, chief?” asked the jeweller. “I want to make sure the wholesaler can’t slip anything over me — You’ll pardon me, Garfield. It’s not intended as casting any suspicion on you, but I’ve got some valuable stones here, and I want to see that they check out all right.”

Pry laughed.

“Certainly,” he said. “I understand.”

They checked the necklaces against an inventory which Moffit took from his pocket, shook hands hastily, and left the hotel.

Behind them, Paul Pry was left, the legitimate possessor of one bracelet for which he had paid four thousand dollars and which he might sell for approximately three thousand five hundred if a man watched his opportunity. It was, as bracelets went, a very fair buy.

Paul Pry took occasion to tell the porter that he had certainly stirred up some action in railroad circles and that the baggage would most decidedly be forthcoming within the next forty-eight hours.

Then he strolled casually about the streets and took the 5.15 train for the city.

Mugs Magoo called up on the unlisted telephone. “Been trying to get you all afternoon,” he complained.

“Yes?”

“Yes. Why didn’t you answer?”

“Wasn’t here.”

“There’s a special-duty dick down in front who swears you haven’t left the building.”

Paul Pry chuckled.

“Come on over and tell me the news, Mugs.”

“I’m down on the corner at the drugstore. Be right up.”

And he was pounding on the door within three minutes of the time he hung up the telephone. But Paul Pry went through the same elaborate precautions before opening the door.

Big Front Gilvray was a tough baby, and there was no use underestimating the murderous resources of the gangster.

Mugs Magoo poured a stiff drink of whiskey and sighed.

“I’m goin’ to miss this hooch when you’re gone, chief.”

Paul Pry laughed.

“Spoken like a real man, Mugs; no maudlin sentiment, just plain, practical, selfish sincerity.”

Mugs flushed.

“I didn’t mean it that way. But I am goin’ to miss the hooch. I’ll miss you too, but I can get along without you. I can’t get along without the hooch.”

Paul Pry chuckled.

“Under those circumstances, Mugs, I’d better not go.”

“Not a chance,” proclaimed Mugs, gloomily. “I’ve seen ’em come and I’ve seen ’em go. Sometimes a man marked for gang death can beat the racket by getting into a hole and never going out. But you ain’t got the temperament for that sort of game.”

“No,” admitted Paul Pry, “I haven’t. What’s the dope on Gilvray’s scout department?”

Mugs Magoo eyed the empty whiskey glass and bottle.

“Go to it,” invited Paul Pry.

Mugs Magoo poured another drink.

“A blonde baby with innocent manners and a heart that an acetylene torch couldn’t touch. She hangs out at the Green Mill and picks ’em up when they look prosperous. She’s got a knack of turning ’em inside out. Then there’s a bank clerk in the Tenth Street branch of the Producer’s Southern Trust Company. He has access to the statements that are filed by borrowers. When they show enough personal assets for a quick haul he tips off the gang. Then there’s a private fence—”

“Hold on, Mugs,” said Pry, “you’ve given me enough right now. Tell me about the blonde.”

“Name’s Tilly Tanner, puts on a sing and works the tables in between. Nothing crude — smooth stuff. She’s a small trick with great big eyes that get wider and wider the more deviltry she plans. She’s quite a teaser at that, but she’s hooked up with Gilvray pretty tight. I don’t know all the connection.”

“I see,” said Paul Pry. “Is she pretty?”

“Is she pretty? Say, listen, chief, this jane has to get acquainted with a substantial businessman in a night club, turn him inside out for all his business secrets, hand him a song and dance that makes him get sympathetic; and put it all on so strong that when Mr. Businessman gets robbed by a gang that have all his affairs at their fingertips, he never even suspects the jane of a tip-off. Is she pretty? My God, she had to be pretty! And how!

“Chief, you lay off that jane. If you contact her, she’ll make you want to rescue her from sordid surroundings. I know her!”

Paul Pry laughed.

“But you don’t know me, Mugs. Tell me, is there any chance she might recognize me?”

Mugs Magoo shook his head.

“There’s only one or two in the gang that have ever seen you. That’s the reason you’re still buyin’ me whiskey. Otherwise, you’d be pushing daisies.”

Paul Pry hummed a little tune as he arrayed himself in full dress, saw that his monogrammed case was filled with cigarettes, and tested his sword cane to make certain the blade would draw swift and true.

“I’ll let you out the door, Mugs. I want to bar it again. I’d hate to have a gangster waiting here when I returned. Take the bottle with you.”

“How you goin’ to get out, chief?”

“Oh, I’m not. I’ll just spend the evening reading. You might pass that information on to the plain-clothes dick that’s waiting downstairs.”

Mugs Magoo sighed.

“Them white shirt fronts make a wonderful target for a machine gun at night. Be sure and keep your coat buttoned — while you’re readin’.”

And he tucked the whiskey bottle under his arm and left.

Paul Pry barred the door, sought his secret exit, and went directly to the Green Mill.

He didn’t contact Tilly Tanner right at first. But the display of a large roll of bills, lavish expenditures and a certain air of unwilling loneliness eventually brought the blonde girl to his table.

The usual preliminaries were disposed of rapidly and Paul Pry found the deep hazel eyes staring at him in breathless wonder.

“You’re so observing, and you’re such a good judge of character, I’ll bet you’re a fine businessman!”

Paul Pry lounged back in his chair, his face containing the simpering self-satisfaction which is the normal masculine reaction to feminine praise.

“Well now, let’s see, baby, you must be pretty good yourself. How did you know I was a businessman? And how did you know I was such a good judge of character?”

She laughed, a throaty, cooing laugh and thrust her parted, red lips toward his face.

“Easy. I’d bet you anything you’re a successful businessman.”

“Anything?” asked Paul Pry.

“Well — almost anything.”

Paul Pry let his voice grow husky.

“Ten dollars — against a kiss.”

She lowered the lids of her eyes demurely, studied the red fingernails, which clutched the snowy cloth.

“You might try to lose the bet,” she said; and flashed her eyes to his face in a single, dazzling glance.

Paul Pry laughed.

“What a little mind-reader you are! Yes, baby, you’re right. I’m the sole manager and owner of the Jeweller’s Supply Co., Inc. And, baby, what I do to those jewellers and make ’em like it is a caution. Most of my competitors fight for the city trade, and I let ’em have it. I go out in the sticks and get the hick merchants on my books. After I get ’em where they owe me too much to pay all at once then I start throwing the hooks into ’em.

“I send ’em merchandise that’s flawed all to hell, and I stick on a fancy price. They don’t dare to squawk or I’d close ’em out. They have to mark up the price and pass the stuff on to the hicks in the small towns.

“What’s the result? Here I am throwin’ money to the birdies and havin’ a good time while my competitors are down explainin’ to their bankers why they can’t meet their notes.

“Come on, baby, another little drink. I want to see those eyes look at me over the top of a glass again!”

She flashed him another glance, leaned forward, cupped her chin on her interlaced fingers, and let Paul Pry see an expanse of her white throat, eyes that stared in admiration, lips that were parted with a subtle invitation.

“How perfectly wonderful!” she said.

They had another drink, and another.

Tilly Tanner told him of her life, of an invalid mother and a crippled sister, both of whom must be supported. She told him of the characters she met, men who were not “nice men like you”, but men who leered and ogled and offended.

She made of herself a martyr, a martyr who was as pure and undefiled as the freshly fallen snow but, nevertheless, one who must continually be exposed to the sordid side of the world.

Paul Pry murmured his manly sympathy and explained that it was because of her great beauty that she attracted the ever-pursuing male.

She studied the reddened tips of her fingers again.

“Just knowing you has helped,” she said. “It’s been a privilege!”

And, so perfect was the tone of her voice, so helpless the sigh which accompanied the words, that they seemed to ring with sincerity.

She shrugged as though to shake off the mood.

“But I must keep cheerful and smiling. Tell me something — tell me of your business. Do diamonds really cost a lot of money? Do you have to keep a lot of money tied up in stock? And tell me what businessmen mean when they talk of overhead.”

Paul Pry laughed.

“Baby, baby, you’d have me here all night!”

The eyes flashed again.

“Well?” and the tone was low, intimate, inviting.

Paul Pry reached forward as though to take her in his arms, but she drew back, frightened.

“No, no!” she said. Then, after an interval during which the hazel eyes melted into his, “Not here!”

And Paul Pry settled back in his chair.

“Talk to me,” she demanded.

Paul Pry talked in a low, husky voice.

“Sweetheart! I’ll grab you in my arms and tell the whole world to go to hell. I’ll—”

“No, no. Don’t talk like that. Please! I’ve got to sing in a few minutes, and you’ll have my voice all out of control. Talk to me about yourself, about your business! Please!”

Paul Pry sighed.

“Well,” he said, “I’ve told you — Say, you’d get a kick out of a deal I’m pulling tomorrow!”

She leaned forward.

“I’d love it!”

“Well, there’s a guy down at Centerville, fellow by the name of Moffit that’s got a sucker on the list. Moffit is a jeweller there, and he’s got a man that’s going to pay fifty thousand for a necklace. And, will you believe it, I’ve got Moffit so sewed up he don’t even dare to get prices from any other competitor.

“That’s a fact. I sent down a messenger on the 2.10 interurban this afternoon with a bunch of necklaces and a bracelet. The bracelet was a bauble that sold for a lousy six thousand, but I marked it four thousand so the hick customer would fall for the necklaces.

“But I guess the bird knew stones, all right. He took the bracelet and sent back the necklaces. So I’m sending another bunch on the 2.10 tomorrow. I’m going to give him some real buys. Fifty grand in cash isn’t to be sneezed at nowadays.”

The girl had stiffened with the tenseness of a cat crawling out toward a bird’s nest.

“Will you make a profit?” she asked.

“Baby! Will I make a profit? Don’t make me laugh, I got a sore lip!”

Paul Pry’s attitude was that of a slightly intoxicated businessman expanding under the influence of attractive companionship of the opposite sex.

The girl reached forward with a swift hand and patted the back of his hand.

“You’re wonderful!” she said.

“Will I make a profit?” chuckled Paul Pry. “That’s good. God, I wish old Moffit could hear you ask that. He’d strangle. Baby, I’ll make a cool twenty thousand net. Get that? Net to me!”

She nodded. Her finger was tracing little patterns on the tablecloth. Her mouth drooped with abstraction.

“In cash?” she asked.

“Probably not all at once. But it’ll come in.”

“Cash — or cheque?”

“Cheque, of course.”

“Oh.”

There was a trace of disappointment in her tone.

“You might lose the sale,” she ventured after a while.

“Not me, baby. I’m going to send down an assortment of twenty of the choicest necklaces in the place. I’m going to get my own stock and I’m going to pick up some stuff from the big importers on consignment. I tell you, I’m going to sell that hick.”

She got the idea then, and leaned forward, lowering her voice.

“But how about sending them? You’ll send an armed guard, or a truck, or something?”

Paul Pry laughed.

“Not me, sister. That’s the way to invite trouble. No, sister, when I send out stuff it goes by a messenger with a handbag. He looks just like any ordinary traveller. Nobody ever thinks he’d have a million dollars’ worth of sparklers in the bag.

“I’ve sent stuff around for ten years now and never lost so much as a single stone. The whole trade does. Shucks, you can telephone for gems to be sent to your place, and they’ll send out two men and maybe a dick. But if you’re a regular retailer the gem men know you’re on the up and up. A retailer can telephone for any sort of stuff he wants and it’ll come to him either by express or by messenger, depending on where he is and how quick he wants it.”

The forefinger was tracing complicated lines on the tablecloth.

“You’re going to make all this money tomorrow?”

“You bet, baby. I’m sending my man on the 2.10 train. He’ll be back with the unsold gems sometime later. I don’t know just what train he’ll take. He may have some cash with him, so I’ll probably have the local police give him an escort back. But as far as the gems are concerned, they’re insured, and they’ll be handled just like you’d handle a bag full of clothes.”

She watched him with eyes that were so wide and deep they fairly radiated innocence.

“But I’ll bet you have a great big, husky man as a messenger!”

“Wrong again, baby. He’s just a young fellow, tall and thin.”

“You must dress him in inconspicuous clothes.”

“No. He wears just ordinary clothes. He usually wears a red tie, and a blue striped suit.”

“I’ll bet you fool them on the bag. I’ll bet you make it look cheap and battered, so no one would suspect it held a lot of gems.”

Paul Pry twisted his glass.

“Baby, you might have a good idea there, at that. But you’re wrong again. I let him carry a black handbag. It’s studded with brass rivets so it’d be easy to identify if anybody tried to grab it. But, aside from that, it’s just an ordinary bag, and it’s in pretty good shape.”

She frowned, let her eyes drift to her fingertips again. All of a sudden she was on her feet.

“I’ve almost forgot an appointment with the manager over a new song I’m trying out. I must run. Bye-bye.”

And she was gone with a flash of graceful legs, a flutter of flouncing ruffles, and a languishing glance over her bare shoulder.

Paul Pry waited for ten minutes.

At the end of that time a waiter informed him that Miss Tanner had been summoned to the bedside of her mother, who had been taken violently ill. She wished to be excused, and to ask the gentleman to please come back some other evening.

Paul Pry showed the proper amount of concern over the condition of the mother, the proper amount of irritation at having a conquest snatched from him, and, walking rather carefully as though the alcohol had rendered him a little unsure of his footing, left the nightclub.

Paul Pry purchased two bags at a store which specialized in such articles. He left orders that the small black bag was to be studded with brass rivets.

The large, tan bag he took with him.

He purchased a package of fish hooks and some small rivets. When he had finished with the large tan bag it looked perfectly conventional from the outside. But that was as far as conventionality went.

The bottom had been entirely removed, and the interior had been so studded with fish hooks as to make the bag highly effective for a certain purpose, and utterly useless for any other purpose.

When Paul Pry had fixed the bags to suit himself, he telephoned to Moffit at Centerville.

“Moffit, this is Garfield. I’ve been thinking over the necklace, and I’m going to give your wholesaler another chance. I promised you I would, and I’m going to keep that promise, although I’m disgusted with his treatment.

“Get him on the telephone and tell him to have an assortment of first-class stuff sent to you. He’ll have to get it there on the next interurban, though, because I’m going to leave town tonight.

“It’s 1.15, and he can get a messenger on the 2.10 train. I’ll be there when the train gets in and let you know one way or the other within ten minutes after I see the necklaces.”

And Paul Pry shut off the voluble thanks of the jeweller, hung up the telephone, and gave his attention to certain details of transportation, which included an appointment with the pilot of the fastest plane the city could command.

These details were all arranged by two o’clock. At precisely two nine and one half, Paul Pry rushed through the gates at the interurban depot. In his hands were two bags, one a yellow bag that had no bottom, the other a black bag studded with brass studs.

They held the car for him to get aboard. His eyes sought for, and found, a slender figure immersed in the sporting page of the afternoon paper. The car started with a lurch as Paul Pry hesitated, opposite the seat occupied by this man.

The lurch of the car threw Paul Pry off balance.

He lunged to one side, toppled, threw out the hand containing the yellow bag for support. That bag smashed down upon the seat, squarely over the black one already there. His head butted into the chest of the man who was reading the sporting page.

That individual got into action quickly.

He was on his feet in a single swift motion. The afternoon paper was dashed to the floor. The man’s right hand swung to his hip pocket. Then, as he saw a black bag, studded with brass rivets, his right hand hesitated.

“What the devil?” he growled.

“I’m going to sue the railroad company!” bellowed Paul Pry. “You’re a witness. Give me your name and address.”

The slender man retrieved the black bag, held his hand protectingly upon it.

“Aw go sit on a tack,” he invited. “You can’t use these cars as a promenade while they’re goin’. Sit down and shut up.”

The conductor hurried forward, took Paul Pry by the shoulders, and guided him to a vacant seat, sought to soothe his ruffled feelings. It was the conductor himself who fetched the yellow bag from the seat where Paul Pry had collided with the slender man.

And that individual, as though suspicious of further interference, transferred the black, brass-studded bag to the window side of the seat, smoothed out the rumpled newspaper, glowered about him, and returned to the sporting page.

Twenty minutes later the car made its first stop, and Paul Pry walked quietly down the aisle, stepped to the platform and walked to a waiting car. The car whisked him toward a level field where a squat plane awaited, engine already warmed up. The forward cockpit was piled with suitcases, and Paul Pry managed to insinuate himself in between three suitcases, adjusted a helmet and nodded.

The plane seemed to roar into life like a frightened quail. It scuttled down some hundred feet of the field, went into the air on a sharp incline, zipped upward, and within a matter of seconds was but a dot against the blue.

Precisely fourteen minutes later, Paul Pry was transferring his baggage at the Centerville airport from the plane to automobile. Another six minutes and he was at the hotel, the porter glancing at the baggage with a look of admiration on his features.

“By gosh!” he blurted, “I’ll say you’re a wonder when it comes to getting action, Mr. Garfield.”

Paul Pry grinned.

“I shook ’em up. Bring the baggage up to my room.”

And he went to his room, took down the telephone and called Moffit.

“I’m in my room, ready packed, Mr. Moffit. I’m leaving on the 6.20 train. I wish you’d bring the necklaces over as soon as they arrive.”

“I certainly will, Mr. Garfield,” promised Moffit.

Paul Pry cleared his throat.

“Look here, Moffit, there’s another matter I wanted to mention to you. Last night I mentioned to a casual acquaintance — a young lady — that I was arranging to have some stones sent down to you today. I didn’t mention where from or on what train. But she showed a marked interest that was a little too marked.

“I can’t tell you who this young woman was. Frankly, I met her in a picture show and struck up an acquaintance with her. She sat next to me, and — well, I felt from the way she laughed, and the sidelong glances she directed at me, that she wouldn’t object to my speaking to her.

“Now I’ve been worried about that. I’ve heard gangsters sometimes use women as scouts. I wish you’d tell Chief Kelley, and have him arrange to have another officer with him when he meets the interurban. I’m worried.”

Moffit laughed.

“Forget it. The stones are all insured. I’ll take care we have ample protection after we get the gems. Before that, it’s up to the wholesaler and the insurance company. But no one ever thinks of bothering these gem messengers. They move stuff around without ever losing a single stone—”

Paul Pry sighed, and the relief that was contained in that sigh was apparent, even over the telephone.

“I’m so relieved to hear you say so. You don’t think there’s any necessity of putting a guard on the interurban, do you?”

“Heavens no. Forget it, Mr. Garfield!”

“Thank you,” said Paul Pry meekly, and hung up.

The porter arrived with the baggage, and Paul Pry held him in the room for several minutes, getting the baggage placed to his liking, keeping up a running fire of conversation.

It was precisely 3.21 when the interurban which was due to arrive in Centerville at 3.38, slowed to a stop at a little flag station which was really nothing more than a milk-shipping depot.

Two well-dressed men were waiting. It was the first time the motorman could remember picking up a passenger at the station, but the timetable made of this little depot a flag stop, and so he applied the air brakes, and brought the car to a stop.

The two men swung up to the platform. The motorman noticed a touring car with the side curtains up. That car was parked on the dirt road near the depot.

“Car trouble?” asked the motorman, grinning.

“You bet,” said one of the men, and made a swift motion with his right hand.

A slungshot flipped out from his wrist, crushed through the cap of the motorman and thudded against his skull. The motorman lurched against the controls, and thudded to the floor.

A woman screamed.

The conductor, not observing the commotion, rang the “go ahead” bell. A man shouted a hoarse warning. A slender individual who had been reading a newspaper, tugged at something in his hip pocket.

His startled eyes saw a man standing directly before him, a crooked grin twisting his features, a heavy automatic in his right hand.

“When you get it out, buddy,” he said, “drop it on the floor.”

The slender individual hesitated.

“Make it snappy. Drop it on the floor. You ain’t paid to stop lead, and I mean business.”

The second gangster stood at the end of the car.

“Keep your seats, everybody,” he yelled.

The slender young man slowly withdrew a steel weapon and tossed it to the floor.

The man with the automatic kicked the gun under the seats and picked up the black bag, studded with brass rivets.

“Thanks,” he said, laconically. “Let’s go, Steve!”

They went on the run. From behind the side curtains of the automobile the muzzle of a machine gun covered their retreat.

And just before they left the car, they opened the electric control, jerked the brass lever from the control box and flung it away. As the car gathered headway, they dropped to the ground.

The interurban was jolting and swaying as the passengers screamed for help. By the time the conductor had managed to check the speed of the careening car, the milk depot was a mile behind.

The conductor piloted the car to a place where a farmhouse showed telephone wires running to it. He checked the car to a stop and ran toward the house.

The telephone buzzed out the news, spreading the alarm. Central located the chief of police of Centerville, and gave him the message.

Chief Kelley informed Moffit of what had happened.

“Good heavens, then he was right, and we should have arranged for a guard!”

“Information came too late, anyhow,” said Kelley, but his eyes shifted uneasily. “I gotta get busy and throw out a blockade in case they should try to come through town here.”

“They won’t,” said Moffit. “Look here, chief, if the wholesaler thought I’d been tipped off there might be trouble with that shipment.”

“Uh-huh,” grunted Kelley. “The newspapers would make things rather warm for me if they thought I’d been warned and laughed at the warning. That’s the hell of being in this game. If you guess right you don’t get credit. If you guess wrong they pan you from here to Timbuctoo.”

The men exchanged glances.

“Yeah,” said Chief Kelley, “I’ll get a man to take charge of closin’ the road. I’m goin’ up there with you.”

Ten minutes later they marched down the corridor to Paul Pry’s hotel room.

Paul Pry flung open the door.

“Well, well, you were long enough getting here. The interurban must have been in ten minutes ago.”

Chief Kelley kicked the door closed.

“Look here, Garfield, you can help us.”

Paul Pry smiled affably.

“Certainly. What can I do?”

“Forget that you warned us there might be a stick-up of the messenger who was carryin’ those jewels. Forget that you talked to a broad in a picture show. Take your money that Moffit’s got for you, and get out of town.”

Paul Pry let his jaw sag.

“Do you mean to tell me the man was robbed?”

“Grabbed the bag slick as a whistle. Evidently a tipped-off job. They knew what they wanted, who had it, and what was in it. They went and got it.”

“Good Lord!” exclaimed Paul Pry. “Anybody hurt?”

“Just the insurance company,” said Chief Kelley.

“And a greedy wholesaler,” muttered Moffit bitterly. “I hope his loss wasn’t covered.”

“My, my, my! Then that woman—”

Kelley interrupted.

“Forget about that woman,” he said.

“And the gems,” added Moffit.

“And get outta town before the newspaper chaps start coming around,” supplemented Kelley.

“Oh gracious, the newspaper men won’t ask a lot of questions, will they?”

“They will if they catch you here. Get started if you want to avoid a lot of flashlight pictures and all that line of hooey.”

Paul Pry rang for the porter.

“Gentlemen,” he assured them, “I’m on my way.”

“I got your money,” said Moffit. “That’s what took us so long. Sorry I couldn’t make a deal, but I’m satisfied with the bracelet, anyway.”

Paul Pry gravely shook hands.

Out in a suburban house, a house that was really a well-protected fortress, Benjamin Franklin Gilvray, otherwise known as Big Front Gilvray, stared stupidly at “Chopper” Nelson.

“You mean... you mean—”

Nelson opened a black bag studded with brass rivets.

“So help me God, chief, that’s every damned thing that was in it — just that paper.”

“Then the whole thing was a plant just to give us a run-around!”

Chopper Nelson shook his head.

“No. There was more to it than that. The youngster really thought he had a million dollars’ worth of rocks in that bag. I could tell by the way he went for his rod.”

Big Front Gilvray spread the paper on his knee with fingers that shook.

“Dear Goosie,” said the message. “Thanks for another egg.”

“Another egg,” said Gilvray, his voice quivering. “Do you s’pose he—”

The answer to this question was not conveyed to him until two weeks later when he read in the papers that Inspector Oakley had managed to recover all of the diamond necklaces taken from a messenger of the Jewellers’ Supply Co., Inc.

The inspector was congratulated for his efficient work. The article mentioned that he was also richer by a reward of fifteen thousand dollars for the recovery of the stones, posted by the insurance company and the wholesaler.

And Big Front Gilvray, knowing full well that Inspector Oakley was splitting that reward two ways, half to the inspector, half to Paul Pry, paced the floor in such an ecstasy of rage that even the hardened gangsters cowered in the rooms of the suburban fortress and kept out of Gilvray’s way.

B F Gilvray might be a big noise in the underworld. To Paul Pry he was merely a goosie laying golden eggs.