The Casebook of Sidney Zoom

I

Sidney Zoom stood in the main cabin of his palatial yacht, scissors in one hand, paste in the other. On the table before him was a photograph.

The picture was of a thin man with eyes that seemed almost white. The cheeks were hollow, the mouth a mere razor-thin line of wire lips. A synthetic smile, twitching the comers of that mouth, yet failed to soften it. The picture gave forth an aura of cold cruelty. But the forehead showed keen intellectuality.

Back of Sidney Zoom, her eyes wide with interest, her shapely figure poised gracefully, Vera Thurmond, the newly employed secretary, gazed at the photograph.

“Another one for your rogues’ gallery?”

Zoom nodded, a terse nod that was but a single bob of the head.

“Who is he?”

“Albert Pratt, a banker.”

“Why put him in the rogues’ gallery?”

“For a variety of reasons. The principal one is the Citizens’ Rediscount Company.”

“And that is?”

“A little subterfuge by which Albert Pratt gets usurious interest. He turns down loans at his bank whenever he thinks the applicant is in desperate need of funds, but mentions that the Citizen’s Rediscount Company might be interested in the loan, at a high rate of interest, of course.

“And there are other reasons. Of late he made an unwise investment in some mining stock. But he didn’t have to stand the loss. Certain inexperienced depositors were tipped off that the stock was a good buy. They came to Pratt for advice. Pratt shrugged his shoulders, opened his safe and showed them that he had invested his own money in the company.

“The poor depositor invariably closed with the broker, and the broker supplied the stock, not from the capital stock of the company, but from a reissue of Pratt’s holdings.”

The girl’s eyes were dark with emotion.

“You’re sure of these things?”

Sidney Zoom turned to her, and his fierce, hawklike eyes fairly bored into her soul.

“Sure? Of course, I’m sure! I’ve heard the story from a dozen different men, from a dozen different angles. What do you think I do when I walk the streets of the city at night, prowling into the free parks, chatting with those in the bread lines? It is my hobby, finding those who are making their money through legalized fraud. I have here a list of half a dozen men who have lost money through their dealings with this man Pratt.”

She sighed.

“And you intend to do something? You’ll get a lawyer to handle the cases?”

Sidney Zoom laughed — a harsh, metallic laugh.

“Law! Lawyers! Bah! This man is above the law. The law is crude at best, a mere composite of rules passed by legislatures that are usually incompetent. A smart man can find thousands of legalized frauds which can be perpetrated. And this man, Pratt, is smart. He keeps within the law.”

There was silence for a moment.

The two figures in the cabin were each occupied with thoughts that could not be well clothed in words. Outside, the water of the bay lap-lapped against the smooth sides of the craft. Occasionally there was a gentle bump when the trim boat rubbed against the side of the float to which it was moored.

Sidney Zoom opened a little cabinet. There appeared a sheet of cardboard. Upon this sheet were pasted some half dozen photographs. These were men who made a habit of fleecing the unfortunate, who knew the game of legalized crime and waxed fat from their knowledge. Sly criminals who yet were not criminals, but slipped furtively through loopholes in the law, dodged from statute to statute, and emerged smugly complacent with ill-got gains, stared forth from this sheet of cardboard, photographed, numbered, indexed.

Such was the record kept by Sidney Zoom, that strange individual who rebelled against the vast machine of civilization and scoffed at the thousands of laws which sought to curb crime and safeguard property rights.

A scratching against a panel of the outer door caused the girl to turn the knob.

A tawny police dog, heavy of shoulder, yellow of eye, came into the room. A dignified wag of the tip of his tail by way of greeting, and the dog crouched down on the floor, tense as a coiled spring.

“What’s the matter, Rip?” asked Sidney Zoom, over his shoulder.

The dog gave a single thump of his tail, then lowered his muzzle to his paws, cocked his ears forward.

“He thinks you’re going out.”

“I am.”

“Soon?”

“Yes.”

“You want me to remain here?”

“No. Go to your apartment. I’ll telephone if I have anything for you to do.”

“Did you intend to call upon Mr. Pratt?”

“No. It would do no good. He prides himself on being able to find a legal excuse for everything he wants to do. He’s smart. A word of warning would be wasted.”

“You intend to make him pay over some of his ill-got gains?”

Sidney Zoom whirled and faced her.

Tall, well muscled, though slender, there was about him something of the untamed tension of the crouching police dog.

“Yes!” he snapped, and the word was full of menace.

“Some day you’ll get into serious trouble with your ideas of justice,” she said.

He shrugged his shoulders.

“At any rate, my method is better than the courts. They have so many laws they stumble blindly through a maze of procedure, lose sight of the primary purpose of all courts — to do justice. However, there’s no use going into that now. I’m going out. Come, Rip.”

And Sidney Zoom, whirling an arm, slammed the door of the cabinet, picked up a hat and coat, flung open the door. The dog at his heels, he ascended the companionway, pounded across the deck and leaped to the float.

Behind him the girl, her eyes suddenly tender, looked at the little cabinet, then at the door.

“He’s like that,” she murmured to herself. “Whenever I get at all personal he runs away. Heavens, I’m not going to bite the man.”

Then she laughed, but there was a throaty catch in the laugh.

II

Sidney Zoom had dinner at an exclusive club, placed his dog on leash, and strolled through the lighted shopping district. But his keen eyes did not so much as glance at the window displays. He looked at faces, darting his hawk’s gaze into the features of passing pedestrians.

How much he saw, only Sidney Zoom knew, but it was said of him that a single, swift glance could tell him all about the character of any person, man or woman.

For more than an hour he walked, the dog tugging at the leash, attracting attention. Then they swung from the shopping district, picked up Zoom’s expensive sedan and cruised about the city. By ten o’clock Sidney Zoom parked his car near the entrance to one of the city parks, and resumed his walk.

This time his feet crunched over smooth gravel, and there were few pedestrians. For the most part, the occupants of the park were clustered in shadow; couples, sitting on benches. Occasionally the soft murmur of a subdued voice was heard, but this was exceptional. The park was shrouded in silence.

The dog flung his nose to the wind, caught the odor of every one he passed. It has been said that a dog can smell emotion. Certain it is that he can smell fear, and he can smell rage. There is more reason to suppose that a dog can smell the other emotions than to presume that he cannot. But a dog’s keen nose can smell one thing remarkably well, and that is the odor of burned powder in the barrel of a revolver.

Hence, when the dog suddenly stopped, flung himself around find strained at the leash, Sidney Zoom turned his eyes to the figure at which the dog’s nose pointed.

A single dejected figure sprawled on the bench, head supported on a crooked arm, one leg crossed over the other.

The dog barked once, a short, imperative bark.

Sidney Zoom moved forward.

“Pardon me, my friend, but you have a loaded revolver in that coat pocket.”

The man gave a single convulsive leap and was on his feet, his eyes wide with panic.

“A holdup man, perhaps?” The voice of Sidney Zoom was kindly.

The man shook his head, would have run, but a throaty growl from the dog stopped him.

“I wouldn’t try to escape. You see, my dog’s been trained for police work. And he can detect the odor of a fouled barrel on a gun. I would say the gun had been discharged and not well cleaned. Of course, you know it’s a crime to carry one of those weapons.”

The man tried to say something, failed.

Sidney Zoom placed a firm hand on the elbow.

“Come with me.”

“Am... am... I arrested? Good God, not that! I meant no harm to any one except myself—”

Sidney Zoom shook his head. “Come,” he repeated.

When he had placed his unwilling guest in the sedan and started the motor the man broke into swift speech.

“Say, what are you doing? Are you an officer or not? You’ve got no right to—”

Sidney Zoom turned cold eyes upon him.

“You want me to call an officer?”

“No, no!”

“Why did you have the gun?”

“I can’t tell. It’s none of your damned business.”

Sidney Zoom nodded, the nod of one who merely confirms an earlier opinion.

“People don’t often confide in me,” he said, and swung the car in to the curb.

“You’ll stay here with the gentleman, Rip,” he said to the dog, and slipped the leash.

The dog half bared his fangs and growled.

Sidney Zoom telephoned his secretary.

“Come to the yacht at once,” he said, hung up the telephone, returned to the car.

The drive was completed in sullen silence.

“I might use that gun on you, you know!” rasped the captive, as Sidney Zoom escorted him across the float to the deck of the yacht.

It was the dog that made answer. Something in the man’s tone carried to the canine’s brain an understanding of the threat. He growled and bared his fangs again.

“Come,” said Sidney Zoom, and led the way to the cabin.

Vera Thurmond had preceded them. Her eyes were dark with emotion, her lips half parted.

“Another?” she asked.

“Another,” intoned Sidney Zoom. Then he turned to the man.

“You’ll talk with her. People never talk with me.”

And he strode to a connecting door, walked into an adjoining room, and slammed the door shut.

The man turned to the girl.

“If I’m not out of here in ten seconds,” he snapped, “somebody’s going to get hurt. I can shoot that damned dog before he can get to me.”

But his only answer was a smile from the girl, a smile of tender understanding.

She crossed to him.

“Sit down,” she said. “A few weeks ago I was like you. I, too, thought life too stern to tackle. I tried to end it. He saved me.”

And she inclined her head toward the closed door.

“I don’t want to be saved. I know what I’m doing.”

She motioned toward a chair.

“It’s his hobby — righting wrongs. He calls himself a Doctor of Despait, a Collector of Lost Souls; and he makes things come right.”

“Bah! I don’t want charity.”

“It isn’t charity. He’s a fighter, and he teaches others to stand up and fight. Suppose you tell me?”

The man dropped in the chair. The girl drew up a stool, looked at him and smiled.

“You’re married?” she asked.

The man’s jaw clamped.

“Yes.”

“I wonder if your wife — knows—”

That remark crashed down the barriers of sullen antagonism. He averted his head that she might not see the swift rush of tears that filmed his eyes.

“Clara,” he said, and the name was breathed with the reverence of one who prays, “and Effie! They’ll know afterward, but it’s the only way. You see there’s a life insurance policy for two thousand dollars, and it’s good, even in the event of suicide.”

She nodded.

“And you’d break their hearts for two thousand dollars?”

“It isn’t that. They’ve got to have the money, and — and I’m no good. We had some money laid aside for a rainy day. That’s gone. I... well, I had some money that was a trust fund. That’s gone.

“They persuaded me to borrow money and then they wiped me out. I was a boob. Clara didn’t know. She must never know — until afterward.”

“Two thousand would save them?”

“Yes. It would pay off the trust fund and leave a little. Clara can work. She’s done it before, but there mustn’t be any disgrace.”

The girl was on her feet.

“You coward!” she blazed. “We help poor, unfortunate souls here. But you’re just a boob. I don’t believe you even love your wife. You’re selfish. You haven’t got nerve enough to face the situation. That’s all. You don’t care how much you hurt—”

The door of the adjoining room flung open, and Sidney Zoom strode into the room.

“Shut up, Vera. You don’t understand. You see things only from a woman’s viewpoint. This is one case I can handle better.” He turned to the man, whose face was now the color of a boiled beet. “You see, there’s a secret telephone between these cabins. I heard every word you said. Will two thousand dollars square you and take you out of your difficulties?”

The red face nodded.

“Very well. I’ll get you two thousand dollars. But I’ll expect a certain service in return.”

“I don’t want charity.”

“You won’t get it. I want you to do something risky. You won’t be committing any crime. You won’t be in danger of jail. But you’ll have to do exactly as I say.”

III

“What do you want me to do?”

“There’s a private banker here who owns the entire interest in a bank; it’s one of the few private banking institutions in the city. He’s been defrauding people who couldn’t afford to be defrauded. I want to make a little collection. Will you help?”

The man tugged a nickel plated revolver from his side pocket.

“Would I need that?”

Sidney Zoom reached out a hand, took the weapon, walked to the open port hole, tossed it into the outer darkness. There sounded a sudden splash.

“No,” he said, with a half smile twisting the grim mouth, “you won’t need that”

“What do I do?”

Sidney Zoom spun the combination of a wall safe.

“Your name?”

“Robert Dundley.”

Sidney Zoom abstracted a packet of letters. They were frayed, dog-eared envelopes, addressed to Miss Myrtle Ramsay, and the street number was that of a cheap theater. The packet was tied with a pink ribbon.

Sidney Zoom gazed at it with eyes that had softened.

“One of life’s little tragedies,” he said. “Miss Ramsay was a chorus girl in a burlesque. She died leaving a little girl, penniless. The public administrator auctioned off the personal property — a few clothes, a cheap suitcase, and these letters. I bought the letters.”

There was silence in the room for a few moments.

“Why did you buy them?” asked Vera Thurmond.

Sidney Zoom shrugged his shoulders.

“A human document. People pay fabulous prices for old manuscripts of fiction. Here is a manuscript of fact. One George Stapleton was in love with Miss Ramsay. His letters are filled with expressions of affection for her and uncomplimentary references to his wife. Yes, Stapleton was married. It’s an interesting subject for speculation, whether the chorus girl saved the letters because she intended to use them for blackmail, or whether because she loved Stapleton.”

Vera Thurmond leaned forward.

“Did Mr. Stapleton bid for the letters when they were sold by the administrator?”

“Stapleton was dead. He shot himself the day after Miss Ramsay died.”

There was a silence for a few minutes.

Sidney Zoom handed the packet of letters to Robert Dundley.

“To-morrow morning at precisely ten minutes past eleven you will go to the Pratt State Bank and ask for Mr. Albert Pratt. You will then give him this package of letters. He will give you ten thousand dollars in cash. You will keep three thousand dollars for your trouble. The remaining seven thousand you will distribute to these people in the amounts set opposite their names.”

Sidney Zoom tore a list from a page of his notebook.

“It happens that those persons are ones who have been defrauded of various small amounts by Albert Pratt. You will refrain, however, from mentioning the reason the money is paid, or the source of that money. Simply hand to each one of those people the amount indicated.”

The man’s mouth sagged.

“But — what — how—”

“You will pay no attention to details. You have my assurance that you are not violating the law in any way. And you will agree that it is better to secure three thousand dollars for your wife in this manner than to have the insurance company pay her two thousand.”

He took the packet of letters. Tears blinded his eyes. He held forth a groping hand, then suddenly stiffened.

“If this is another fake—” he began.

Sidney Zoom’s face suddenly became hard as flint. His hawklike eyes stared into the other’s face with an expression of such untamed ferocity as to make the other recoil.

“You will do exactly as I said,” snapped Sidney Zoom, “and you will receive the exact amount indicated. You will answer no questions and you will ask none. You will state that you have a packet of letters to be delivered upon receipt of ten thousand dollars. Beyond that you know nothing. And now I will take you to your home.”

Sidney Zoom, locking a firm hand upon the other’s arm, escorted him to the float, marched him to the sedan, drove him to a taxicab stand. There he handed a driver a ten-dollar bill.

“Take this gentleman home — wherever it is,” he said, and turned with no word of farewell.

Back at the boat he found Vera Thurmond regarding him with questioning eyes.

“Do you know what you are doing in this case?” she asked.

“I always know exactly what I am doing.”

“You’re dealing with a shrewd banker, one who knows the law. Are you certain you won’t slip up upon some technicality and be guilty of crime?”

His voice remained cold, formal.

“I, too, know the law. I have specialized in legalized fraud. The law — bah! What a crude system it is! Every year they pass thousands on thousands of new laws, and still the system is deficient. The very number of laws, the very complexity of our civilization makes it easy for one who knows his way about to perpetrate frauds that are perfectly legal.”

She sighed. “Do you know, I know very little about your real activities. You have never allowed me to really share in your life.”

“This time you will have the chance,” he assured her. “You have had some stage experience. Can you make-up like a loud-mouthed burlesque actress who is an expert on blackmail? Can you play the part of a flashy woman to whom profanity comes naturally?”

She laughed lightly.

“I would love to — if it would help you!”

But Sidney Zoom seemed to notice neither the softness of the tone nor the gleam of her eyes. He had whirled to his cabinet, where he kept his disguises. His fingers were busy checking over clothes and equipment.

“Take the sedan to your apartment,” he said gruffly. “I’ll sleep on the boat. Be back here at nine o’clock in the morning, and have some loud clothes. Better invest in some cheap perfume, too.”

“But,” she protested, “chorus girls aren’t all like that.”

“The one you’re going to take the part of is,” he assured her. “And, good night.”

She paused, opened her mouth as though to speak, then clamped it shut.

“Good night!” she said, and whirled on her heel.

At the door she paused again. But Sidney Zoom was apparently entirely lost to his surroundings. His long, artistic fingers were busily engaged with the disguises, and his touch contained a delicacy of handling that was almost a caress.

Swiftly the girl took two steps back into the room, stooped, pulled the dog’s shaggy head to her cheek, then opened the door.

“Good night,” she called again.

But Sidney Zoom apparently failed to hear the words. He was adjusting a false mustache to his upper lip, trying on a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles, contemplating the result in the mirror.

IV

Albert Pratt rested his bony knuckles upon the mahogany desk and frowned.

“You insisted upon seeing me personally, Mr. Stapleton?”

Sidney Zoom, so perfectly disguised that his personality seemed to have entirely melted into another individual, nodded a cringing assent.

“I’m sorry to disturb you. It’s most important.”

And there was in his appearance just the right touch of servility to match the part he was to play. To all appearances he was a man about town who liked to pose as a lion under the white lights, who expanded his chest and boomed a welcome to prosperity, but who cringed when luck ceased to smile, whined when he was hurt.

His hair was parted in the middle, slicked down almost to his cheek bones with some oily preparation which emanated a sickly sweet odor. His eyes blinked behind a pair of massive spectacles, obviously chosen to give him an appearance of owlish wisdom. His upper lip sported a trick mustache which looked like an elongated smudge. His tie was loud, flashy; his clothes, though well tailored, were cut in the style affected by extreme youth.

Albert Pratt was familiar with the type. Ordinarily there was no money to be made from them. He cast his pale eyes over the figure in haughty disapproval.

“If it’s a loan,” he said in his most icy manner, “you’ll have to make an application—”

He broke off as his visitor reached a well manicured hand toward an inner pocket and began pulling out money. The money was in crisp, new bills; the denominations were five hundred dollars each, and the stack which began to grow on the mahogany desk indicated that there was a small fortune in immediate cash being placed before the greedy pale eyes of Albert Pratt.

“There is a man bringing in some letters,” whined Zoom in his disguise of George Stapleton. “You see, he wouldn’t take any chances with them. He insisted that he’d deliver them to you in person and you could deliver him the money.”

“Ah, yes,” purred Albert Pratt. “Letters, letters, eh?”

“Yes. Letters.”

“Ah, yes, yes, indeed, letters. Oh, yes. And you’re to pay how much for them?”

“Ten thousand dollars.”

Albert Pratt extended his bony hands. The avaricious fingers curled about the sheaf of currency.

“Five, ten, fifteen, twenty— Why, there’s an even fifty thousand dollars here, Mr. Stapleton!”

The man leaned forward, lowered his voice.

“I know it. The man who has those letters doesn’t know how absolutely vital they are. My wife is ready to sue me for divorce, and I have over a million and a half involved. And this girl is threatening a suit for breach of promise, and she could collect a hundred thousand at the least.

“I’ve made a very advantageous bargain over the telephone. The letters are to be returned to me for ten thousand dollars. But, if anything should go wrong, I’ve simply got to have those letters. That’s why I want to leave the extra forty thousand. Then, if there’s any hitch, I can instruct you over the telephone to go higher and you’ll have the money available.”

Albert Pratt lowered calculating lids over his pale eyes. His tongue licked his wire-thin lips.

“Ah, yes,” he murmured, and his tone showed keen mental concentration.

“I’ll make a deposit of the money. Then I’ll leave you a check payable to cash for ten thousand dollars. If there should be any hitch I’ll send down another check for the balance, or so much of it as may be necessary.”

Pratt nodded.

“But how about the letters? Shouldn’t you identify them in some way before I pay over the check?”

Stapleton shook his head.

“Myrtle Ramsay is a hard baby to deal with when she’s sore, but she’s square as a cornerstone. When she says she’ll deliver those letters, she’ll deliver ’em. And she won’t jump the price, either, but — well, if anything should go wrong, I’d like to have the money right here where we can deal with it.”

“Those letters are worth more than ten thousand, eh?”

“I’ll say so. I’m willing to give fifty if necessary, and I guess I’d give a hundred if I had to.”

Pratt nodded.

“And the — er — collector, wouldn’t do business at your bank, eh?”

“No. He insisted upon the deal being made through this private bank.”

“I take it Miss Ramsay will not make the collection in person?”

“No. It’ll probably be Robert Dundley who makes the deal.”

Albert Pratt placed the tips of his fingers together.

“It’s really blackmail. You know, we could have a detective in here, and save that money—”

Stapleton shuddered, placed his hands before his face.

“No, no! Good heavens, no! Nothing like that! That would mean publicity. I can’t stand publicity.”

“Where can I reach you, Mr. Stapleton — just in case things shouldn’t go right?”

The visitor handed over a card with a telephone number.

“I’ll be waiting right there at that telephone. I can get over here in three minutes from the time you ring me, if it’s necessary.”

Albert Pratt sighed, the sigh of perfect contentment which comes to a cat that has just found a pitcher of rich cream.

“I think it can be attended to. It’s rather irregular, Mr. Stapleton, but we’ll handle it — for a consideration, of course. Come this way, and we’ll open an account and you can give me your check.”

The details disposed of, George Stapleton extended a flabby hand.

“You won’t forget the telephone number?” he inquired, anxiously.

“Most certainly not,” assured Albert Pratt, the pale-eyed banker, and there was a wealth of sincerity in his booming tone for the first time during the interview. Stapleton nodded.

“I didn’t think you would,” he muttered cryptically, bowed, and walked rapidly through the front door of the bank.

The clock on the wall showed exactly ten minutes to eleven.

Albert Pratt walked back into his private office, chuckling to himself, rubbing his bony hands together.

“Forget the telephone number, indeed!” muttered Albert Pratt to himself, then banged the private door which closed him in his palatially furnished office.

V

The clock shifted to ten minutes past eleven.

Robert Dundley entered the bank, his face pale, his mouth taut with determination. In his hand was a package of letters tied with a pink ribbon. From the package there came the faint odor of perfume.

“Mr. Pratt?” he asked of a clerk.

“Right this way,” soothed the deferential clerk, and led the way to Albert Pratt’s private office.

“I’ve got some letters to be delivered. I get ten thousand dollars for ’em,” said Dundley, using the toneless voice of one who recites a well rehearsed speech.

“Let me see them.”

Pratt extended his greedy hands, scrutinized the letters, the addresses, looked at the postmarks, cancelled stamps, stretched his razor-edged mouth into a smile.

“Ah, yes,” he said, summoned a clerk.

“Cash this check and get the gentleman ten thousand dollars,” he said.

The clerk brought in the money, handed it to Dundley.

That individual tried to count it, but nervousness made his hands tremble until they refused to function.

“I guess it’s right,” he said, thrust the money into his coat pocket, arose from the chair, made a short bow and dived for the door.

Ten thousand dollars! It had not all been some dream then; the words of the mysterious yachtsman had been true. He was to get three thousand, and the balance was to be distributed as instructed. But three thousand went for himself, his wife and daughter.

As the realization gripped him, he sprinted for the outer door.

Behind him, Mr. Albert Pratt sucked his lips into his mouth as he gave a dry chuckle. Then he proceeded to untie the pink ribbon and read the letters.

They were warm letters, letters that would make a jury lean forward on chair edges. They were the sort of letters that sound damning in a court room, look foolish in print, only seem natural when tied with scented pink ribbon.

Carefully, giving close attention to contents, Albert Pratt picked out two of the most lurid of the letters and dropped them into a desk drawer. Those two letters contained, in essence, all that the rest of the packet contained.

Then Mr. Pratt retied the package with the scented pink ribbon and reached for the telephone.

“Ah, Mr. Stapleton,” he purred, when the connection had been made. “It gives me pleasure to report that your little matter has been entirely closed in accordance with your instructions, and I didn’t have to go above the ten thousand dollars, either.”

“I’ll be there in three minutes!” yelled Mr. George Stapleton, his voice a crescendo of joy, and slammed up the telephone.

In fact, he beat his estimated time by thirty seconds.

Puffing, breathless, his face beaming, eyes blinking rapidly behind his owlish glasses, he reached for the letters, clasped them in eager hands.

Albert Pratt watched him with cold, pale eyes.

Stapleton untied the ribbon, glanced through the letters, nodded eagerly.

“Yes, yes — these are the ones. What a fool I was to write them! But... Good God! No!... It can’t be... Why...”

Albert Pratt leaned forward, suave, courteous.

“Something wrong?” he inquired with just the right trace of impersonal concern.

“Two... two letters missing,” stuttered George Stapleton.

The banker tilted back in his swivel chair, nodded gently as though his judgment had been confirmed in a matter that was of no moment to him.

“I thought you might find something like that. You’ll remember I suggested the letters should be identified in some way before I handed over the money. But you were positive that this Miss Ramsay would be a square shooter! ‘As square as a cornerstone’ was the expression you used, I believe.”

Stapleton sighed, then flung his head forward on his arms.

“Good heavens! What will that mean? Those two letters are as damning as the other eight.”

Pratt nodded.

“Probably more so. When you start dealing with blackmailers, you must be on your guard.”

“What shall I do? What shall I do? What shall I do?” asked Stapleton, his voice rising to a note that was almost hysterical.

Albert Pratt sighed.

“Return to your office. You’ll probably hear from the blackmailers soon. It will cost you money. But you can rest assured that’s all it will cost you. You’re too good a thing to lose. They’ll shake you down for another thousand or two. Probably they’ll let you off for a thousand dollars a letter.”

Stapleton got to his feet in a daze.

“I’d pay fifty thousand if I had to,” he muttered. “I still have forty thousand on deposit here, and I can get more.”

“Tut, tut,” warned Mr. Pratt, “you’re talking foolishness. If they gave you the letters for ten thousand and only held out two, it’s likely they’ll fix an outside price of an additional three thousand dollars. You’re all wrought up. Go back to your office. I have your telephone number. If anything happens I’ll let you know. A Mr. Dundley brought in the letters. I believe you said it was Mr. Dundley who would bring them. Perhaps he was the one who took out the two letters?” Pratt’s tone was politely inquiring.

“No,” said Stapleton, reluctantly. “It must have been Myrtle herself. Dundley hasn’t sense enough.”

“You can’t ever tell,” said Pratt.

Stapleton shook his head.

“No. It was Myrtle. I’ll get her on the telephone if I can.”

The banker’s shake of the head was more crisply positive than any gesture he had made.

“I’m quite sure it was Dundley. I can read character, and that young man had something he was concealing. You should have followed my advice and left me a list of the letters. As it is, return to your office. I’ll telephone if I hear anything. Be sure you don’t leave your telephone for a moment. This is important.”

“Of course,” promised Stapleton, and went out, the packet of letters clutched in a moist palm.

VI

Albert Pratt watched him go with that peculiar synthetic smile twisting the comers of his lips yet not changing for a moment the calculating expression of the pale eyes.

Ten minutes later he clapped on his hat and left the building.

He took a cab for half a mile, walked into a public pay station, called the number which Stapleton had given him.

“Hello,” he said, when he heard Stapleton’s answer, and disguising his own voice as much as possible. “You know who this is?”

“No,” said Stapleton’s anxious voice. “Who is it?”

“Never mind who. It’s a man who has two letters of yours, addressed to Miss Myrtle Ramsay, all in your writing, signed by you. Those letters are for sale.”

“Who are you?” yelled Stapleton.

“Never mind. Do you want to buy the letters?”

“I’ll give two thousand for them,” said Stapleton.

A hollow laugh was his answer.

“Come again. Just because Myrtle’s a fool is no sign I am. Those letters will cost you forty thousand dollars — cash!”

“No, no!” groaned Stapleton.

“All right. I’ll offer them to your wife’s lawyer then. I could get more money from him, anyway. I was just being a good sport and letting you off easy.”

There was a period of tense silence. The wire vibrated and buzzed. At length it transmitted a sigh which came from the Stapleton end of the line.

“How would I get the letters?”

“Same way you got the others. They were left at some bank, weren’t they?”

“Yes.”

“What bank was it?”

“As though you didn’t know!”

“No, I don’t know. I’m an independent operator who horned in on the deal. You’ll have to tell me the name of the bank. I’m willing to take a chance on you shooting square. You did this morning with Myrtle. You should this afternoon with me.”

“It’s the Pratt Bank, and you’ll ask for Mr. Albert Pratt,” said Stapleton.

“Wait a minute,” muttered Pratt. “I’ll have to write that down. Pratt Bank, eh? How do you spell it?... P-R-A-T-T, eh? All right, I’ve got it. I’ll take the letters over. This guy Pratt honest?”

“Yes,” answered Stapleton, “If I’d taken his advice I wouldn’t have been in this pickle. He’s protecting my interests, but you can trust him to do what he says he will.”

“All right,” grinned Pratt. “When will you get over there?”

“I’ve got a conference with my wife’s lawyer in ten minutes. It’ll be two thirty before I can make it. But you be sure and take the letters over there right away. I’ll get down just as soon as I can.”

“All right. Forty thousand bucks, cash, and no funny stuff!” warned Pratt, and hung up the telephone.

Then he called the bank of which he was the head, talked with the girl at the telephone desk.

“Listen, Sadie, a fellow’s going to call up for me right away. Don’t tell him I’m out. Tell him I’m busy talking on the other telephone, but that you’ll have me call as soon as I’m at liberty. Get that? G’-by.”

And Albert Pratt sprinted from the booth, climbed in a cab and made time back to his bank.

The telephone girl greeted him with a wise smile.

“That fellow called you twice. I told him you were still talking. Want him?”

“Yeah. That’s a good kid. You rate a box of candy on that, Sadie.”

Whereupon Albert Pratt passed into his private office, picked up the telephone and heard Stapleton’s voice.

“I’ve been trying to get you for ten minutes, but you were talking.”

“Yes, a very important call from a stockbroker. You’ve heard something from your people?”

“Yes. They’ve stuck me for forty thousand dollars!”

“What? You’re crazy!”

“No, no. This chap who called knew his business. He threatened to take the letters to my wife’s attorney, and I couldn’t have that. It would have nicked me for half a million.”

“I see,” remarked Albert Pratt. “Well, of course, you know your own business best. Personally, I’d have told ’em to go to the devil. But you’re fully decided to pay the forty thousand dollars?”

“Yes, yes! Now this fellow’s going to bring the letters in to you and leave ’em with you. I can’t get down right away. He’s a new party, some one I don’t know. I don’t even know how he got the letters; but I’m playing a little foxy with him. He’s going to leave them with you. I told him he could trust you. Now I want you to be sure they are the missing two letters. Look at the handwriting and everything, will you?”

“Certainly, Mr. Stapleton, but you’ll understand I’ll have to protect the interests of both parties. Much as I despise all forms of blackmail, if this chap leaves any letters with me to be held until you pay forty thousand dollars, I’ll have to demand the forty thousand before I turn them over. You appreciate my position in that, don’t you?”

“Of course. Hang it, man, I want to pay forty thousand for those letters. When I get them I’ll be the most relieved man in the world. Don’t worry about that, but get the letters.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Pratt with a cold smile. “I’ll keep you advised.” And he hung up the telephone.

“Going to lunch,” he informed the chief clerk.

Mr. Albert Pratt treated himself to a very good lunch, and returned to the bank at one o’clock. Ten minutes later he called Mr. George Stapleton on the telephone.

“The chap has just left those letters,” he said. “And they’re the letters all right. I tried to beat him down a few thousand, but he wouldn’t come down a penny. He seemed a mighty tough customer, and I guess you did the wise thing. I’m holding them until you can check out the forty thousand; and then he’s left positive, but confidential, instructions as to what I’m to do with the forty thousand.”

“I’ll be there inside of half an hour!” yelled Stapleton. “I’m sorry you even tried to beat him down. Almost anything might have happened, and I must have those letters, simply must have them. My wife’s attorney would wring the last cent out of me if he even knew of them.”

And Sidney Zoom hung up the telephone, nodded to the girl who waited at his side.

“Go down and strut your stuff, Miss Thurmond. You look great. Now see if you can act the part.”

And Vera Thurmond, attired in the garb of a flashy burlesque actress, one of the type who stops at nothing, nodded eagerly and made for the door.

VII

Albert Pratt looked up as the brass doorknob turned.

The mahogany door of his private office swung inward, and there came to his nostrils the assault of cheap perfume copiously applied.

“This is a private office!” rasped Albert Pratt.

“Go sit on a tack!” retorted the short-skirted female who strode into the office, slammed the door behind her, and dropped into a chair.

One leg crossed over the other, disclosing the top of a meshwork stocking, a liberal expanse of bare flesh. The reddened lips were fairly dripping paint. The cheeks were crimson, and the eyes flashed. The heaving bosom could be seen beneath the filmy waist.

“What a hell of a guy you turned out to be,” she snorted.

Albert Pratt reached a bony finger for a button.

“Don’t do that,” snorted the woman. “Wait till you hear the stuff I gotta spill and you won’t let your finger get within a million miles of that button. Press it an’ you’re goin’ to jail!”

Albert Pratt hesitated.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Myrtle Ramsay!”

The banker’s face paled slightly. He stiffened in his seat.

“And you want?”

“Those two letters you snitched on me this morning.”

Albert Pratt pressed the tips of his fingers firmly together. His lips clamped into a line of grim determination.

“Those two letters were taken by some person whom I do not know. They have been placed with me in an escrow for the payment of money.”

The girl elevated one knee as she scraped a match across the sole of her foot, applied the flame to a cigarette which was placed between her vivid lips.

“Horse radish!” she said. “Bob Dundley brought in the whole ten letters. He’ll swear to it and I’ll swear to it. I was outside waiting in the car. I seen him come in, an’ I seen him come out. Don’t think Mrs. Ramsay raised no foolish children by the name of Myrtle who would trust any Bob Dundley with ten thousand berries of her money.”

Pratt shook his head.

“There’s a mistake somewhere.”

“You’re damn tootin’ there’s a mistake. You made it when you lifted those two letters. They call that by an ugly name down at the district attorney’s office. You fork over those two letters an’ be damned speedy about it, too.”

Pratt shook his head, not quite so emphatically as he had before, but, nevertheless, in a strong negative.

“No. They are held in trust.”

The woman blew out a cloud of smoke, reached for the telephone.

“All right. I’ll just call your bluff, you bat-eared, white-eyed bum. I’ll just call up Papa Stapleton and tell him not to worry, that I’ll swear the letters are forgeries if anybody tries to use ’em. If you’re holding ’em for some one else, you just turn ’em back to that bozo, an’ tell him he’s goin’ to be arrested for blackmail if he even tries to use those letters.

“Old Stapleton was a luke-warm daddy, but he used me square when he decorated the mahogany with the ten grand. That’s the price I made, an’ that’s the price I stick to. I’m a woman of my word. Maybe I could have got more with a breach of promise suit, but juries don’t figure much heart balm for a poor jane that has to work the chorus of a burlesque—”

And the woman lifted the receiver from the hook.

Albert Pratt’s hand crushed down upon the hook, stopped the connection. There were beads of perspiration on his forehead.

“Listen,” he soothed. “You want money. Here’s your chance. Take five thousand dollars and walk out of town for an afternoon.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Applesauce. It’s worth twice that. Gimme the telephone, or have I gotta call a cop?”

“All right,” hastily agreed the agonized banker, with a swift glance at the clock, “I’ll give you the ten thousand. But get out of here and lay low.”

She got to her feet, nodded.

“It’s a rotten trick, but a workin’ girl has gotta take the breaks as she gets ’em. Fork over the ten grand.”

It took exactly one minute and thirty-eight seconds for Albert Pratt to produce the money and bow his unwelcome visitor to the door.

There followed an interval of fifteen minutes, and then Sidney Zoom, still disguised as the fictitious Mr. George Stapleton, entered the bank.

Albert Pratt welcomed him with a cordial handshake, ushered him into the inner office, produced a check made out to “cash” in the sum of forty thousand dollars, flipped the two letters from his desk drawer.

“Just sign there, and I’ll turn over the letters,” he said. “After all, I guess you were right. These letters are pretty purple. They’d wreck you if they ever got out.”

George Stapleton beamed at him.

“Would you believe it? I made a settlement with the wife. Her attorney relented just after you telephoned. I settled with her for forty thousand dollars. And that means I don’t care a hoot about the letters.”

VIII

Albert Pratt clutched the edge of the desk.

“But Myrtle Ramsay! How about her breach of promise suit?”

“Nonsense!” said his visitor. “Myrde Ramsay is a gold digger, but she’s square as a cornerstone. When she sets her price she’ll abide by it. She said ten thousand dollars, and she got the ten thousand dollars. Congratulate me, Pratt. I feel like a new man. Hang it, you don’t seem pleased!”

And Stapleton extended his hand, a frown of puzzled perplexity on his features.

Albert Pratt took a deep breath, extended a moist, limp lump of flesh.

“But the letters, those damning, purple, passionate, foolish letters! What’ll I do with them?”

“They’re left with you as an escrow holder?”

“Yes, for forty thousand. Of course, the man might take less, perhaps twenty thousand, possibly even fifteen.”

Stapleton gave a glad laugh.

“Forget it. Hand him back the letters on a silver platter. Tell him to frame ’em and hang ’em in the city hall if he wants to. What the devil do I care. I’ve made a settlement with the wife. I gave her a check on my account here. That deans it up. We’re all quits.”

Albert Pratt’s trained mind, skilled in chicanery, suddenly clicked the parts of the puzzle into a perfect picture. He lunged forward. His clutching fingers caught the horn-rimmed glasses, jerked them off. His other hand clutched the trick mustache, tore it loose from the upper lip.

“Framed!” he yelled. “Defrauded. I can have you arrested for criminal conspiracy. You’re not George Stapleton at all, and that woman was a confederate!”

And Sidney Zoom, straightened to his full height, letting his cold hawk-like eyes bore into the pale orbs of the banker, nodded.

“I didn’t care much for this disguise, anyway,” he said, “but I had to look the part of a sucker.”

And his hands, going to his head, slipped off the oily, perfumed wig he wore.

“My name is Zoom! Sidney Zoom, at your service. A specialist in legalized fraud, a subject, by the way, to which I understand you have devoted much of your life, Mr. Pratt.”

The banker stared at him with eyes that were as palely inexpressive as twin clam shells fished from a chowder.

“Specialist in what?”

“Legalized frauds, those little chicaneries by which a man can take advantage of his fellow mortal, yet be well within the law.”

“Legalized fiddlesticks! If I can’t convict you of criminal conspiracy in this case I’ll go out of the banking business.”

Sidney Zoom perched his tall frame upon a corner of the’ desk, reached for a cigarette. His eyes were now as hard as those of a swooping hawk.

“Yes? Well, think again. You’ll have to admit the theft of two letters before you can make out any case. And that will convict you of larceny to start with. In the second place, there was no wrongful act on my part. I merely deposited money with which to redeem certain letters that were being delivered by a confederate. In other words I was merely buying letters from myself.

“You were the one that committed the crime, and you were the one that did the conspiring. You paid the young lady ten thousand dollars to keep quiet about your theft of the letters. Try that on your thinking apparatus and see if you can get the answer without turning to the back of the book.”

And get the answer Albert Pratt undoubtedly did, for his mouth sagged open. He swallowed painfully a couple of times, then raised his eyes to confront the rigid forefinger of Sidney Zoom, jabbing into his necktie.

“And this is just a warning. As I mentioned, I specialize in legalized fraud. I know a hundred ways by which I can take money from you, yet never violate the letter of the law. I specialize in lost souls, and you’ve contributed your share. You with your damned rediscount company and your bum stocks. Sit still! Move and I’ll alter your features so the directors won’t know you when you try to preside at the next meeting!

“I’ve had my eye on you for some time. This little visit is long overdue. I’m taking ten thousand dollars as a warning. That money is being given, three thousand to a deserving applicant, seven thousand toward making partial restitution to some of the fellows you’ve charged illegal interest, wiped out their little savings with bum stock deals. You’ve got a chance to turn over a new leaf right now. If you don’t, I shall call again. And the next time your fine will be twenty thousand dollars!”

Albert Pratt rubbed a bony forefinger around the inside of his collar. Then he laughed, a hollow, mirthless laugh.

“Well, if you’re counting on getting any of the ten thousand dollars from the woman who got it from me, you’ve got another guess coming. I happen to know something of her type of woman. She may be a confederate, but she’ll skip out with the ten grand.”

Sidney Zoom thrust his face close to that of the banker.

“That young woman,” he snapped, “is just like I told you — as square as a cornerstone. Think that over, and. keep this to remember me by.”

And Sidney Zoom swung his open hand from the vicinity of his hip, hard, forward.

The open palm struck the banker’s cheek with such force that it sounded like the crack of a miniature pistol.

Albert Pratt staggered back, got to his feet, his pale eyes flabby with fear.

“I shall call an officer!” he threatened.

Sidney Zoom laughed in his face.

“Call out the reserves, you cheap crook,” he said, and then slammed the door, leaving the private banker alone with his thoughts and his smarting face; leaving him with the knowledge that he had no redress, either civil or criminal. He had been outsmarted by a past master in the art of legalized fraud.