J. Fletcher - The Black Mask Magazine (Vol. 5, No. 1 — April 1922)

The fact that Nevins had clearly responded to her first signal “Do You Hear Me Calling?” encouraged her to hope that he had understood not only that she was saying it with music but also in titles.

Geiger’s stolen jewels were hidden in that part of the silvered moulding in the parlor, which passed over the picture depicting a mountain scene. And Rita had signaled “Blue Diamonds... Look for the silver lining over the hill, in a little front parlor — Dangerous Blues.” ...

The Creightons with Rita arrived home from the Bronxville party at two o’clock next morning. The phone was ringing as they entered the house. Creighton answered it.

When he joined the two women who were removing their wraps in the sitting room, his face was somewhat flushed and he spoke rather shakily. "Geiger was raided at twenty minutes past ten last night,” he announced. “Four detectives. They got in by ringing his door bell and insisted upon searching his parlor. He figured it was a bluff and let them go to it. They browsed around a bit and then pried away the moulding between the two front windows. Iglano tried to shoot but they flattened him. To make matters worse, Ashley blew in while the search was going on and they nabbed him too!” He turned toward Rita, but his gaze appeared to be concentrated on the tip of his cigarette. “It — it looks damn queer.”

“My God!” exploded Judith. “Where’d you get—?”

“That was the High Chief himself that had me on the phone.” (High Chief was another name for The Mogul. )

Judith became enraged. “And while this raid was going on, where in the hell was James?”

“James,” explained Creighton, “is at headquarters in New York. This raid originated in the police station in Kew Gardens. James knew nothing about it till it was all over.”

Creighton looked up from his cigarette and stared straight at Rita, but though the heart in her threatened to burst, she returned his glance fearlessly. He shrugged his shoulders. “Well... good night ladies...

Early the next morning, Mr. Harry Creighton attended a meeting held in a small rear room of the Bird’s-Eye dance hall. Some ten men were present, including a white-haired gentleman who appeared to be in command. The discussion lasted an hour and was, at times, rather acrimonious. The gist of what transpired is evident from what Creighton said to his wife Judith when he got back to his home again.

“Sergeant Nevins handled the raid,” explained. Creighton. “There was a squeal somewhere, that’s a cinch, but James, at headquarters, hasn’t learned yet where Nevins got his tip. That Nevins, by the way, is a wise bird. He’s keeping his mouth shut.”

“What about Rita?” asked Judith.

“Yost, Harker and Wortz were for conferring upon her the order of the wooden kimono. Wortz doesn’t like her anyhow — she snubs him — and he offered personally to wring her neck. But the High Chief isn’t satisfied she’s the nigger in the woodshed — and damned if I can see how she could have squealed. She didn’t know the gems were in Geiger’s house till after she got there, and she certainly didn’t signal from the place — not while I was conscious.”

“What’s the word?”

“James will keep an eye on Nevins for us. We’ll try to run the mystery down from that end. Meanwhile, Rita is to have an absolutely loose rein. She’s come across with the goods for us several times and she’s to be trusted unqualifiedly. The Mogul figures that if she is against us, the quickest way to find it out, is to give her enough rope to hang herself...”

That evening, Rita, knowing that Detective Nevins was generally at home between the hours of six and seven, telephoned him from a public booth and asked for an interview.

“I’ve been followed all day and some fat boob is watching my house now. Where are you?”

“Times Square.”

“Tell you what. You can make my place in fifteen minutes. Come right away. I’ll go out now and trot my fat friend around town for half an hour or so. That’ll give you a chance to slip in while the house is uncovered.”

Rita was admitted by Sergeant Nevins’ mother, who ushered the girl into the kitchen. “The front parlor is taboo now that they’re watching our home,” explained the old lady.

Nevins returned after some twenty minutes. “I brought him back home with me,” he said. “He’s leaning against a pole across the street. I’ve a notion to punch his jaw.”

“Are you aware,” asked Rita, “that someone on the force is having you shadowed?”

“Some one on the force?” Nevins shook his head, incredulous.

“My gang,” said Rita, affecting pride, “has a man at headquarters who gives us advance dope when we’re goner be bit. Sabe? Ask me not further info. That’s all I’m wise to.”

“James — James — first or last name?”

“Search me.”

“Hm. There are hundreds of Jameses on the cops. Well—,” he tossed off his troubles. With outstretched arms, he pleaded, “Come to me, my musical friend, and let’s forget—”

“I came here on business,” frowned Rita.

Nevins affected humility. “I stand corrected. What business?”

“I know the name and address of a nice little counterfeiter who makes beautiful money, really. Does that interest you?”

“Somewhat.” Nevins drew out a note book. “Name, description, street and number, please.”

“Henry Wortz,” replied Rita, and added a number on Christopher Street. “Printing shop on first floor. On second and top floor, four rooms which should be searched in the event the shop yields no flukey stuff.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. And now, may I ask how you managed that raid last night?”

“My hardest job was to convince the captain of the Kew Gardens police station that I wasn’t loco. The rest was easy. Geiger admitted us when we rang and we went directly upstairs to—”

“Then you had no trouble deciphering my message?”

“Well — not to be unduly boastful — matters like that are in my line. But even so — I’d never heard that song, ‘In a Little Front Parlor,’ before, and the words of the record were not clear. But Mr. Franklin cleared up that for me. So of course, that’s where we went directly — into Geiger’s parlor. We could hardly avoid seeing the hill on the picture and when we looked over the hill we saw the silver lining. Simple.”

Then, after a pause, “But for heaven’s sake Mar — er — Miss Daly — you’re certainly going about this thing in a haphazard way. May I suggest that a trained investigator does not depend upon chance and his wits alone, but always uses some set of signals — signals which are sure to be recognized by another investigator? We may meet again — and there may be no phonograph around.”

Rita was duly humbled. “Won’t you teach—?”

“With pleasure, sweeth — stranger. Now there’s the Morse Code, for instance. That’s a system of communication by means of dots and dashes which are used instead of letters. Your — friends — are undoubtedly acquainted with this code. But there are many ingenious ways of employing it. F’r example: there’s the case of the old lady who sent a message in the Morse Code by embroidering it on the edge of a towel. Is that clear? She used French knots to indicate dots and a long straight stitch to indicate dashes. And the design she embroidered, spelled a sentence! Clever, wasn’t it?”

“I’ll stay awhile,” said Rita. “Mr. Nevins, will you teach me the Morse Code and some of the methods which—?”

“I sure will.”