Эрл Гарднер - Muscle Man

It was not often that Paul Pry gave himself the luxury of dining with “Mugs” Magoo, the one-armed pessimist whom he had raised from the gutter.

For much of Paul Pry’s efficiency depended upon keeping the underworld in the dark as to the source of his information. Mugs Magoo had earned his nickname because of his uncanny ability to remember faces and connections. At one time he had been camera-eye man for the metropolitan police. A political shake-up put him out, accident robbed him of an arm, and whiskey had done the rest.

Paul Pry, genial opportunist, who made his living from his wits, and a very good living at that, had recognized the value of Magoo’s camera eyes and had taken him in. Tonight was one of the rare occasions when they dined together.

But they were not seen.

A private dining room in a restaurant and cabaret which catered to privacy gave them an opportunity to see and hear, but not to be seen or heard. Through the latticed side of their private booth, Mugs Magoo let his glassy eyes wander over the lower floor. From time to time he disclosed choice bits of underworld gossip. The cabaret was one where gangsters came to forget the constant strain of their existence by strutting before admiring satellites. Which was, of course, the main reason Paul Pry had picked the place for his surreptitious dinner party.

It had been three weeks since Paul Pry had turned one of those baffling swift deals by which he preyed upon the underworld. And Paul Pry craved action.

They made a strange pair. Paul Pry debonaire, alert, attired in faultless evening clothes. Mugs Magoo in an unkempt business suit, the right sleeve dangling, empty, his glassy eyes flickering through the interstices of the lattice work, sizing up the diners, commenting upon the dancers.

“Who is the woman, Mugs?”

“What woman?”

“The one you were just looking at.”

“You mean the jane with the mole on her left shoulder, the black hair, and the dress that begins where the table-cloth leaves off?”

“That’s the one. Who is she?”

Mugs Magoo filled his whiskey glass from a pocket flask, tossed off the liquor, smacked his lips, and grinned.

“It ain’t the jane that’s so important. It’s the guy that’s with her. You’d oughta know him, both of ’em. They’re workin’ the same racket that you are.”

Paul Pry’s eyes gleamed with swift attention.

“How do you mean, Mugs?”

“There ain’t one guy in a thousand that knows it, but it’s the God’s truth. They’re shakin’ down the rackets. But they’re doin’ it so slick they never get caught. That is, they always have somebody that gets caught. But it ain’t them.”

Paul Pry pressed his eyes close to the openings and looked down upon the table. The gleaming shoulders of the woman, the glossy black of her tresses, the sweep of her bare back, the lines of her shapely arms, all spoke of beauty and talent.

The man was conventionally garbed in evening clothes. His eyes were furtive but strangely alert. He was slender, wiry, and, when he moved, his motions were made with a nervous quickness which was almost feline.

Paul Pry’s eyes squinted in thought.

“So they always have a fall guy, eh?”

“And how! The fall guy takes the rap, or gets rubbed out, and ‘Slick Sarah’ and ‘Four Flush’ Finney go merrily on their way.”

“And the gangs don’t tumble?”

“They haven’t — yet. The couple are s’posed to be workin’ a badger game of some sort. Sarah used to have an apartment and a telephone. Four Flush Finney used to be the guy that copped the take. Now they’ve graduated.”

Paul Pry pursed his lips.

“She’s looking at her watch, Mugs, saying something to the man. He’s leaving the table, going over there to the corner. Looks as though she might be expecting somebody.”

“Uh-huh. Sometimes they fill in with a badger. Maybe she’s got a fall guy coming.”

Paul Pry continued to watch the girl, watched while a deft waiter set a service for two, watched while the girl looked impatiently at her watch from time to time.

Fifteen minutes passed and a broad-shouldered man lumbered awkwardly to the table where the girl sat.

“Take a look, Mugs. See if you know this chap.”

Mugs blinked his glassy gaze in swift appraisal.

“Never saw him in my life. He’s a hick. Must be grooming him for a badger game. Maybe he’s a fall guy at that, though. Looks kinda goofy.”

Paul Pry grunted, ceased to eat while he watched the drama which unfolded at the table below. The heavy, stolid man was obviously ill at ease; he stared at the girl with his heart in his eyes. The girl, bearing the badge of her calling evident enough to the sophisticated eye, lowered her long lashes demurely as she made the motions of mock modesty, deferring to the judgment of the shambling awkward youth who had “country” stamped all over him.

Paul Pry reached a sudden decision.

“Mugs,” he said, “I’m going to be a fall guy.”

Mugs paused with a fork halfway to his mouth.

“You’re gonna be a what?”

“A fall guy.”

Mugs Magoo sighed.

“Listen, guy, you’ve done some dangerous things in your time, and I ain’t sayin’ but what you’ve got away with ’em by the Grace of God and a fool’s luck. But you tie into that combination of Slick Sarah and Four Flush Finney, and you have a tombstone parked on your chest and roses growing all around the edges.”

Paul Pry chuckled. He got up from the table and walked swiftly to the telephone. He called a well-known private detective agency which sometimes did work for him, and had an operative rushed to the private dining room.

Despite the remonstrances of Mugs Magoo, Paul Pry went ahead with his plans.

“I want to find out everything there is to know concerning the man who is sitting there at the table,” Paul Pry said pointing out the dining couple. “Never mind the woman. I want to plant someone who can get the confidence of the man. It shouldn’t be hard to do.”

The private detective peered through the lattice work, watched the motions of the broad-shouldered man for a few minutes, then chuckled.

“You’re sure right about that,” he said. “It won’t be hard to do.”

The report of the detective showed that Louie Cramm was very typical of a certain class. He had been born and raised in Sommerville, had saved some two thousand dollars and had come to the city “to make his fortune.”

The family were respected, middle-class citizens of the country town. Louie was the oldest boy. He had one brother and one sister. The father had died. The mother was taking in housework until Louie’s earnings should place the family upon an easier financial footing.

There was a cousin, Charles LeMare, who was reputed to have amassed some little money. He resided in Chicago and had drifted out of touch with the family.

The boy talked rapidly to the detective, who had managed to secure a room at the boarding house where Louie Cramm resided. The detective made a complete report, replete with details. Paul Pry studied that report, and chuckled. He went to a clothing house and purchased a cheap ready-made suit. He donned this, took a taxicab, a suitcase and an umbrella, and was driven to the boarding house where Louie Cramm lived.

Louie Cramm came to him in the parlor.

“You the man that wanted to see me?” he asked.

Paul Pry extended a cordial hand. “You’re Louie Cramm?”