Эрл Гарднер - The Adventures of Paul Pry

“This here is the little woman herself,” said Goldcrest. “And this, my dear, is George Crosby, the gentleman that telegraphed he would be interested in making us a handsome offer on our necklace.”

The woman simpered. Paul Pry bowed low.

“It is indeed a pleasure and an honour, Mrs Goldcrest. One who has the excellent taste to pick up a bit of rare jewellery is to be congratulated. Your loss is doubly unfortunate. Had the necklace been what I suspect it was, your photograph would have been on the front page of the daily papers within forty-eight hours. You would have been hailed as a lady of discernment and refinement. If you had sold, your name would have been mentioned in connection with that of a most prominent and wealthy gem collector.”

The woman sighed, a sigh which rippled up the front of her dress like a miniature earthquake.

“Ain’t that tough,” she demanded. “That’s just the sort of a break I was hoping for.”

Paul Pry nodded.

“Well, something may turn up later. But you must promise me that you won’t say a word about my mission here, or give my name to the newspapers.”

“Sure, sure,” soothed Goldcrest, “we promise.”

But his wife was a little hesitant before she gave her promise.

“Yes, I guess so,” she said. “Only couldn’t we let it get out that you thought the necklace was a work of art and that I was a lady of taste and refinement?”

Paul Pry drew himself up in horror.

“No, no. My chief would dislike it very much if my mission here should be mentioned, now that the necklace is gone.”

“I see,” sighed Mrs Goldcrest.

Paul Pry bowed low, muttered conventional protestations of pleasure, retrieved his hat, stick and coat and withdrew.

As the door slammed, Goldcrest looked at his wife.

“Rodney,” she said in a voice that was filled with determination, “ring up the reporters an’ tell ’em to beat it out here. Tell ’em we got a story for ’em.”

Goldcrest lowered his eyes to the floor.

“We couldn’t very well give ’em the publicity on this gem collector, dearie,” he said.

The “little woman” tapped the floor with the ball of an impatient foot.

“Rodney,” she rasped, “don’t be foolish! Ring up those reporters!”

Paul Pry entered his room at the hotel and gazed at Mugs Magoo, sprawled on a chair, the telephone in his lap.

“Any calls?” asked Paul Pry.

“Nothing but.”

“Newspapers?”

“Yeah. They tried all the old gags. Wanted George Crosby.”

Paul Pry grinned.

“Give them any information?”

“Said you were out, didn’t know when you’d come back.”

“What did they ask?”

“What your business was, where you came from, how old you were, whether you were interested in purchasing the Goldcrest diamonds, whether you had any ideas for recovering the loot, whether it was true you’d put up a reward of twenty-five thousand dollars for the return of the diamonds, and a lot of other stuff I can’t remember.”

“They should be out here pretty quick.”

“They will be. Want me to stick around?”

“No. There’s a bottle of whiskey in that suitcase. Go on back to the apartment and wait until I give you a ring. A man didn’t show up with a desk, did he?”

“Huh, a desk? Say, I thought that was part of the gags the reporters were usin’. Sure. The porter said a desk had been delivered for you.”

“That,” said Paul Pry with a smile, “is different. Let’s have the desk sent up.”

It took precisely twenty minutes to get the desk trundled into the room. Paul Pry supervised the job of placing it to his satisfaction.

“What’s the big idea?” asked Mugs Magoo when the porters had gone.

“Had a cabinet maker working on it all afternoon,” said Paul Pry. “Watch.”

He grasped a corner of the desk, apparently a bit of solid wood, and pulled. The corner hinged upward and disclosed a secret drawer lying invitingly open.

“Good hiding place, eh?”

“Fine,” said Mugs Magoo, “but what’s it all about?”

Paul Pry placed his other hand beneath the desk and pushed. There was the sound of wood sliding on wood, and, before the startled eyes of Mugs Magoo, the secret drawer slid out of sight, and another secret drawer took its place.

“Well I’ll be hanged.”

Paul Pry only laughed. “You’ll probably be waylaid by some reporters as you go out. Send ’em up.”

Mugs Magoo nodded and left.

Five minutes later the reporters began to straggle into the room.

Paul Pry, under the name of George Crosby, secured wide publicity for his mission in town by insisting that the entire matter was a secret, and one that he did not care to discuss. He tried to be close-mouthed, but lost his temper and let certain admissions leak out. He threatened and cursed.

The result was that the morning papers contained the news that a well-known gem collector had his attention called to the Goldcrest diamonds and had been on the point of paying a cool quarter of a million dollars for them when the robbery had taken place.

The paper mentioned that the agent of this collector, one George Crosby, was registered in room 6345 at the Bargemore Hotel, that he was deeply mysterious about his mission to the city, but did not deny that the necklace had been desired by a prominent collector and that he had been commissioned to purchase it.

The same issue of the paper also contained a statement issued by Rodney Goldcrest that a ten thousand dollar reward would be paid for the return of the necklace, and no questions asked.

The police acted upon the assumption that the butler had not been as drunk as he had pretended, that he had had an accomplice, and that the accomplice had taken possession of the necklace.

Paul Pry read the various papers as he breakfasted in his room. A smile of serene satisfaction was on his face.

At ten-thirty his telephone rang. “This Mr. George Crosby?” asked a cautious voice.

“This is Mr. George Crosby,” affirmed Paul Pry.

“You won’t know my name, but I’d like to see you on a business matter.”

“When?”

“Soon as possible.”

“What was the name?”

“Simms, Sidney Simms.”

“Never heard of you.”

“You wouldn’t have, but it’ll be to your advantage to talk with me.”

“Very well,” said Paul Pry, after the manner of one reaching a decision on impulse, “I shall expect you in fifteen minutes.”

“That’s O.K.,” said the other man, and slid the receiver back on its hook.

He was punctilious in his appointment. Fifteen minutes later to the second there sounded a furtive knock at Paul Pry’s door.

Paul Pry flung it open.

“Mr. Simms?”

“Yeah. This is George Crosby, huh? Pleased t’ meetcha.”

And Sidney Simms glided into the room, much after the manner in which a snake glides down a rat hole.

He was tall and slender, this Sidney Simms, and he had great bat ears and bulging eyes. His huge mouth was twisted in a smile, and he wriggled his slender neck about in his collar.

“You had some business with me?” asked Paul Pry.

“Yeah. You’re the chap that’s the expert on gems, huh?”

“Not exactly an expert. I am interested in certain types of stones.”

“Yeah. I know. Well, I’ve got a couple of diamonds I’d like to have you look over.”

“But my dear man,” protested Paul Pry, “I’m not in the business of appraising gems. My judgment might be utterly valueless. I would suggest that you step down to one of the wholesale jewellers.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” hissed Sidney Simms in his peculiar half whisper, “but just take a look at these babies!”

He rolled two diamonds out on the desk.