Эрл Гарднер - The Adventures of Paul Pry

The glassy eyes, the unshaven countenance, the ragged clothes, the sprawled figure were all typical of the street beggars who plays upon the emotions of the sympathetic passer-by.

So perfectly did he act his part, that no one could notice that the glassy eyes surveyed each face, that the hand twisting and turning the hat, extending it at times in a gesture of invitation, was really giving a series of signals.

Paul Pry, lounging at well-dressed, indolent ease upon the opposite corner, had opportunity to see every signal and to interpret those signals.

For Mugs Magoo never forgot a face, and he knew the characters of the underworld as no other man. Once let him spot a face, and he would instantly remember it even though he saw it the second time after a lapse of ten years, and in another city.

Paul Pry watched the hat which was manipulated by Mugs Magoo’s hand, and knew much of the people who hurried by. He knew that a prosperous-appearing individual was a gambler, that a man who looked like a banker was a stick-up artist, that an innocent-appearing girl was the active end of a badger team.

But these things held no interest for him.

Then, as a thin individual with swiftly nervous steps walked the pavement as lightly as a cat, Mugs Magoo tilted his hat.

Paul Pry gave a flip to his polished walking stick and strolled in the same direction as that taken by the slender individual with the catlike steps.

Mugs Magoo put his pencils in his pocket, cupped the coins in his hand and clamped the hat on his head, then looked about him for a street car. His duties for the day were over.

The man with the restless eyes, the nervous feet and the hatchet profile was Woozy Wiker — from Chicago.

Wiker went into the bank. In his hand was a satchel, and, as he walked, he held to that satchel with a grip that whitened the skin over his knuckles.

He walked to the window over which appeared a gilt sign bearing the message “R to Z.” Paul Pry strolled to the same window, and his manner was excited.

Wiker was at the head of the line, but Paul Pry darted forward with a nervous excitability and insinuated himself in the line of half a dozen people, directly in front of the gangster.

“Parrrdon!” said Paul Pry, speaking with an accent that matched his nervous manner. “I was here. I go away for one minute, one second. You come and take my place.”

“Say-y-y-y!” growled the gangster, his bony jaw thrust forward, his right hand holding the satchel well behind him.

“And I only want to ask a question, for one minute, my friend, one little question, but an important question. The safety of one million dollars depends on that question.”

The hostility faded from the gangster’s eyes.

“Yeah?” he said, and his tone was filled with cautious interest.

Paul nodded with nervous excitability.

“One second it takes, and that is all.”

“Go to it, guy,” said Woozy Wiker, and stood back slightly that Paul Pry might be assured of his place in the line.

Paul Pry was well dressed, but his face had the peculiar hue of a man who has but recently shaved a beard. There was a certain unfamiliarity with his surroundings in his manner which a shrewd observer would have noticed. And Woozy Wiker was a shrewd observer.

The line transacted its business with swift rapidity. These were businessmen who knew exactly what to do. Their checks were properly endorsed. Their deposit slips were written neatly and accurately. The teller was able to scan the figures, mark totals, smile, and reach for the next deposit.

Paul Pry came to the window. Behind him the gangster, holding tightly to his satchel, bent his head slightly forward and to one side, the better to listen.

Paul Pry regarded the face of the teller through the wicketed window, and made a swift gesture with his hands, the gesture of a man of foreign mannerisms.

“Parrdon!” he said.

“Well?” said the teller, noticing that Paul Pry’s hands bore no cheque, no deposit, no currency.

“Forman, the jeweller, is he trustworthy? Can he be trusted with gems that are worth a million, a million and a half? Gems that — that came from Russia?”

The teller regarded Paul Pry with the stare of a man whose mind has been hopelessly crowded with routine and suddenly is confronted by something utterly unusual.

“Forman... Forman... Say, what’s the idea?”

Paul Pry lowered his voice.

“Certain very valuable jewels are to be shown to a customer. He wants them left with Forman for examination. But I must not take chances. This Forman, is he honest?”

The teller glanced swiftly toward the uniformed figure which patrolled the marble-flagged floor in stately impressiveness — the majestic dignity of the law.

“You’re at the wrong window,” he said. Then his eye caught that of the special officer. His hand beckoned.

“But I only ask for the single answer, is he honest or is he not?” insisted Paul Pry.

The special officer moved forward swiftly.

“Why come here?” parried the teller, sparring for time.

“Because he said I should inquire at his bank.”

And the teller laughed.

“Oh,” he said.

At that moment the officer arrived.

“This gentleman,” said the teller, “is a foreigner. He evidently is looking for one of the vice-presidents. Will you take him to Mr. Adams? He has a question to ask. It’s quite all right, Jamison. Just see that he gets in touch with Mr. Adams.”

And Paul Pry, shrugging his shoulders in a quick gesture of nervous excitement, was escorted to the offices at the other end of the bank. The line shuffled forward, and Woozy Wiker, from Chicago, lifted the satchel to the window.

“Please count that and make a deposit,” he said.

The special officer grasped Paul Pry firmly by the arm, and escorted him to the office of Arthur Adams, the first vice-president.

The question which Paul Pry asked of Mr. Adams was not the same question which he had asked the teller at the wicketed window. It was a routine question dealing with the use of certain foreign bonds for a short-time loan, and the question was answered with cold cordiality; the cordiality which a bank exhibits toward a prospective depositer, the coldness which bankers generally reserve for prospective borrowers.

Paul Pry bowed his thanks and left the office.

Woozy Wiker was waiting for him at the entrance.

“Get the information?” he asked.

Paul Pry shrugged his shoulders.

“Information! Bah! They are afraid, these bankers, to answer questions. Understand, I have a mission, a trust. I am to raise one million dollars for the Bolshevik government. I am a special emissary. I mind my own business, and I ask that others mind theirs. I obey the laws of the country in which I am, and I ask that my own be respected.

“Certain very valuable things are to be exhibited to a customer. The customer says that these things are to be left at Forman’s for his inspection. Cannot give a jeweller a million dollars without knowing that he is all right. I must find out. And the bank thinks that I am crazy because I ask. It is a strange country to me, yet I have lived in it as a child.”

Woozy Wiker nodded sympathetically.

“I guess Forman is all right,” he said.

Paul Pry nodded. “That is what the bank says,” he explained volubly. “But before they will say for sure there is so much red tape that I must unwind, just to find out if a man is honest or if he is not honest.”

“What,” asked Wiker, “led you to come to the window where that teller was located — I mean the window R to Z?”

Paul Pry’s eyes were twinkling with cunning.

“Am I a fool?” he said. “Before all the other windows was a big line. I looked them over. I asked the first man I could reach. I knew that he would then direct me to the proper man to answer me. And I thank you for your courtesy, and I must go at once to get some very valuable things to take to this Alexander Forman who is honest. They must be there at four o’clock this afternoon.”