Эрл Гарднер - The Adventures of Paul Pry

And Paul Pry hung up the telephone.

Mugs Magoo poured himself a drink, looked longingly at the bottle, and returned it to the sideboard. With the stately dignity which comes only to those who are carrying their liquor as gentlemen should, he stalked toward the door.

“Going, Mugs?”

“Yep. You’re pulling another fast one, and I don’t want to be in on it. Remember that stuff about the seeds of destruction? Well, you’ve got ’em, right in here.”

And Mugs Magoo tapped his forehead with a significant forefinger, picked up his hat, opened the door, slammed it and walked firmly down the corridor.

Paul Pry regarded him with a grin, then turned to the closet. From it he took a miscellaneous assortment of old clothes and shoes, and stored them in another closet. Then he took some walnuts and placed them on the floor of the closet. He crumpled a newspaper, tossed it in. Next he liberated the two rats in the closet and closed the door.

Ten minutes later the police arrived.

Paul Pry met them at the door on tiptoe, his eyes wide and startled.

“He’s in there,” he said, and pointed.

The sergeant led his men into the room. As Mugs Magoo had predicted, they were armed to the teeth and carried a basket of tear-gas bombs.

“Who is it?” whispered the officer.

“I don’t know. I came in and heard him in there. He doesn’t know I’m here. He’s waiting — listen.”

And Paul Pry, freezing into an attitude of tense attention, held the others in rigid silence. A second passed, two seconds, ten seconds. One of the officers stirred.

Then from the closet came the sound of something moving, a rattle that terminated in a rustle.

Paul Pry looked triumphantly at the sergeant.

“One of Gilvray’s gang,” whispered the sergeant to his men. “This baby tangled with him and they’re for putting him on the spot. Get out on the side where he can’t shoot at you through the door. Take a tear-gas bomb and hold it ready. All set?”

The men moved cautiously. Guns were trained on the closet. Some of the men took tear bombs and held them ready, and Paul Pry was one of these. He held a bomb in each hand, apparently badly shaken up, but ready to do battle.

The noise in the closet grew in volume.

“All ready?” asked the sergeant in a louder voice.

“All ready, sergeant,” said one of the men.

“Hey, you in the closet!” bellowed the sergeant.

There was no answer. The rattlings and rustlings died away.

The sergeant motioned significantly to his men.

“Come on out,” he bellowed. “This is the law. You’re under arrest for breakin’ in here, and we got you covered with riot guns.”

There was no answer.

“Come out or we’ll shoot through the door!” yelled the sergeant.

Still no answer. The men looked at one another, perplexed.

“He’s in there all right,” said the sergeant in a conversational voice.

One of the men flattened himself against the wall and stretched forth a long arm.

“Shoot when I open the door, unless he gets his hands up,” he whispered.

The men tensed, the knob turned, and the door swung open.

A big rat glided out into the apartment, surveyed the threatening faces with shiny black eyes, twitched his whiskers in alarm and scuttled back into the shadows.

“Hell!” said the sergeant.

Somebody laughed. Paul Pry sank into a chair.

“Oh my Lord!” he said, and went limp.

“Release from the strain,” explained the sergeant to his men. “Don’t blame him for having the jumps. Gilvray’s got him marked for a date with the undertaker. Give him a shot of that whiskey on the sideboard. Guess I’d better have one myself, come to think of it.”

The sergeant reached for the whiskey as he talked, poured a drink for himself, then one for Paul Pry. After Paul Pry had drained the glass the sergeant had another for himself and set the bottle back on the sideboard.

The men looked at each other. One of them approached the bottle. Then the others gathered about the sideboard.

“Feel better?” asked the sergeant.

Paul Pry straightened up, nodded.

“My gosh, what a scare. I was certain it was someone in that closet waiting for me; and you know I’ve had trouble with some gangsters.”

The sergeant nodded.

“I know,” he said.

Paul Pry smiled wanly, produced a box of excellent cigars. The men helped themselves, cracked a few jokes, and trooped from the room.

Paul Pry listened to their steps shuffling in the corridor, and smiled. He reached in his hip pocket and produced a round metallic object.

The smile became a chuckle.

A big sign stretched vertically along the front of the imposing store. That sign spelled the magic word “F-O-R-M-A-N-’S.”

At night the letters were lit one by one until the whole word flashed its message. Then a glittering diamond appeared both above and below the sign. Then all was dark for two seconds, at the end of which time the whole sign blinked on and off three times, then returned to its spelling of the word, a letter at a time.

Forman was proud of that sign. He was proud of all sorts of display which featured his name.

Back of the sign, the windows of the store were arranged after Forman’s own idea. Always in the centre of the display window was a field of black velvet. In the middle of this velvet reposed some expensive article of jewellery with a price tag that was utterly prohibitive.

But in the foreground, between it and the casual observer, was always some attractive bargain, a large flawed diamond, some flashy article of jewellery which would appeal to the cheaper trade. Against this article of jewellery was a price card bearing a figure that was crossed out in red ink. Below had been written another figure which, in turn, was crossed out with black ink. Below that figure was a pencilled figure which was always less than half the original price written at the top of the card.

Each price card had a printed slogan at the top.

Whenever an article was considered a special bargain a cardboard silhouette of a red hand with a pointing finger and the words, “LESS THAN HALF” stamped upon it in white ink was placed so it pointed at the article. These articles were always placed in the foreground of the window. Back of them came the black velvet, and back of this black velvet were grouped trays of gems.

Forman did a big business and prided himself upon his knowledge of both diamonds and human nature. He traded in both to equal advantage.

The hour was four o’clock in the afternoon.

Paul Pry emerged from a taxicab directly in front of Forman’s, looked up and down the street. Under his arm he carried a locked box that was almost a portable safe. Paul Pry paid the taxi driver, walked swiftly into the store.

Three seconds later a man, walking with the rigid dignity of one who is endeavouring to conceal a bad case of alcoholic inebriety, stepped slowly to the show window, walked inside the store. Woozy Wiker, of Chicago, was strutting his stuff.

A clerk approached Paul Pry and was waved aside. Paul Pry’s business was with none other than Forman himself. A clerk approached Woozy Wiker, and was fixed with a glassy eye that seemed to have difficulty in focusing.

“Gonna get married,” enunciated Woozy Wiker, pronouncing each word as though it required a special effort. “Wanna get ring for shweetes’ lil’ girl inna world.”

And his hand, fumbling in an inside pocket, produced a roll of bills which thudded upon the plate glass of the counter with a solid sound. The outer bill was so rolled as to disclose the figures in the corner, a one followed by three ciphers.

“Don’ care what it costs,” said Woozy Wiker.