Эрл Гарднер - The Adventures of Paul Pry

While Woozy Wiker was propping himself against the edge of the showcase, Paul Pry was engaged in sizing up a man who walked toward him with shuffling gait and shrewd eyes.

Forman was past fifty. His head was thrust forward and down as though the spindling neck had grown tired of holding up the weight of the head. There was something about that long, bowed neck that reminded one of a drooping sunflower stem.

His nose was the dominant feature of his face, a long nose, high in the bridge, expanded in the nostrils. Back of the nose were eyes that studiously held no expression whatever. His skin was dark. The man looked to be of Russian extraction because of his high cheekbones. As a matter of fact, he was part Armenian, but he never disclosed his ancestry to anyone. Exactly where Forman came from was as much of a mystery as the exact source from which he purchased his diamonds. It was rumoured that some of those diamonds had never paid duty.

He shuffled toward Paul Pry, and the expressionless eyes flicked once, and only once, to his face. They dropped almost immediately to the metal box which Paul Pry carried.

Pry leaned forward and lowered his tone.

“I want to arrange for the purchase of a very expensive piece of jewellery, something that will run around fifty thousand dollars. But I want a bargain. I understand you carry some bargains that could be sold — for cash.”

Forman bowed.

“All my sales are for cash,” he said, and his voice was as expressionless as his eyes.

Paul Pry nodded, the nod being a mere gesture of courteous affirmation, carrying no assurance of conviction with it.

“When I said for cash,” he explained, “I meant for gold and currency. No cheques.”

Forman let his eyes drift to the heavy metal box once more. There was almost a trace of expression in those eyes.

“Ah yes,” he purred, “cash.”

“Cash,” repeated Paul Pry.

“I have,” said Forman, and his tone had commenced to take on just the edge of an expression, “something particularly choice in a diamond necklace — for sixty-one thousand dollars.”

Paul Pry pointed to the box.

“I have with me precisely fifty thousand dollars — in cash.”

“Ah yes,” said Forman, “in cash.”

He hesitated for just the right interval of time. When he spoke, his voice had assumed a certain timbre of expression which was definite.

“I might consider making a special price — for cash. Your name?”

“Pry,” said that individual, and extended his hand.

Forman’s hand was lukewarm, padded with a protective coating of flabby fat. It was the sort of hand that could be grasped and squeezed into any shape, like a chunk of moist putty.

“Pleased to meet you,” said Forman. “Come upstairs to my office, and we’ll talk business.”

Paul Pry clasped the box under his arm, followed the jeweller up the stairs. Behind him, Woozy Wiker, from Chicago, was leering at the clerk.

“Don’ want those small diamonds. Wanna large diamond.”

The clerk nodded, sighed. “Wait here just a moment,” he said, and stepped into the back room to consult with the stock man.

Paul Pry sat down in the office, looked about him appraisingly. Forman pressed a bell, gave a clerk instructions in a low voice, opened a box of cigars, passed over a perfecto and let his expressionless eyes drift to the strong box.

“Rather an unusual way of purchasing jewellery,” he said.

Pry smiled.

“Not so bad. I have a strong box in which to bring the cash, and it makes a good wrapping for the jewels when I take them away.”

There was a tapping at the door and the clerk brought in a handsome case, Forman took it, snapped back the lid and disclosed the cold fire of the sparkling diamonds.

Paul Pry allowed his face to register enthusiasm. Forman’s eyes were on that face while his fingers toyed with the diamonds.

“Priced at sixty-one thousand dollars,” said the jeweller.

“Fifty thousand is my limit.”

“You like the piece?”

Paul Pry took it in his hands, studied it carefully.

“The design and workmanship isn’t exactly what I had in mind, but when one is getting a price concession of eleven thousand dollars—” He let his voice trail off into significant silence.

“Yes,” purred Forman, “when one is getting a price concession of eleven thousand dollars—” And he let his own voice trail off into silence.

Paul Pry took a bunch of keys from his pocket, fumbled them in his fingers. The expressionless eyes of Forman’s swarthy countenance clamped upon the strong box in a rigid gaze of masked interest.

Paul Pry scowled. Then he tossed the keys to the polished mahogany of the table and explored his pocket with fingers which grew more and more frantic in their search.

He raised his eyes.

“Must have left it in my other waistcoat.”

“The key?” asked Forman.

“The key,” said Paul Pry.

Forman’s face became utterly wooden in its masked expression.

“Ah, yes,” he said.

“I know,” said Paul Pry, getting to his feet. “You think this is all part of some elaborate skin game. I’ll show you how wrong you are. I’ll get that key and be back inside of twenty minutes. I’ve got an apartment not three blocks away. And you can sit right here and keep the box and the jewels right before you on this table. I’ll open that box and show you whether or not I mean business.”

There was no expression upon the dark face, yet it seemed that the studied lack of expression had melted into a more natural repose of feature.

“Very well,” said Forman.

And Paul Pry, arising from the chair, rushed from the office with rapid strides. He took the stairs two at a time, and walked swiftly through the store.

It was obvious to anyone who had seen him enter that the strong box had been left behind. Woozy Wiker, from Chicago, turned so that his head was lowered over the diamonds. His shoulders were hunched up.

“Gotta see th’ li’l lady ’bout thish,” he said, and scooped up the roll of bills he had thudded to the glass counter. “Ain’t none of thoshe diamon’s big ’nough for li’l lady. Nishest girl inna worl’.”

And he straightened back from the counter, walked to the door with rigid dignity, leaving behind him a flushed and very exasperated clerk.

Once at the door of the store and his manner underwent a sudden change, this Woozy Wiker from Chicago. He became as swiftly efficient as Paul Pry had been. He walked with nervous rapidity upon catlike feet to the alley where a grey Cadillac was parked. In this Cadillac sat three men.

“Ready,” he said.

The car purred into action, swept around the corner of the alley, parked at Forman’s store.

Two men got out on the run, entered the swinging door.

“Where’s Forman?” called one of the men to the clerk who was reassorting the scattered diamonds left by Woozy Wiker in a state of utter confusion.

The clerk jerked his hand toward the back.

“Office,” he said, and went back to his task.

The men had been headed toward the office, and their steps were fast. They had flung the inquiry in a terse sentence at the clerk and had not hesitated for an answer. These things would have been apparent to the clerk, had he but taken the time to consider it. But he was nervous and irritated. A fat commission which had seemed to be fairly within his grasp had lurched from the door in a state of alcoholic indecision, and the clerk’s feelings were exceedingly bitter.

The two took the stairs to the office with springy steps. Their hands were flashing under coats as they gained the top step. By the time they turned and flung open the heavy door, those hands glittered with blue steel.

Forman sat at the table. Pushed to one side was a diamond necklace, ignored. His expressionless eyes were fastened upon a metal box. In such a manner might a snake stare at a mouse which was soon to become a meal. He did not look up as the door opened.