Эрл Гарднер - The Adventures of Paul Pry

“Back already?” he asked.

“Put ’em up!” said one of the men.

Forman looked up then, and his eyes assumed expression for the first time. The dark face twitched. Then panic gripped him. He reached for the metal box.

“No, no!” he shouted.

“Let him have it, Bill,” said one of the men.

One of the blue steel weapons flashed in a swift arc. That arc terminated upon the skull of the swarthy jeweller. There was the peculiar “konk” made by steel upon arched bone, and the grasping hands became limp. The inert figure of Forman settled in the chair, slumped over so the bleeding head rested upon the mahogany table.

The man who had clubbed the gun barrel grabbed the box.

“Lookit the sparklers!” said one of the bandits.

And, as he spoke, he scooped them into his pocket.

They searched the jeweller with swiftly efficient fingers. They made a quick search of the table drawers, and that search netted them three more show pieces of gems and some eight hundred dollars in cash.

Then they started down the stairs.

They were halfway to the door when one of the clerks, noticing the grim efficiency of their swift strides, raised his voice. The men didn’t stop.

“Stop thief!” yelled the clerk, but they were then almost at the door.

One of the men whirled, a blue steel weapon flashed fire. At the roar of the explosion, glass shattered in the showcase behind the clerk. The clerk flung himself down behind the counter. Other clerks did likewise. A woman who had been examining opals screamed and slid to the floor in a faint. Somewhere a bell clanged an imperative alarm. On the sidewalk, passing pedestrians, sensing that something was wrong, stared in wonder. The two men forced their way through the swinging doors, sprinted across the kerb and into the grey Cadillac.

Someone shouted. The Cadillac purred away into traffic. Men ran from the store, waved their arms, yelled wildly. The traffic officer at the corner heard the shouts, raised his hand.

The grey Cadillac paid no attention to his signal. It flashed by with constantly increasing speed. The officer tugged at his weapon, drew it, then recognized the futility of firing in that crowded shopping district thronged with early home-goers. He turned and rushed toward the jewellery store.

At the second corner the Cadillac turned on screaming tyres and tore into the boulevard. Behind it, a low roadster purred smoothly. That roadster had swung out behind the grey car somewhere after the first intersection had been passed.

The men in the Cadillac paid no attention to it. Bulletproof windows tightly closed, grey painted steel enclosing them, they had nothing to fear. If the officers pursued, they had machine guns with which they could mow down the minions of the law.

Woozy Wiker, sitting in the front seat, wrestled with the lock of the strong box with a jemmy. The car was flashing past intersections with swift speed.

One of the men looked behind, said something to the driver. The grey car slowed to a sedate speed and turned into a side street. Two pairs of cruel eyes surveyed the low roadster which purred behind.

The roadster slowed, rounded the corner, slid to the kerb. Two hands reached for the weapons which were kept in the grey Cadillac.

But the man who slid from the roadster seemed interested in some house number. The men in the Cadillac hesitated. Woozy Wiker, from Chicago, gave a final wrench to the lock of the strong box. The Cadillac gathered speed.

The man who had slipped from behind the steering wheel of the roadster made a swift leap toward the machine he had vacated. The Cadillac swung for the corner.

The lid of the strong box came up. There was a faint hissing noise. Someone choked. The driver gasped some comment, strangled mid-sentence, and reached a hand for a window. The two bandits in the rear seat flung toward the windows.

The hissing noise grew in volume.

The car swayed, lurched, wobbled, crashed into a telephone pole, rolled to its side. A fender ripped off. There was the scream of steel upon cement, and then the car swung on its side. The wheels that were free of the pavement continued to revolve.

Men ran from houses and stores. Women screamed. But the first to reach the wreck was Paul Pry.

Four men were in the closed car, four men who were unconscious. On the front seat was a black bag. A metal strong box had been forced open and the impact of the collision with the telephone pole had flung it forward. A police tear-gas bomb was still hissing its deadly stream of poisoned gas into the confines of the car.

Paul Pry held his breath, made a swift grab for the black bag, thrust it under his coat, jumped back.

“The car’s full of gas, keep away!” he yelled at those who came up on the run. “I’ll get an ambulance.”

He whirled and dashed away. No one thought to look at him. Their eyes were fastened on the sprawled bodies within the armoured car. One, more brave than the rest, held his breath, rushed forward and dragged out one of the forms.

The hissing noise ceased. People standing near the car choked and wiped away tears which streamed from their eyes. A strong wind swept away the gas.

Paul Pry climbed into his roadster and drove away.

By the time the police were notified of the strange accident, the men who had been in the car had recovered consciousness and melted into the crowd. The police were very, very busy about that time throwing a cordon about the shopping district so that a grey Cadillac should not escape. When they learned of the accident they came, looked, and came in still larger numbers. The grey Cadillac lay on its side. Beneath its seats was an assortment of lethal weapons, ranging from revolvers to a sub-machine gun.

But the occupants of the car had escaped, and there was no trace of the gems which were missing from Forman’s jewellery store. To be sure, there was a metal box in the car, the lock showing that it had been forced. But there was nothing in that box. A tear-gas bomb, bearing the stamp of the police department, was found in the car. Its presence was not explained.

Forman had recovered consciousness by the time Paul Pry returned to the store, bearing the key to the lock box. The place was filled with excited clerks, and a cordon of police kept out those who had no business.

Forman looked at Paul Pry.

“See my lawyer,” he said, and groaned.

“I have the key to the box. What’s happened?” asked Paul Pry.

“See my lawyer,” said Forman and sopped the wet handkerchief he held in his hand to his forehead.

“But my box!” protested Paul Pry.

“See my lawyer,” said Forman.

Out in a big house in an exclusive residential district Benjamin Franklin Gilvray, known to the underworld as Big Front Gilvray, stared at a man whose face was bruised, whose clothes were torn.

“And that’s all there was in the box?”

“Every damn thing — the tear-gas bomb and the paper in the envelope.”

Big Front Gilvray’s eyes were glittering with rage. His mouth was twitching, and the flabby facial muscles distorted his features as they writhed in an ecstasy of rage. He read again the note in his hand.

Doubtless you are wondering why I don’t pick on someone else. It’s your name, and the crudity of your methods that makes me want to pick on you. When you were christened Benjamin Franklin it was because your proud parents thought you would grow to be like that kindly philosopher. It needs no comment to emphasize your betrayal of their affection and confidence.

And then again, you’re such a nice fat goose to lay golden eggs for me. The rewards I’ve picked up from busting up your crooked schemes are running into a tidy figure. You’re an ideal victim because you’re so slick the police can get nothing on you. That leaves me without competition in plucking the golden eggs from your nest.