Эрл Гарднер - The Adventures of Paul Pry

Moffit reddened.

“To tell the truth, I owe them a lot of money. I guess — well, I guess they figured any buyer for a very expensive necklace out here in the country would be — well, he wouldn’t know diamonds so well.”

He blurted his explanation like a schoolboy caught cheating during examinations.

Paul Pry instantly set him at ease.

“That’s all right, Moffit. It isn’t your fault. I’m going to send these all back. But I’m going to take that bracelet. That’s one bargain they slipped in, thinking they’d have to give the customer a good bargain on something he hadn’t ordered.”

Moffit talked frankly and rapidly now.

“They do that all the time. That’s the handicap the country merchant has to fight. They knew you wanted a necklace, so they sent a bunch of poor ones at fancy prices. But they wanted to tempt you to buy a bracelet into the bargain, so they sent a mighty nice value in one.”

Paul Pry’s eyes gleamed in a frosty smile.

“Well, Moffit. I’ll take the bracelet and we’ll send the others back. But I won’t call the deal off on the necklace. You can telephone your wholesaler that you’re dealing with a man who knows something about diamonds.

“Tell him that the customer simply threw up his hands when he saw the bunch of junk they’d sent down. Your profit on the bracelet will compensate you for your time. You’ve got twenty thousand of my money. Take out four for the bracelet, and leave the rest in your safe.

“Then within a day or two, I’ll give you a chance to let the wholesaler send down a bunch of new necklaces. He’ll be sore at losing a sale, and will conclude he’s got to play square. He should send some good buys with the next bunch.”

Moffit’s face lit into a smile.

“Garfield,” he said, “that’s mighty white of you! I haven’t got your money in my safe. I’m keeping it in the bank. If you want, I’ll refund the sixteen thousand right now.”

Paul Pry shook his head.

“Not at all,” he said, and thrust the bracelet in his pocket. “You can get these necklaces back to the store in time to let the messenger catch the 4.15. But you’ll have to hurry.”

Moffit scooped the necklaces back into the black bag. It was the same black bag that the messenger had carried on the interurban.

“Check these things with me, will you, chief?” asked the jeweller. “I want to make sure the wholesaler can’t slip anything over me — You’ll pardon me, Garfield. It’s not intended as casting any suspicion on you, but I’ve got some valuable stones here, and I want to see that they check out all right.”

Pry laughed.

“Certainly,” he said. “I understand.”

They checked the necklaces against an inventory which Moffit took from his pocket, shook hands hastily, and left the hotel.

Behind them, Paul Pry was left, the legitimate possessor of one bracelet for which he had paid four thousand dollars and which he might sell for approximately three thousand five hundred if a man watched his opportunity. It was, as bracelets went, a very fair buy.

Paul Pry took occasion to tell the porter that he had certainly stirred up some action in railroad circles and that the baggage would most decidedly be forthcoming within the next forty-eight hours.

Then he strolled casually about the streets and took the 5.15 train for the city.

Mugs Magoo called up on the unlisted telephone. “Been trying to get you all afternoon,” he complained.

“Yes?”

“Yes. Why didn’t you answer?”

“Wasn’t here.”

“There’s a special-duty dick down in front who swears you haven’t left the building.”

Paul Pry chuckled.

“Come on over and tell me the news, Mugs.”

“I’m down on the corner at the drugstore. Be right up.”

And he was pounding on the door within three minutes of the time he hung up the telephone. But Paul Pry went through the same elaborate precautions before opening the door.

Big Front Gilvray was a tough baby, and there was no use underestimating the murderous resources of the gangster.

Mugs Magoo poured a stiff drink of whiskey and sighed.

“I’m goin’ to miss this hooch when you’re gone, chief.”

Paul Pry laughed.

“Spoken like a real man, Mugs; no maudlin sentiment, just plain, practical, selfish sincerity.”

Mugs flushed.

“I didn’t mean it that way. But I am goin’ to miss the hooch. I’ll miss you too, but I can get along without you. I can’t get along without the hooch.”

Paul Pry chuckled.

“Under those circumstances, Mugs, I’d better not go.”

“Not a chance,” proclaimed Mugs, gloomily. “I’ve seen ’em come and I’ve seen ’em go. Sometimes a man marked for gang death can beat the racket by getting into a hole and never going out. But you ain’t got the temperament for that sort of game.”

“No,” admitted Paul Pry, “I haven’t. What’s the dope on Gilvray’s scout department?”

Mugs Magoo eyed the empty whiskey glass and bottle.

“Go to it,” invited Paul Pry.

Mugs Magoo poured another drink.

“A blonde baby with innocent manners and a heart that an acetylene torch couldn’t touch. She hangs out at the Green Mill and picks ’em up when they look prosperous. She’s got a knack of turning ’em inside out. Then there’s a bank clerk in the Tenth Street branch of the Producer’s Southern Trust Company. He has access to the statements that are filed by borrowers. When they show enough personal assets for a quick haul he tips off the gang. Then there’s a private fence—”

“Hold on, Mugs,” said Pry, “you’ve given me enough right now. Tell me about the blonde.”

“Name’s Tilly Tanner, puts on a sing and works the tables in between. Nothing crude — smooth stuff. She’s a small trick with great big eyes that get wider and wider the more deviltry she plans. She’s quite a teaser at that, but she’s hooked up with Gilvray pretty tight. I don’t know all the connection.”

“I see,” said Paul Pry. “Is she pretty?”

“Is she pretty? Say, listen, chief, this jane has to get acquainted with a substantial businessman in a night club, turn him inside out for all his business secrets, hand him a song and dance that makes him get sympathetic; and put it all on so strong that when Mr. Businessman gets robbed by a gang that have all his affairs at their fingertips, he never even suspects the jane of a tip-off. Is she pretty? My God, she had to be pretty! And how!

“Chief, you lay off that jane. If you contact her, she’ll make you want to rescue her from sordid surroundings. I know her!”

Paul Pry laughed.

“But you don’t know me, Mugs. Tell me, is there any chance she might recognize me?”

Mugs Magoo shook his head.

“There’s only one or two in the gang that have ever seen you. That’s the reason you’re still buyin’ me whiskey. Otherwise, you’d be pushing daisies.”

Paul Pry hummed a little tune as he arrayed himself in full dress, saw that his monogrammed case was filled with cigarettes, and tested his sword cane to make certain the blade would draw swift and true.

“I’ll let you out the door, Mugs. I want to bar it again. I’d hate to have a gangster waiting here when I returned. Take the bottle with you.”

“How you goin’ to get out, chief?”

“Oh, I’m not. I’ll just spend the evening reading. You might pass that information on to the plain-clothes dick that’s waiting downstairs.”

Mugs Magoo sighed.

“Them white shirt fronts make a wonderful target for a machine gun at night. Be sure and keep your coat buttoned — while you’re readin’.”

And he tucked the whiskey bottle under his arm and left.

Paul Pry barred the door, sought his secret exit, and went directly to the Green Mill.