Эрл Гарднер - The Adventures of Paul Pry

He didn’t contact Tilly Tanner right at first. But the display of a large roll of bills, lavish expenditures and a certain air of unwilling loneliness eventually brought the blonde girl to his table.

The usual preliminaries were disposed of rapidly and Paul Pry found the deep hazel eyes staring at him in breathless wonder.

“You’re so observing, and you’re such a good judge of character, I’ll bet you’re a fine businessman!”

Paul Pry lounged back in his chair, his face containing the simpering self-satisfaction which is the normal masculine reaction to feminine praise.

“Well now, let’s see, baby, you must be pretty good yourself. How did you know I was a businessman? And how did you know I was such a good judge of character?”

She laughed, a throaty, cooing laugh and thrust her parted, red lips toward his face.

“Easy. I’d bet you anything you’re a successful businessman.”

“Anything?” asked Paul Pry.

“Well — almost anything.”

Paul Pry let his voice grow husky.

“Ten dollars — against a kiss.”

She lowered the lids of her eyes demurely, studied the red fingernails, which clutched the snowy cloth.

“You might try to lose the bet,” she said; and flashed her eyes to his face in a single, dazzling glance.

Paul Pry laughed.

“What a little mind-reader you are! Yes, baby, you’re right. I’m the sole manager and owner of the Jeweller’s Supply Co., Inc. And, baby, what I do to those jewellers and make ’em like it is a caution. Most of my competitors fight for the city trade, and I let ’em have it. I go out in the sticks and get the hick merchants on my books. After I get ’em where they owe me too much to pay all at once then I start throwing the hooks into ’em.

“I send ’em merchandise that’s flawed all to hell, and I stick on a fancy price. They don’t dare to squawk or I’d close ’em out. They have to mark up the price and pass the stuff on to the hicks in the small towns.

“What’s the result? Here I am throwin’ money to the birdies and havin’ a good time while my competitors are down explainin’ to their bankers why they can’t meet their notes.

“Come on, baby, another little drink. I want to see those eyes look at me over the top of a glass again!”

She flashed him another glance, leaned forward, cupped her chin on her interlaced fingers, and let Paul Pry see an expanse of her white throat, eyes that stared in admiration, lips that were parted with a subtle invitation.

“How perfectly wonderful!” she said.

They had another drink, and another.

Tilly Tanner told him of her life, of an invalid mother and a crippled sister, both of whom must be supported. She told him of the characters she met, men who were not “nice men like you”, but men who leered and ogled and offended.

She made of herself a martyr, a martyr who was as pure and undefiled as the freshly fallen snow but, nevertheless, one who must continually be exposed to the sordid side of the world.

Paul Pry murmured his manly sympathy and explained that it was because of her great beauty that she attracted the ever-pursuing male.

She studied the reddened tips of her fingers again.

“Just knowing you has helped,” she said. “It’s been a privilege!”

And, so perfect was the tone of her voice, so helpless the sigh which accompanied the words, that they seemed to ring with sincerity.

She shrugged as though to shake off the mood.

“But I must keep cheerful and smiling. Tell me something — tell me of your business. Do diamonds really cost a lot of money? Do you have to keep a lot of money tied up in stock? And tell me what businessmen mean when they talk of overhead.”

Paul Pry laughed.

“Baby, baby, you’d have me here all night!”

The eyes flashed again.

“Well?” and the tone was low, intimate, inviting.

Paul Pry reached forward as though to take her in his arms, but she drew back, frightened.

“No, no!” she said. Then, after an interval during which the hazel eyes melted into his, “Not here!”

And Paul Pry settled back in his chair.

“Talk to me,” she demanded.

Paul Pry talked in a low, husky voice.

“Sweetheart! I’ll grab you in my arms and tell the whole world to go to hell. I’ll—”

“No, no. Don’t talk like that. Please! I’ve got to sing in a few minutes, and you’ll have my voice all out of control. Talk to me about yourself, about your business! Please!”

Paul Pry sighed.

“Well,” he said, “I’ve told you — Say, you’d get a kick out of a deal I’m pulling tomorrow!”

She leaned forward.

“I’d love it!”

“Well, there’s a guy down at Centerville, fellow by the name of Moffit that’s got a sucker on the list. Moffit is a jeweller there, and he’s got a man that’s going to pay fifty thousand for a necklace. And, will you believe it, I’ve got Moffit so sewed up he don’t even dare to get prices from any other competitor.

“That’s a fact. I sent down a messenger on the 2.10 interurban this afternoon with a bunch of necklaces and a bracelet. The bracelet was a bauble that sold for a lousy six thousand, but I marked it four thousand so the hick customer would fall for the necklaces.

“But I guess the bird knew stones, all right. He took the bracelet and sent back the necklaces. So I’m sending another bunch on the 2.10 tomorrow. I’m going to give him some real buys. Fifty grand in cash isn’t to be sneezed at nowadays.”

The girl had stiffened with the tenseness of a cat crawling out toward a bird’s nest.

“Will you make a profit?” she asked.

“Baby! Will I make a profit? Don’t make me laugh, I got a sore lip!”

Paul Pry’s attitude was that of a slightly intoxicated businessman expanding under the influence of attractive companionship of the opposite sex.

The girl reached forward with a swift hand and patted the back of his hand.

“You’re wonderful!” she said.

“Will I make a profit?” chuckled Paul Pry. “That’s good. God, I wish old Moffit could hear you ask that. He’d strangle. Baby, I’ll make a cool twenty thousand net. Get that? Net to me!”

She nodded. Her finger was tracing little patterns on the tablecloth. Her mouth drooped with abstraction.

“In cash?” she asked.

“Probably not all at once. But it’ll come in.”

“Cash — or cheque?”

“Cheque, of course.”

“Oh.”

There was a trace of disappointment in her tone.

“You might lose the sale,” she ventured after a while.

“Not me, baby. I’m going to send down an assortment of twenty of the choicest necklaces in the place. I’m going to get my own stock and I’m going to pick up some stuff from the big importers on consignment. I tell you, I’m going to sell that hick.”

She got the idea then, and leaned forward, lowering her voice.

“But how about sending them? You’ll send an armed guard, or a truck, or something?”

Paul Pry laughed.

“Not me, sister. That’s the way to invite trouble. No, sister, when I send out stuff it goes by a messenger with a handbag. He looks just like any ordinary traveller. Nobody ever thinks he’d have a million dollars’ worth of sparklers in the bag.

“I’ve sent stuff around for ten years now and never lost so much as a single stone. The whole trade does. Shucks, you can telephone for gems to be sent to your place, and they’ll send out two men and maybe a dick. But if you’re a regular retailer the gem men know you’re on the up and up. A retailer can telephone for any sort of stuff he wants and it’ll come to him either by express or by messenger, depending on where he is and how quick he wants it.”

The forefinger was tracing complicated lines on the tablecloth.