Эрл Гарднер - The Adventures of Paul Pry

“Why?” asked Paul Pry.

Mugs Magoo heaved a deep sigh.

“I gotta hand it to you. It’s a gift, gettin’ into deep water every time you start wadin’. You don’t ever pick no ordinary dangers. When you start gettin’ into trouble, you wade right in over your necktie.

“That bird Inman, now — Well, there’s talk going around about that baby. He’s one of the upper crust of gangsters, and he’s playing both ends against the middle. Of course, George Inman ain’t nothing but a name. It’s the name this big shot uses when he’s slipping over a fast one.

“He works under cover all the time, and nobody’s ever been able to get a line on him. They know the name, and that’s all. It’s a cinch he’s one of the biggest shots in town. That much they know because they got sort of a line on what Inman knows.

“There’s fifteen or twenty of the big guys that’d give a neat slice of jack to learn who Inman really was. When they knew, Inman wouldn’t last long. If you’re monkeying around with anybody that gives the name of Inman, just gimme the money to go get myself measured for a suit of black. I’ll need it before I get any fatter, anyway; and I may need it as soon as the tailor can get it fitted.”

Paul Pry arose, crossed to the closet where he kept his collection of drums.

He took down a Buddhist temple drum that resembled a huge bronze bowl. This drum was merely rubbed into sound, not struck with a stick as other drums were.

Paul Pry took the leather-covered stick and started rubbing the lip of the drum. His hand moved slowly. At first there was no sound whatever. Then, as the speed of the rubbing stick increased, there sounded a low monotone of sound which filled the apartment, yet which seemed to emanate from no particular source.

“It drives me nuts,” said Mugs Magoo.

Paul Pry said nothing until after the last bit of sound had died away. Then he sighed, raised his eyes to Mugs Magoo’s face.

“Alcohol, Mugs, has robbed your ears of their sense of rhythm.”

“If they’d only rob ’em of a sense of sound, so far as those drums are concerned, so I couldn’t hear ’em, I’d be better satisfied.”

Paul Pry let his eyes rest dreamily upon the drum.

“It soothes the soul, Mugs. That’s why they use it as a preliminary to worship in those temples where the religion is a philosophical rite of inner meditation. It’s a wonderful philosophy, Buddhism, Mugs, and the drum has a tendency to fill my mind with inner quiet, a comparative poise that’s so necessary to concentration.”

Mugs Magoo refilled his whiskey glass.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s a great philosophy maybe. But the trouble with them Buddhists is that they don’t wear no pants.”

Paul Pry grinned.

“That’s begging the question, Mugs.”

“The hell it is,” retorted Mugs Magoo, “you’re goin’ heathen, working your mind up to the right pitch with a lot o’ boomin’ drums. One o’ these days you’ll take to smokin’ one o’ these here hookahs , an’ throwin’ your pants away. I’m humorin’ you now, because if you was dyin’ o’ pneumonia, I’d give you your last wishes. You’re just the same as a dyin’ man right now. And if you’re monkeyin’ around with a guy that goes by the name of George Inman, you’re just the same as parked on a marble slab.”

Paul Pry laid down the drumstick.

“I’m glad you mentioned this Inman again, Mugs. It reminds me of a telephone call I almost forgot to make.”

He crossed the room to the telephone, called the number which the clerk at the Billington Hotel had given him.

“Hello,” he said as a feminine voice answered, “this is George Inman, at the Billington Hotel. Was someone calling me?”

At the other end of the room there came a startled gasp, a choking exclamation that was mingled with the sputtering noise of a man who is almost strangling.

The woman’s voice crisped a swift comment.

“Where are you, George dear? In your room?”

It was the voice of the woman who had worn the white fur coat.

“Yes,” said Paul Pry.

“Just a minute, George, there’s a friend of mine wants to speak with you. He wants to give you an important message.”

There came the sounds over the wire of rustling motion, then a man’s voice.

“Yeah, hello,” it gruffed.

“Yes?” said Paul Pry.

“Well, listen,” said the man’s voice, speaking hastily. “I’m a friend of Lola’s. You recognized her voice over the telephone?”

“Yes. Sure,” said Paul Pry, “but I’m afraid I don’t want to deal with any friend of hers. My business is with her.”

“Yeah, sure it is,” said the man. “But she can’t get to come alone. She wanted me to give you a ring so I could explain what’s happened.

“She’s in a jam, and she’s got to see you right away. Now you wait right there in your room. Keep the door locked. Don’t open up for anyone until she gets there, and don’t even answer the telephone. Get me?

“We’re coming over just as soon as we can make a break, and we want to be sure we ain’t tailed. See? Now you and Lola can go ahead with that thing just like you planned, only you gotta wait until she gets there. Here she is on the telephone.”

The man relinquished the instrument. The voice of the girl who had worn the fur coat came to Paul Pry’s ears.

“It’s all right, George. I’ll explain when we get there. Only sit right in the room. Don’t open until you hear someone rap twice, then a pause, then three raps, then another pause, and then a single rap.

“That’ll be me. The man with me is O.K.”

“O.K.,” he said, at length. “If you say it’s O.K. I guess it is.”

“Right over,” said the woman’s voice. “You stay right there until we get there.”

Paul Pry hung up the receiver, turned to stare into Mugs Magoo’s florid features.

“Oh, Lord!” groaned Mugs. “I thought you’d done the damndest fool things a guy could ever do — but being George Inman! That takes the cake! An’ when you spilled that dope it made me swallow my drink of whiskey down the wrong side of my throat, and anything that’ll make a guy do that with really good whiskey, is a public calamity.

“Go ahead an’ play around while you’ve got the chance, because when you get all stretched out with a coroner’s jury starin’ at the doctor, while he points out the course of the bullets through the body, you won’t have no kick outa life at all. Just go right ahead, guy, only shake hands with me before you go out again. I hate to see you go, but you might as well finish it up and get the suspense over with.”

Paul Pry grinned.

“Mugs,” he said solemnly, “I have an idea that I’m going to meet some tough gangsters. That is, Mugs, they think they’re tough. But, to me, they’re going to be nice little goosies, laying golden eggs.”

Mugs Magoo disregarded the glass in favour of more direct action. As he removed the neck of the bottle from appreciative lips, he muttered: “An’ there’s a frail at the bottom of it. That’s a cinch.”

Paul Pry nodded. He was putting on his coat, hefting the balance of his sword cane. “Yes, Mugs, you’re right again. There’s a lady at the bottom of it, Mugs, a lady who says yes.”

Mugs Magoo extended a solemn hand.

“You was a good pal,” he said, “—while you lasted!”

The streets of the city held that damp cheerlessness which comes a couple of hours before dawn. They were almost deserted, and Paul Pry, anxious to escape observation, walked for three rapid blocks before he swung over to the main boulevard where he knew he could find a cab even at that hour.

His actions were not even furtive. He had a coil of light rope wound around his waist, a little handbag that contained certain articles. He was smiling, rather a fixed smile, and his eyes were diamond hard.