Эрл Гарднер - The Adventures of Paul Pry

Paul Pry sent the cab to the address given on the purloined card as being the residence of Frank Jamison. The apartment hotel was of exactly the type he had expected.

Paul Pry entered the hotel after having paid the cab, approached the desk. He wrote his name on the register.

“Something for about a month,” he said. “Frank Jamison knows me. He said I’d be comfortable here. I’d like to get on the same floor he’s on. Maybe I’ll be longer than a month. Maybe it won’t be so long, but you get a month’s rent cash on the nail.”

The man at the desk nodded.

“Mr. Jamison’s on the fourth, 438. I can let you have 431. That’s just a ways down the corridor and on the other side.”

“O.K.,” said Paul Pry. “Jamison ain’t in, is he?”

“I don’t think so. He’s out quite late.”

“Yeah, I know. Give’m a buzz, just in case.”

The man behind the counter-like desk stepped to the glassed-in partition behind which sat a telephone operator.

“Give Jamison in 438 a jingle. Tell him his friend’s here, Mr. Pry.”

The girl plugged in a line, shook her head, after an interval.

“Out,” said the man as he swung around to face Paul Pry.

“Now listen, Frank Jamison and me are going to do some business that we ain’t telling all of Frank’s friends about. So when Frank comes in, he’ll have some guys with him. Just don’t say anything about me being here.”

The clerk was businesslike.

“We make a practice of minding our own business here, Mr. Pry. You make your own announcements. And the first instalment, by the way, will be one hundred dollars.”

Paul Pry handed the clerk two bills.

“Never mind the receipt. I’m hitting the hay. The baggage’ll get here in the morning.”

Paul Pry went to the fourth floor, was shown to his apartment. He tipped the boy who took him up, waited until he heard the elevator door clang shut, and then walked down the corridor to 438, fitted his key assortment to the lock until he had the proper skeleton, heard the bolt click, and walked in. He left the hall door open, and the light from the hallway flooded enough of the room to give him the lay of the land.

Paul Pry entered the bedroom, ripped the blankets from the bed, went to the bathroom, soaked the blankets in water, wrung out some of the surplus, took the wet blankets into the front room, suspended them by their corners.

He worked with swift precision, and used the coil of light rope, hardly more than a heavy twine. He anchored this rope to the chandeliers, easing the weight of the blankets on the light rope so that he would not pull out the lighting fixture.

When he had finished, he had two wet blankets suspended in such a manner that they almost blocked the rest of the room from the doorway.

He took from his pocket a little metallic object that resembled a fountain pen, stood a little distance back from the wet blankets, pointed the metallic object, and pressed a hidden button.

There was a dull explosion, sounding hardly more loud than the smashing of a small inflated paper bag. A stream of swirling vapour mushroomed out until it hit the wet blankets. Then it seemed to be enveloped, the tear gas having an affinity for the moist surface.

Paul Pry stepped swiftly out of the apartment room, closed the door behind him, used his skeleton key, and twisted the bolt of the lock.

Then he went down the corridor, took some of the light rope, measured off the length of the corridor, and took a round doorstop from the little bag which he carried. He screwed this doorstop into the wood of the corridor, well over to one side, made a loop in the rope with a bowline knot holding it against slips, dropped the loop over the doorstop, then screwed a similar doorstop into the other side of the corridor.

When he tightened the rope, he had a perfectly taut line some three inches above the level of the floor. He surveyed the result, nodded, removed the rope, leaving the doorstops in place, and went back to his own room.

The place where he had put the doorstops was almost opposite the entrance of apartment 431, the one on which he had paid the rent.

He yawned, removed his shoes, closed, but did not lock the door, lit a cigarette, and sprawled out in one of the overstuffed easy chairs.

There was the first glint of dawn in the air, although the interior of the apartment hotel still remained murked with darkness when Paul Pry consulted his wristwatch and frowned. It looked very much as though he had drawn a blank.

The slamming of the elevator door at the end of the corridor came to his ears, and his stockinged feet came to the carpeted floor of his room with swift silence. He approached the door, opened it the merest crack.

There were three men walking down the hallway with grim efficiency. One of them carried a black bag. His right shoulder was bulky with bandage.

They paused before room 438. Keys rattled.

“Anyway,” husked one of the men in a low voice, “Inman was registered there. He must have—”

“Shut up,” snapped one of the group.

The hoarse voice ceased abruptly.

The man who held the bag opened the door of the room.

The three barged in there.

Paul Pry stepped out of his door, tossed the loop of twine over the doorstop, twisted the other end of the rope over the other doorstop, stepped back in the doorway of his room. He made no effort to conceal himself. His shoes, laces knotted, were in his belt. His eyes, diamond hard, were staring down the corridor.

The door of 438 burst open. Three men spewed from the room, hands stretched outward. There was the glint of the dim light on blued steel, the sound of terror-stricken oaths.

The man who had fitted the key to the lock continued to carry the bag. But there was a gun in his other hand.

They ran down the corridor with awkward steps, their streaming eyes of no use to them. Blinded, they groped and stumbled. They passed Paul Pry’s door, and then hit the rope.

The first man took the second with him as he went down. The third stumbled over the heap. A gun went off with a roar, and the sound of curses followed the detonation.

Paul Pry stepped from his room.

His position could not have been chosen with better care, nor to better advantage. He held a blackjack in his hand, the leather thong looped around his wrist.

The man with the bag straightened.

The blackjacket did its stuff with smooth efficiency. Paul Pry’s hand closed about the handle of the black bag as the grip of the man who had been sapped relaxed.

There sounded a woman’s scream. A figure in pyjamas opened one of the doors. Another shot rang out. The man in pyjamas jumped back for the shelter of his room.

Paul Pry walked down the hall toward the back stairs. His stockinged feet gave no sound. As he reached the stairs, he slipped his shoes on, and ran down the staircase.

Day was dawning as he slipped the chain on a side exit and walked out into the street. The street was calm with the grey tranquillity of early dawn.

Paul Pry walked swiftly, slowed his pace when he was well away from the building, picked up a cab after he had been walking for about ten minutes. He gave the address of a downtown hotel, and was taken there at top speed.

He discharged the cab, broke his trail by going to the Union Depot in another cab and taking a third cab to his apartment.

Mugs Magoo was asleep, sprawled in the easy chair, his relaxed hand stretched toward the whiskey bottle. The bottle was empty.

Paul Pry grinned, closed the door, locked it, turned his attention to the bag. It was locked. He took his knife and slit it open.

The interior, back of where the leather bulged out through the cut edge, showed a mass of greenbacks.

“There should be ten grand here,” said Paul Pry.