Эрл Гарднер - The Adventures of Paul Pry

“Innocent?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Of course.”

“Then the letters can’t be so very bad,” he told her.

“The letters,” she said archly, “are quite likely to be misunderstood. You understand I have always been a woman of restrictions and inhibitions. It goes back to the time of my girlhood. I was brought up by old-fashioned parents and I was the victim of a too puritanical training. As a result, when I started to write, all of my repressed desires came to the front and were manifest in the letters.”

“I take it, then,” said Paul Pry, “the letters would not listen well in front of a jury.”

“Well,” she said judicially, “unless the members of the jury were pretty well up on lovemaking they’d get some great ideas.”

“Therefore,” said Paul Pry, “you do not wish to have the letters read before a jury.”

“Naturally.”

“What,” asked Paul Pry, “does Silver Dawson say about it?”

“He’s a cold-blooded snake,” she said. “He’s called Silver because of his shock of white hair, that makes him look old, patient, dignified and sort of grand. But he’d steal the pennies off the eyes of a corpse.”

“Naturally,” said Paul Pry, “he has some proposition to offer.”

“Yes,” she said. “It’s ruinous.”

“Certainly,” said Paul Pry, “he wouldn’t want more than a percentage of what you inherited.”

“It isn’t money he wants,” she said. “He wants things that I cannot give.”

Her voice lowered until it was hardly more than a whisper.

“He said that I must go to Europe with him.”

Her face took on an expression of virginal, injured innocence. Her eyes seemed limpid with tears that were about to spring to the surface and she stared pathetically at Paul Pry.

“And what do you intend to do?” asked Paul Pry.

“I told you,” she said, “I was going to commit suicide.”

“Now you’ve changed your mind?” he asked her, petting her hand.

“Yes. I’ve so much to live for — now.”

“Well,” pressed Paul Pry, “haven’t you any scheme?”

She looked at him in impersonal appraisal. Just the sort of a glance which a scientist might give to an impaled butterfly before classifying it.

“Well,” she said slowly, “I have a scheme which I was thinking of while we were dancing. You seemed so graceful and well knit, so poised and completely able to take care of yourself, that a wild idea flashed through my head. But I’m afraid that it’s hardly practicable, and it’s something I have no right to ask a virtual stranger.”

“An old friend, Stella,” he said, patting her hand.

“Very well then,” she said, “as an old friend you’re entitled to hear the scheme, and — to have the prerogatives of an old friendship.”

She leaned forward and kissed him lingeringly, full upon the lips.

“Ah,” said Paul Pry. “The duties of such a friendship certainly cannot detract from its net advantage!”

She laughed and pinched his cheek. “Silly boy!” she said.

Paul Pry said nothing, but sat waiting.

Once more the blue eyes gave him that appraising glance, and then she spoke in low, throaty tones.

“Silver Dawson has a certain circle of acquaintances, not in the best class of society but, nevertheless, a wealthy class. He’s giving a masquerade party tomorrow night at his house. I just had an idea that you might capitalize on that. You see, the guests will be in all sorts of costumes. I thought it might be possible for you to go as a highwayman.”

“A highwayman?” asked Paul Pry.

“Yes. You know with a mask and a gun and everything. It would make an interesting costume.”

“But,” said Paul Pry, “what good would it do?”

“Simply this,” she said. “You could break away from the dance and move around the house. I could show you where the papers were. If you encountered any of the servants or anyone, you could pull your gun and act the part of a highwayman. If anything went wrong you could claim that it was merely in fun as a part of the masquerade.

“But nothing will go wrong. You can get in and get the papers. I know exactly where he keeps them. Then you could mingle with the guests, attract attention for your unusual costume, slip out and join me on the outside.”

“But,” said Paul Pry, “I have no invitation.”

“You wouldn’t need any,” she said. “There is a ladder in the back of the house and we could put it up to one of the second-storey windows. Those are always unlocked. You could climb in.”

“No,” said Paul Pry slowly, “that wouldn’t be such a good scheme. It would be better to try and crash the party. I might forge an invitation.”

“There’s a thought!” she exclaimed. “I could get you an invitation. You could walk right in the front door and then you could slip away from the crowd and go up to his study where he keeps the letters.”

“But they would be under lock and key, wouldn’t they?”

“No. That is, they’d be in a desk and the desk has a lock on it; but you could handle that lock easily enough. I think I could get you a skeleton key that would work it.”

Paul Pry slipped an arm about her waist. “I’ll do it, Stella,” he said, “for an old friend.”

She laughed throatily. “Such a gallant creature,” she said, “deserves another — prerogative of friendship.”

She leaned forward.

Mugs Magoo was seated in the apartment when Paul Pry latch-keyed the door and walked in. Magoo looked up in glassy-eyed appraisal. Then he reached for the half-filled whiskey bottle at this elbow, poured out a generous drink in a tumbler and drained it with a single motion.

“Well,” he said, “I never expected to see you again.”

“You always were a cheerful cuss,” said Paul Pry, depositing his coat and hat in the closet.

“Just a fool for luck,” said Mugs Magoo jovially. “You’ve had an appointment that’s six months overdue that I know of. There’s a marble slab all picked out for you and why you haven’t been on it for a long time is more than I know.”

“Mugs,” said Paul Pry laughing, “you’re a natural pessimist.”

“Pessimist nothing,” said Mugs. “You disregard signals, you walk into the damnedest traps and how you ever get out is more than I know.”

“How do you mean?” asked Paul Pry.

“The woman that was with you at the table,” Mugs Magoo said, “was ‘Slick’ Stella Molay, and she was covering Tom Meek. I saw you slip over and get the letter and she saw you, too. Frank Bostwick is just a lawyer. He’s all right to stand up in front of a jury and wave his arms and talk about the Constitution, but he isn’t fast on his feet. That’s why Tompkins had Slick Stella Molay follow Tom Meek to make sure that the letter got delivered.”

“I see,” said Paul Pry. “Then Slick Stella knew that I had the letter. Is that it?”

“Of course she did.”

“Why didn’t she accuse me of it, or try to steal it?”

“Because she knew it wouldn’t do any good. She knew that you were wise to the play and that you were going to read the letter.”

“What did she want with me then?” asked Paul Pry.

Mugs Magoo gave a snorting gesture of disgust. “Want with you!” he exclaimed. “She wanted to get you out of the way, of course. She wanted to put you where you’ll be pushing up daisies.”

Paul Pry grinned gleefully. “Well,” he said, “I’m still here.”

“Still here because of that providence which watches over fools and idiots,” Mugs Magoo told him. “With the chances you take and the way you walk into trouble, it’s a wonder you haven’t been killed months ago. Why, do you know that Slick Stella Molay is the one who got ‘Big’ Ben Desmond killed in Chicago?”