Эрл Гарднер - The Adventures of Paul Pry

“Who is it?” called a woman’s voice.

“A package for you,” said Paul Pry.

The door opened a few inches. A woman’s hand and bare arm protruded. “Give it to me,” she said.

Paul Pry pushed the door open.

She fell back with a little scream.

She had slipped out of her dress and was attired in underwear, shoes and stockings. There was a costume on a stool beside a dressing table and a kimono draped carelessly over a chair. The young woman made no attempt to pick up the kimono, but stood staring at Paul Pry, apparently entirely unconscious of her apparel.

“Well,” she said, “what’s the big idea?”

“Listen,” said Paul Pry, “I came from him — the man who got you to get that cheque from the post office. You know what I mean.”

Her face was suddenly drained of colour, her eyes dark with alarm. “Yes,” she said in a low, half-choked voice.

“What did they tell you at the bank?” said Paul Pry. “It’s important as hell.”

“Mr. Hammond,” she said, “said that he would make the cheque right. He wanted the bank to cash it, but they wouldn’t cash a forged cheque. He said that he’d make the cheque good. I telephoned a few minutes ago and explained the whole thing. You should have known.”

“There’s some question about that,” Paul Pry said. “You telephoned to the wrong number. Somebody else seems to have got the information. Are you sure you telephoned to the right number?”

There was a puzzled frown on her forehead. She nodded slowly.

“What was the number?” asked Paul Pry.

She fell back from him suddenly, as though he had struck her. Her face was deathly white. She seemed to shrink within herself. “Who... who... who are you?” she asked in a voice which was shrill with panic.

“I told you who I am,” Paul Pry said.

She shook her head slowly. Her eyes were wide and dark. “Get out of here!” she said in a half whisper. “For God’s sake get out of here while there’s still time!”

Paul Pry took a step toward her. “Listen,” he said, “you either know what you’re mixed up in or you don’t. In any event...”

A woman’s scream, shrill and high-pitched, interrupted his sentence. The scream seemed to come from one of the adjoining dressing-rooms.

Paul Pry stood still, listening, his eyes slitted, his mouth a thin, straight line. The scream rang out again, louder and more insistent.

Paul Pry stared at the woman. “Who’s that screaming?” he asked.

She could hardly answer, so great was her terror. Her tongue clung to the roof of her mouth. Her throat seemed paralysed. At length, she stammered: “It’s Thelma... that’s her room next to mine.”

“Thelma?” asked Paul Pry.

She nodded.

“Tell me,” said Paul Pry, “was that the girl who drove the coupé that took you to the post office and the bank?”

She nodded once more.

Paul Pry jabbed his finger at her as though he had been stabbing her with a weapon. “You,” he said, “stay right there. Don’t you make a move. Don’t try to go out. Don’t let anyone else in. When I come back you let me in. Do you understand?”

She nodded.

Paul jerked the door open.

The scream from the adjoining dressing-room sounded once more as Paul Pry jumped through the doorway into the corridor, and flung himself at the door of the next dressing-room.

The door was unlocked.

Paul Pry pushed his way into the dressing-room, then, at what he saw, kicked the door shut behind him.

The young woman who had given him the name Thelma when he had caught her trying on clothes in the millionaire’s apartment, was standing in the far corner of the room. Her waist was torn open at the throat, ripped for its entire length. The brassiere was pulled down from her shoulders. Her hair was in disarray. Her skirt was lying on a chair. Her step-ins were torn in two or three places. She held a gun in her right hand. As Paul Pry kicked the door shut, she screamed again.

Paul Pry stared at her and at the gun.

“O.K., Thelma,” he said. “What’s the trouble? Quick!”

She swayed toward him. “C-c-c-can’t you see?” she said.

“I can see plenty,” he told her, looking at the white of the girl’s skin, a white which showed angry red places where, apparently, blows had been rained.

“Did you see the man who went out of here?” she asked.

Paul Pry shook his head. He was staring at her with eyes narrowed.

“I c-c-c-can’t tell you,” she said. “Come over here and let me w-w-w-whisper to you. It was awful!”

Paul Pry moved toward her.

She shivered. “I’m c-c-c-cold,” she said. “I’m going to faint. Take off your coat and put it around me. I’m so c-c-c-cold. Put your coat around my shoulders.” She swayed toward him.

Paul Pry jumped forward and caught her by the shoulders. He spun her abruptly, brutally, jerking the gun from her hand as he did so.

She staggered halfway across the small dressing-room, dropped to a chair and sat staring at Paul Pry with startled eyes.

“All right,” said Paul Pry, “now give me the low-down and do it quick!”

“How did you know?” she asked.

“It was too raw,” he told her. “Give me the low-down.”

“I don’t think I could have gone through with it anyway,” she said. “But my life depended on it.”

“All right,” he said, “I think I know the answer, but tell me what it was.”

“I saw that you were following us,” she said. “I recognized you. I telephoned the information to the party to whom I make my reports. He told me to rush up to my dressing-room, pull my clothes off, make it look as though I had been attacked, and scream. When you came in, I was to shoot. He gave me the gun, but he didn’t trust me. He only gave me one shell in the gun. I was to fire that one shell when you were so close I couldn’t miss. When he heard the shot, he was to come in. I was to swear that you had tried to attack me.”

“Then what?” asked Paul Pry.

“That’s all,” she said, “if the sound of the shot attracted any attention. If it didn’t, I wasn’t going to figure in it. I wasn’t going to have to say anything. He was going to dispose of your body some way; I don’t know how. All I had to do was to pack up my things and take a long trip around the world. He was going to give me the tickets and everything.”

“And if you didn’t do it?” asked Paul Pry.

“Then,” she said, “neither one of us was to come out of here alive.”

“You know of the murderous activities of this man you’re working for?” asked Paul Pry.

She hesitated a moment, then nodded her head. “Yes,” she said slowly, “I know now. I didn’t until a few minutes ago.”

“And,” said Paul Pry, “he’s here in this restaurant?”

“He owns the place,” she said.

Paul Pry flipped open the cylinder of the gun. It was as the young woman had said — there was but one shell in it.

Paul Pry pushed the cylinder back into position. “Let’s get out,” he said.

She shook her head. “You can’t do it,” she said. “He’s waiting outside, and he’s got another man with him. They’re going to kill us both unless I go through with what he told me to do.”

“Suppose no one from the outside hears the shot?” said Paul Pry. “Then what?”

“Then,” she said, “I think...”

“Go on,” he told her, as her voice trailed away into silence, “tell me what you think.”

Her voice came in a whisper. “I think,” she said, “he’s going to sew up your lips and dump your body somewhere.”

She shuddered and trembled as though with a chill.

Paul Pry stood in front of her, staring at her with level, appraising eyes. “Look here, Thelma,” he said, “if you’re lying to me it’s going to mean your life. Tell me the truth. If no one hears the shot, he’s going to dispose of my body that way?”