Ayn Rand - The Early Ayn Rand

We looked over every inch of his clothes; we tore off the lining of his coat; we examined every grain of dust in his suitcase — to no avail.

"Hang it!" burst out Pete. "The stone ain't big, but it couldn't have gone into thin air, could it?"

"We'll find it, if we have to spend all night here!" I said.

"Take your time, boys, I'm not in a hurry," remarked Winton Stokes.

"Listen," I groaned to him in a hoarse whisper. "Get this into your head: I'll have that stone!"

"Well, what's stopping you?" he inquired.

At the end of three hours we sat down on the floor and looked helplessly at each other: we didn't know what more we could search. We had torn every seam in his clothes; we had broken his suitcase to pieces; we had busted the heels of his shoes; squeezed his hat into a pan-cake; crushed flat all his cigarettes; chopped to pieces his soap and towel; ragged his underwear into a mass of fringe; smashed every object he had in his suitcase. We had a pile of wreckage before us and no sign of anything like a diamond.

Pete was perspiring. "Snout" was shaking. I was breathing heavily. Winton Stokes looked indifferent and slightly bored. Believe it or not, he even yawned once.

"Damn you!" I roared, at last. "You'll tell me where it is or we'll make you tell, if we have to tear your whole damn body to bits, too!"

"I'll tell you."

"Yeah?!"

"I'll tell you that you're a fool: nothing on earth can tear a sound from me when I want to be silent — and you know it!"

I answered by a series of expressions that I can't write down.

"I have been thinking," he said suddenly, "that I know your voice."

And before I had time to jump back, he seized the handkerchief covering my face and pulled it off.

All his self-control was not enough to stop a gasp. He stepped back and looked at my face.

"Surprised, eh?" I sneered. He didn't answer.

"Listen, you," I yelled. "I'd give my life, hear me? — my life to get that stone! And I wouldn't mind taking yours, if it would help me to find it!"

At that — he laughed uproariously, a long, loud, insolent laugh...

When morning came and a cold grey light crawled into the shack through the dusty window, we were still there, hopeless, broken, beaten. We didn't even talk any more-There was nothing to be done. We couldn't stay here much longer: the owner would come soon to open his stand. And besides, what should we stay for?

Silently, without looking at each other, we went to our car and rode away. Of course, we didn't take Winton Stokes with us. I remember I turned around and saw him standing at the door of the shack, following us with his eyes, his beautiful brown body trembling slightly in the morning cold under the torn rags of his clothes...

I was half insane when I got back to New York. I walked around in a daze. "The Night King!" was the only name on my brain. It haunted me. Everything black and round, even shoe-buttons and raisins in bread-loaves seemed to me black diamonds that were tempting, mocking, torturing me.

For hours I sat in a dark corner, in some joint, racking my brain hopelessly over that unexplainable mystery, gnawing over and over again at the same questions: What had happened? Where had that stone been hidden? Where was it now, while I was eating my soul away for it? I drank like a sponge.

So if you have any imagination, imagine, for I can't describe it, imagine my feelings when I saw the following headlines on newspaper extras:

THE NIGHT KING STOLEN

Winton Stokes Robbed on Trip West

Was I going goofy? I read the paper, hardly believing my eyes. It didn't say much. It said only that the well-known young millionaire, Winton Stokes, had been robbed of his famous black diamond, "The Night King," on his way to San Francisco. And that the police were looking for a certain notorious criminal who committed the robbery and whose name they were keeping a secret.

It was a long time before I gathered my senses and even then I couldn't understand a thing. It occurred to me that Winton Stokes might have faked that news himself, to protect his diamond from further attempts. But I soon realized that I was mistaken: for Stokes was back in New York and didn't start on another trip, and was reported seriously perturbed; besides, the police were in a big turmoil and really searching for some one.

And then the thought struck me: Mickey Finnegan! Yes, that must be it. How on earth had that big sap managed to do it when I had failed was more than I could understand. It was unbelievable. Yet, Mickey was the only human being that had been in on the secret.

I turned green with fury. Then, I thought it over. Then I almost felt happy.

The first thing I wanted to do was to learn something of Mickey's present whereabouts. That evening I went to "The Hanged Cat" to try and get some information.

And whom should I see there, right before my eyes, sitting alone at a table in a dark corner, but Mickey Finnegan himself! Well, he was just enough of a dumbbell to do that. He was sipping slowly some booze and his face had a senseless expression, if any.

I walked to his table and sat down.

"Hello!" I said, amiably.

"Hello," he answered, dark and surprised.

"Mickey, I have an offer for you: give me half of it."

"Half o'what?"

"You know very well — half of the Night King's price."

He looked at me with open mouth and didn't answer.

"I know you got it," I said impatiently, "I know you have it. And it's healthier for you to be partners with me, Mickey Finnegan, understand?"

"Whatcha talking about?"

"Aw, can that stuff! If you were so lucky as to get it, you owe it to me, for I gave you the tip. It's only fair that we split now. And if you don't — I'll go straight to police headquarters and tell them who's got the Night King and where to find him!"

"Listen, buddy, you're cracked. How could I have gotten it when you grabbed it first? Yeh, I was on the train, an' I figured to try it, but I was too damn tired an' I fell asleep, an' when I woke the Stokes guy was gone — so who pulled it?"

"I didn't know you were such a good actor, Mickey Finnegan! But it's no use, you can't fool me. Now, do I get half of it or do I not?"

"I know you've got it yerself, an' you're lying, but I'll be damned if I can understand why."

"Mickey," I said desperately, "Mickey! We've always been good friends. Give me that stone, Mickey! Show it to me! Let me see it!"

"You've been drinkin', buddy."

"For the last time, Mickey, are we partners?"

"Like fun we are!"

I got up. "All right," I growled, "all right. So long, Mickey Finnegan. You know where I'm going!"

"Go to hell!" was Mickey's answer-There was but one feeling left in me and it was a blind fury against Mickey Finnegan. Forgetting everything else, I had but one thought now — revenge. I decided to go straight to headquarters. I hesitated for a moment, thinking that they were probably looking for me, too, after my attempted robbery. But I reassured myself with the thought that they wouldn't know me, for Stokes never had a picture of me, and besides, I would be forgiven and maybe even rewarded for helping to catch the real thief.

I remembered the fist fight and all that I had suffered from Mickey Finnegan and my mad fury choked me. I went to headquarters.

I walked right in, head high and with assured steps, like an honest, respectable citizen. I asked proudly and imperatively to see the Chief Inspector.

The cops were looking at me with the queerest looks I ever saw in human eyes. When I asked for the Chief Inspector, two or three of them rushed to his office much too hurriedly.

When I walked into the Chief's office, he looked at me with bulging eyes.

"Well, for goodness' sake!" he gasped.

"Inspector," I said solemnly, "I know who stole the Night King and I know the man you're looking for: it's Mickey Finnegan!"