“I saw it,” said a man and jumped to the ground. “It was the truck’s fault.”
“What in hell—” yelled the infuriated guard.
The truck guard stopped. The gun that bored into his middle was held in a steady hand, and the eyes of the man who held it were aglitter with businesslike efficiency.
“Get into that car and be damned quick about it, both of you,” said the man, as he swung his gun to cover the two astonished guards.
At that moment the door opened and two men stepped out. The guards’ jaws sagged with astonishment, for these men were attired in an exact replica of their own clothing. There were the olive drab shirts with the insignia of the Bankers’ Bonded Transportation Company; the identical caps with their shields, the belted trousers with their holstered weapons dangling from belts, the puttees, the polished shoes.
They never fully recovered from their gasps of surprise, for a tap with slungshot collapsed them both like a sack of meal. Men moved with studied efficiency, and the two unconscious guards were in the shiny automobile before the first of an oncoming procession of cars came abreast of the scene of the accident.
Out of the little cluster of traffic two or three cars stopped. The drivers of these cars saw nothing unusual. The uniformed men who stood by the side of the truck were gravely exchanging licence numbers with the driver of the demolished light car who was very, very meek.
The shiny sedan with drawn side curtains purred away. The meek man accepted a lift with a passing motorist. The armoured truck rumbled away, and only the stolen flivver was left by the kerb to mark the first step in the efficient plans of Big Front Gilvray.
From there on, it was smooth sailing. The Sixth Merchants & Traders National had some rather heavy gold shipments to make, and had telephoned its order for the truck to be at the door at a certain time.
The truck arrived, on time to the minute. The side door popped open, and special officers patrolled the sidewalk. Passing pedestrians gawked at the sight of the heavy boxes thudded to the floor of the armoured car. The special officers watched the faces of the pedestrians with vigilance. The truck driver yawned as he signed the receipt for the given number of boxes.
The bank was rather casual in the matter. The drivers were bonded, the contents of the truck insured. The shipment had been safely transferred into the hands of the Bankers’ Bonded Transportation Company. There was nothing to worry about. It was mere routine.
The guard slammed the door shut. The driver crawled in behind the wheel, and the truck rumbled away into traffic.
The truck was next seen abandoned by the kerb in a residential district. Residents had noticed certain boxes being transferred to a delivery truck. They could give little additional information. The ones who made the transfer had worn conventional uniforms, and the residents had not been overly curious — at first.
The captured guards were released two hours later. They were groggy, mortified, enraged, and they had aching heads. They were able to give only a vague description of the men who had engineered the capture of the truck, and the police knew that these men, unmasked as they were, were crooks imported especially for this one job.
They were at a standstill, but they hesitated to admit it. They made a great show of getting fingerprints from the armoured car, but they might as well have saved their time.
Philip Borgley immediately reported his interview with Paul Pry, and insisted that Pry must be one of the robbers. The police laughed. They had crossed the trail of Paul Pry before. That young man was just what he claimed to be — an opportunist. He had solved several crimes, and in every event had collected a reward. The total of those rewards amounted to a tidy income.
But the police had investigated Paul Pry from one side to the other. His methods were shrouded in mystery. His technique was baffling. But he was not in league with any criminal.
All of which called Paul Pry to the attention of the directors of the bank who were in session.
At about that time the bank’s counsel delivered his opinion. The Bankers’ Bonded Transportation Company was not responsible for the loss. They had never sent a truck to the bank, had never signed for the shipment. The theft of the truck had been completed before it called at the bank. Therefore, the bank had voluntarily delivered its shipment of gold to two crooks.
The directors promptly announced a reward for the recovery of the stolen gold. But gold is hard to identify and easy to divide. It looked very much as though the bank was about to make a rather large entry in red ink upon its books of account.
Paul Pry knew of the reward within half an hour of the time it was announced. He telephoned the bank to verify the report, and then sauntered to the parking station which was around the corner from his apartment.
He had sufficient information to lay before the police to secure a search warrant for the residence of Benjamin F Gilvray, and doubtless recover the missing coin. But Paul Pry had no intention of killing the goose that laid his golden eggs. Big Front Gilvray had indirectly furnished Paul Pry with a very nice income during the past few months.
At the parking station, Paul Pry surrendered a ticket and had delivered to him a new, shiny automobile. This automobile was registered in the name of Benjamin F Gilvray, 7823 Maplewood Drive, although the information would have come as a distinct shock to Benjamin F Gilvray.
Paul Pry drove the new car to a point well out of traffic, parked it, and switched to a red roadster which was registered in his own name. He drove this roadster to a point about a block and a half from the residence at 7823 Maplewood Drive, and parked it. Then he called a taxicab and returned to the place where he had parked the new automobile he had registered in the name of the arch-gangster.
In a deserted side street, Pry stopped the car, opened the toolbox, and took out a big hammer. With this hammer he started operations on the left front fender.
When he had finished, the car presented a striking appearance. The shiny newness of its factory finish was marred by a left front fender which was as battered as a wad of discarded tinfoil. The paint had been chipped off. The fender had been rubbed against a telephone pole and dented in countless places.
By this time it was the dusk of early evening, and Paul Pry blithely piloted his new car out into the boulevard.
At a side street where there was a little traffic, yet enough potential danger to warrant an automatic signal, Paul parked the car and awaited his opportunity.
A traffic officer stood just under the automatic signal box on the south-west corner, peering sharply at such machines as passed. He was there to arrest violators, the theory being that the amount thus received in fines would more than offset his salary.
When Paul Pry considered the moment opportune, he eased his car away from the kerb. The street was deserted as far as he could see in both directions. The traffic signal was against him.
The rest was absurdly simple.
With the bewildered stupidity of a new driver, he slowly drove the car out into the middle of the intersection and brought it to a stop only when the whistle of the officer on duty had blown its third imperative summons.
The position in which the car had stopped was such that Paul had an uninterrupted view up and down both streets. He was, in fact, almost in the exact centre of the intersection.
The traffic officer, striding purposefully and irately to the left side of the machine, took due note of the crumpled fender and the new finish of the car. His voice held that tone of patient weariness with which mothers address wayward children after waywardness has become a habit.
“I suppose you’re blind and can’t see, and deaf and can’t hear. You didn’t know there was a traffic signal, nor hear me yelling for you to stop.”