“Yeah. I know. Well, I’ve got a couple of diamonds I’d like to have you look over.”
“But my dear man,” protested Paul Pry, “I’m not in the business of appraising gems. My judgment might be utterly valueless. I would suggest that you step down to one of the wholesale jewellers.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” hissed Sidney Simms in his peculiar half whisper, “but just take a look at these babies!”
He rolled two diamonds out on the desk.
Paul Pry contemplated the gems with a face which registered intense interest.
“Very pleasing,” he said, “very pleasing indeed, and quite interesting.”
He reached for the stones.
Sidney Simms watched him with protruding eyes that had suddenly gone cold.
Paul Pry studied the stones.
“These,” he announced at length, “have been in settings and then pried out.”
Sidney Simms husked his answer in a cautious voice.
“That don’t hurt ’em,” he said.
Paul Pry nodded.
“Quite correct. However, the stones are not ones in which I would be interested. They are very ordinary diamonds of good quality. There is nothing distinctive in either gem or workmanship. My own interest is that of a collector. But thank you for coming.”
Sidney Simms nodded, but made no other motion.
“You came on here to get the Goldcrest diamonds, eh?”
“That,” said Paul Pry with dignity, “is, of course, a private matter.”
“I was only going by what the newspapers said.”
“The newspapers have assumed entirely too much liberty.”
Sidney Simms leaned forward.
“S’pose you could get the Goldcrest diamonds.”
Paul Pry sat back at his desk and put the tips of his fingers together.
“Now,” he said, “I am interested.”
“Yes,” remarked Simms, his bat ears wriggling, “you should be.”
Paul Pry said nothing.
“Suppose,” went on Simms, “we go back to these two diamonds I’m showing you.”
“What?” asked Paul Pry, “would you take for them?”
“Two hundred dollars.”
“Apiece?”
“For both.”
“That,” said Paul Pry, “is approximately one half of their wholesale cost. It is either too much or too little.”
Simms sat on the edge of a chair and thrust forward his long neck. The manoeuvre seemed to accentuate his bat ears and goggle eyes.
“Meaning what?” he demanded.
Paul Pry got up and went to the door. He flung it open, looked up and down the corridor. Then he closed and locked the door. He went to the windows, saw that each was tightly closed. Then he returned to his visitor.
“If the goods are legitimate, the price is too low. If they are hot the price is too high.”
“Well,” demanded Simms, upon whom no detail of the motions to insure secrecy had been lost, “s’pose they are hot. What then?”
“One hundred dollars,” said Paul Pry with a snap to his words.
“They’d retail for close to a thousand,” whined Simms.
“One hundred dollars. Take it or leave it.”
“I’ll take it.”
Paul Pry leaned forward. Before the goggle eyes of Sidney Simms, he pulled up the section of desk top, revealing the secret drawer. That secret drawer was crammed with rolled bank notes.
Paul Pry took out two fifty-dollar bills and flipped them over, gathered in the two diamonds, dropped them carelessly in the drawer and replaced the desk top.
The goggle eyes took in every move.
“Pretty slick,” said Simms.
“Yes. It’s very well constructed.”
“Listen, those diamonds are awful hot.”
“I don’t give a damn how hot they are.”
Simms beamed at his host. “I guess,” he observed, “we understand each other pretty well.”
Paul Pry became all business.
“Those Goldcrest diamonds are worth precisely one hundred thousand dollars to me — in cash.”
“Aw, the paper says they’re worth two hundred and fifty thousand from a collector’s standpoint—”
“And only worth that hundred thousand to me if they are of the finish and workmanship I have been led to believe.”
Sidney Simms fidgeted.
“When could I talk with you?”
“At eight o’clock tonight.”
“All right. I’ll talk with you some more. I won’t bring the diamonds, though. But I’ll see some of the others and see what I can do.”
Paul Pry got to his feet, held the outer door open.
“There will be one hundred thousand dollars in cold cash available in this room at precisely eight o’clock tonight. And I never wait more than five minutes on an appointment. Goodbye, Mr. Simms.”
And Sidney Simms wriggled through the door of the room, into the corridor.
“I’ll be there,” he husked.
What followed was simple. Paul Pry dropped down to the lobby and engaged a white-whiskered gentleman in conversation. The conversation turned to prohibition, whiskey. Paul Pry mentioned casually that he had a shipment of pre-war stuff which he had been fortunate enough to secure from sources of unquestionable integrity. The whiskey was smooth as oil.
The white-whiskered gentleman became greatly interested. He wished very, very much that he could secure some of this same shipment.
Paul Pry took out a notebook, quoted a price, jotted down a figure.
“The name’s George Crosby,” he said. “Be at room 6345 at precisely three minutes past eight tonight. I won’t get the stuff ready for delivery until eight. My partner is calling on me.”
The white-whiskered gentleman mumbled his thanks.
Paul Pry noticed that a square-toed man with a bull neck had seemed rather interested in the conversation, particularly after he took out his notebook.
He moved to another part of the lobby, engaged a slender man with mournful eyes in conversation. The conversation turned to prohibition and the terrible quality of recent whiskey. From that point on the conversation was the same as the other.
The bull-necked man with the square-toed shoes became exceedingly interested when Paul Pry made another notation in his notebook and moved away.
He sat down next to a horse-faced man who was absorbed in a newspaper and borrowed a match. The horse-faced one looked up, gave the match, made some comment. The comment started a conversation. The conversation turned to prohibition and the quality of whiskey.
At the close of the conversation, Paul Pry snapped his notebook back into his pocket and walked out to the street, gazed up and down, and entered a cab.
He was gone for several hours. When he returned, the bell captain found occasion to brush against him.
“I’ve got the house,” he said.
“What do you mean?” asked Paul Pry, speaking, however, in a carefully lowered tone.
“You know what I mean. If you do anything in the house get your stuff through me.”
Paul Pry appeared to consider.
“You,” he said, “can go to hell.” And he walked off.
At precisely three minutes to eight a delivery truck drove up to the freight entrance and the porter receipted for several bulky packages for George Crosby, in room 6345.
The porter’s palm had been well greased, and the bulky packages came up. They were placed in the room, the placing being accomplished with great care.
At eight one Sidney Simms wriggled through the door.
“Well?” he asked. His goggle eyes lit on the packages.
Paul Pry walked over to the desk. “A little shipment,” he said.
There came a banging on the door panel. Paul Pry frowned. Sidney Simms darted a hand under his coat.
“Open in the name of the law!” boomed a voice.
Paul Pry gave a gasp, muttered an oath and reached the door with swift strides.