From the transfer company the girl walked rapidly, consulting her watch from time to time, hurrying her steps with each glance at the dial.
Before the rotating striped sign of a barber shop she made a swift turn, flung open the door, walked into the shop. She was removing her hat as she went through the door. Her teeth flashed in a smile at the surly features of the man at the head chair. That individual glanced at the clock, and the surly look deepened.
The girl’s smile was transferred to the other barbers as she walked down the mirrored length of the shop. Then she vanished behind a green curtain.
Paul Pry turned on his heel, summoned a cab, and, within a space of ten minutes, was discharged before an apartment hotel.
It was Paul Pry’s habit to find lodgings in the most thickly populated districts available. He liked crowds, liked to hear the restless pound of thousands of feet as they tapped over the cement sidewalks; liked to hear the constant blare of automobile horns as they fought traffic jams; liked the shrill of policemen’s whistles as they guided the human herd.
Mugs Magoo was already in the apartment.
Paul removed his hat, took the stick, twisted it in a few swift passes, then grasped the handle in one hand, the body of the cane in the other.
There was a rasp of steel on metal, the glitter of a naked blade, well polished and cared for, perfectly balanced, tempered by workmen who made of their work a sacred rite.
The young man’s wrist moved with a subtle strength which sent the blade glistening in a scintillating arc. Twice he thrust at an imaginary adversary. His feet tapped a swift tattoo upon the polished floor, and then the blade swung through an arc, hung poised for a moment, point held well back, and was slammed home in its sheath. The sword became a part of a most innocent-looking cane.
Mugs Magoo regarded the display with interest.
“You haven’t done no fencing for a while, sir. That athletic club bout was postponed, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, Mugs, unfortunately. But we’ll get back into the game shortly. I just ran in for a minute. Tell me about the big fellow.”
“Name’s Gilvray. They call him ‘Big Front’ Gilvray in the underworld. You gotta hand it to that boy, sir. They can’t pin nothin’ on him, absolutely nothin’, an’ I ain’t meanin’ maybe. The dicks has him spotted for a long time. They get him tabbed, an’ that’s all the good it does ’em. What’d he do?”
“Had lunch with a manicurist, Mugs. Know her? Blonde, rather young, blue eyes, five feet three, a signet ring on the little finger of her left hand, a slight scar just below the left eye. Prefers blue as her colour — blue bag, blue hat, blue belt. Her dress was tan today, but I have a hunch she wears blue clothes most of the time. Shoes had blue bows, and were sort of a tan and blue combination effect. She’d weigh around a hundred and twenty. Seemed to be afraid of being seen with Gilvray, and probably got a roll of bills from him. Was anxious to get away from him. Works in the Palace Barber Shop off Broadway, about three blocks from where you were stationed.”
Mugs Magoo stroked his chin with the gnarled fingers of his remaining hand. His eyes squinted for a minute.
“Don’t place her, chief, an’ that’s a fact. But I ain’t worth a darn when it comes to tabbin’ people that way. When I try to think of ’em I can’t do nothin’. It’s when I see ’em and don’t try to think nothin’ that they pop into my mind. I see a guy, an’ right away I remember every time I ever see him, and I’ve heard about him, all his likes an’ dislikes, how he goes about a job, an’ whether he’s mugged or not. But let me try to think of somebody or other, an’ I ain’t no good.”
Pry nodded. “It’s a gift,” he said, as he drew up a chair and opened a closet door.
An assortment of drums hung from the wall of a spacious closet. There were big drums, small drums, middle-sized drums. There were ornate drums, plain drums, and ornamented Indian war drums.
He took down a black and tan drum of Indian workmanship, bordered with white rings, the top stretched with thongs.
“Navajo Indian, Mugs. Know anything about ’em?”
“Not me, sir.”
“Wonderful people, make wonderful drums. This one they play in the rain dances. Listen to it, Mugs. There’s a note to it that a civilized drum never gets. You can hear it just after the first boom, before the noise quite dies to a rumble. It’s a resonance that comes from the interior. It’s made of a hollowed tree, hollowed in part by fire, and there’s something savage about it.”
Mugs shook his head.
“Not me, sir. You know me, I can’t carry a tune; I can’t tell one sort of music from another. I’m all eyes. When they made me, they stuck my memory right back of my eyes. For the rest I’m a wreck.” He paused and looked anxiously toward Paul.
“Say, sir, can I have a little hooch now? I’m off for the day.”
Paul nodded.
“Help yourself, Mugs. I’ve got to figure out why Big Front Gilvray should give a girl a big roll of bills to buy an incense burner and send it to some suburban town on the motor express.”
Mugs heaved a sigh and went to a sideboard. Paul Pry took a padded stick and began to tap gently the ceremonial drum.
Boom... boom... boom... boom! Slowly, methodically, rhythmically, he tapped forth soul-stirring, savage notes, notes that throbbed through the ears, pulsated in the blood. In the weird strain of the sounds there was the hint of campfires, of pounding feet that struck the desert floor in unison, of vague shapes that twisted past the light of the ceremonial fire in mad gyrations.
But Mugs Magoo was insensible to the influence of the taut hide and hollowed tree trunk. He poured himself a stiff drink, swallowed it at a gulp, poured another which he took back to his chair and sipped.
After a few moments Paul Pry returned the drum to its closet. He took out another, a little snare drum. Then he sat for several minutes, rolling out rat-a-tat-tat of muffled sound. His eyes were concentrated to mere slits of thought. The thin, nervous hands and fingers moved the drumsticks with just enough force to barely bring forth sound from the drum.
When Paul Pry concentrated upon a problem it was second nature with him to have a drum between his knees.
“Mugs,” he said, almost dreamily, the words accompanied by the muffled rattle of the snare drum, “that girl was being paid to commit a crime.”
“Uh-huh,” said Mugs.
“Purchasing the incense burner was only a small part of that crime. There was more to come. It was that second part which frightened the girl.”
“Maybe,” commented the one-armed man. “You can’t tell about the twists these days. They get hard-boiled in the time it used to take ’em to warm up.”
“She was feeling a little guilty when Gilvray talked with her.” Rat-a-tat-tat — rumpty-tum-tum. “She agreed to do something she didn’t want to do.” Rat-a-tat-tatty-ta-tappety-tap.
Mugs Magoo contemplated the bottom of the whiskey glass.
“Well? Whatcha goin’ to do about it? We can’t make no money because a frail decides to do somethin’ that she don’t want to and gets slipped a roll of bills for it.”
“On the contrary, Mugs,” rappety-tap, “that’s just where we can make our money.” Rumpety-tump, rumpety-tump. “We’re opportunists, Mugs, and we twist opportunities our way.” Tattytat-tat — a-ratty-tat-tat. “We juggle crimes for profit.”
“Maybe, sir. You know the ins and outs. I give you the setup—”
He broke off as Paul Pry’s feet thumped to the floor.
“Of course!” said that individual. “She’s a manicurist, and she’s good-looking, and she works in a certain shop and — Mugs, I was a fool for not seeing the play in the first place.” And Paul Pry crossed to the closet in three swift strides, hung up the little snare drum, grinned at his companion and reached for his hat.