“Yeah. He’s here. I seen him on the street this morning. Him an’ Gilvray was together. I tell you the Gilvray gang’s getting desperate. They used to be high-class workers that went in for slick stuff. You’ve been copping the gravy from their jobs and now they’ve got violent.”
Paul Pry nodded cheerfully.
“And they got Woozy Wiker, the one man who can pretend to be woozy, eh, Mugs?”
“I’ll say! And that ain’t all they’ve got. Did you read about the Marple hold-up?”
“Marple — Marple — let’s see, Mugs, wasn’t that the hold-up that was pulled yesterday afternoon? They killed an officer, I believe.”
Mugs Magoo sighed as he glanced at the whiskey bottle, then at his empty glass, and turned toward Paul Pry.
“That’s the one,” he said. “That cop never stood a chance.”
“Why?” asked Paul Pry, his eyes glittering with sudden interest.
“Because he didn’t know what he was up against.”
“Well, Mugs, what was he up against?”
“He was up against Woozy Wiker’s armoured car, that’s what. Remember the newspapers said there was a grey Cadillac that took the bandits from the hold-up? And that this motorcycle cop took after ’em and there was a gun battle?”
Paul Pry nodded. “Go on, Mugs.”
Mugs turned his glassy eyes back to the whiskey bottle, poured himself another drink.
“That grey Cadillac is Woozy’s private car. It’s built especially for hold-up jobs. The body ain’t thin metal. It’s regular armour. The windows are all of bulletproof glass.”
Paul Pry whistled.
Mugs Magoo tossed off the drink and nodded sombrely.
“Yep. That’s the lay. Woozy Wiker comes on from Chicago and throws in with Gilvray. They go in for violence. And they’ll make a lead mine out of you as a sideline. I thought of Woozy when I read of the grey Cadillac. Then this morning I seen him an’ Gilvray together.”
Paul Pry took up the juniper drumstick. “And you think they’re going after me?”
“I don’t think it. I know it. You got a date with a wooden kimono — an’ I ain’t foolin’.”
Paul Pry’s stick beat the drum faster and faster. His eyes glittered with diamond-hard concentration, and the ghost of a smile played around the corners of his mouth.
“Mugs,” he said, dreamily.
Mugs frowned irritably.
“If you’re goin’ to say something, lay off beating that damn drum. I can’t hear.”
Paul Pry lowered the force of his strokes. The drum throbbed to muffled cadences which were barely audible.
“No, Mugs. I like the drum. I think it’s a war drum. I’m not certain, but it’s got a savage hum to it. Can’t you visualize a big fire in the night, dancing feet, war paint, shaking spears, savage wails—”
Mugs Magoo interrupted.
“No. I can’t, I can’t visualize nothing except machine guns spattering lead, a black hearse, a big funeral, and a meal ticket that’s pushing up daisies. What am I going to do for whiskey after you’re gone?”
Paul Pry laughed outright.
“Spoken like a man, Mugs! No false mush of maudlin sentiment, no blah over lost friendship. To you, I’m a meal ticket. Your interest is purely selfish. And, after all, that’s life — if we were only frank enough to admit it.”
“Aw, chief, I didn’t mean it that way. But I was sure down and out until you came along. Since then things have been too good to last. I knew there’d be a wind-up.”
Paul Pry set the drum to the floor and centred his gaze upon Mugs Magoo.
“Mugs, if you’ll give up drinking, I can get you back on the force as camera-eye man!”
Mugs waved his empty sleeve.
“Not with one arm gone.”
“Yes. Even with one arm gone. You’re invaluable as a camera-eye man, and I can land the job for you.”
Mugs Magoo regarded the whiskey bottle, took a deep breath.
“Nope. There ain’t no use. I know myself better’n anybody else. I got kicked off the force for booze before this arm went bye-bye. I can’t lay off the stuff, and I’m finished trying. I went down until I was selling pencils in the street, and then you came along, found out about my knack of remembering faces and connections and put me to work spotting gangsters for you. I’m good for that — an’ that’s all. But you were goin’ to tell me something when we got started arguing about that drum. I know from the way you looked and the way you spoke sort of dreamy like. What were you going to spill?”
Paul Pry tapped the arm of the chair with drumming fingers.
“Remember the girl who had her diamonds switched at Forman’s?”
Mugs Magoo nodded. “She claimed that’s what happened. She didn’t have no proof.”
Paul Pry’s eyes were diamond hard now. His lips were unsmiling.
“True. She didn’t have proof. But I believed her, and you believed her, Mugs.”
“Well, even if I did, what of it? We couldn’t do anything.”
“I have her name and address, Mugs.”
“Well, what’s all this got to do with Woozy Wiker?”
“Just this, Mugs. Suppose the Gilvray gang should pull a hold-up where Forman lost a lot of jewels, and suppose I should recover those jewels and stick Forman for a big reward. And suppose, further, that I should give the girl a cut from the reward! Don’t you think that would be justice all around?”
Mugs Magoo paused with his hand halfway to the whiskey bottle. His glassy eyes were wide with alarm.
“For God’s sake, chief, don’t go getting any crazy notion into your head like that! You’ve got to find a hole to crawl in, and then pull the hole in after you. You’ve gotta lay low until after Woozy Wiker gets done. Even then, you’ll have a hell of a time; but maybe you can make it.
“That’s what I came around for. I’ve got a hideout staked out for you. You’ll have to stay in your room night and day, and have your meals sent in, and you’ll have to have a bodyguard, but maybe you can last it out. Gilvray’s got enemies. He ain’t going to last forever. But this business of trying to collect any more rewards — Gosh, chief, you’re nutty!”
Paul Pry shook his head, a single swift shake of negation.
“Woozy Wiker doesn’t know me, of course.”
“No. But he’ll get someone to point you out. That’s easy.”
“But suppose I should beat him to the punch and get you to point him out to me, first?”
“What good would that do?”
“It might do a lot. You admit the Gilvray gang is hard up for ready money. That robbery yesterday proves that. Wiker will go after the big gems first. I’m sort of a side issue.”
Mugs Magoo sighed.
“Yeah. Harry Higley was sort of a side issue. So was Martha the Moll. They’re both of ’em pushing daisies. This guy Wiker is tough, I’m telling you.”
Paul Pry nodded, but his eyes had ceased to be glittering hard. There was a look of dreamy concentration about them, and when he spoke his voice was soft, almost crooning.
“I could let my beard grow for a day, and plaster powder on my face. That would make it seem as though I had just shaved off a heavy beard.”
“What good would that do?” asked Mugs Magoo.
“It would make me look more like a Russian.”
“Like a Russian! For God’s sake, chief, have you gone cuckoo?”
“Like a Russian,” went on Paul Pry, heedless of the interruption, “who would be likely to bring the unsold crown jewels of Russia to this country for sale.”
Mugs Magoo took the whiskey bottle, held it to the light, regarded it dubiously, then shook his head.
“Nope,” he said, “it’s only half gone. That ain’t enough to make me drunk. But I’m either drunk or you’re crazy. And I can’t get drunk any more on half a quart of whiskey, even if it is before breakfast!”