Forman had recovered consciousness by the time Paul Pry returned to the store, bearing the key to the lock box. The place was filled with excited clerks, and a cordon of police kept out those who had no business.
Forman looked at Paul Pry.
“See my lawyer,” he said, and groaned.
“I have the key to the box. What’s happened?” asked Paul Pry.
“See my lawyer,” said Forman and sopped the wet handkerchief he held in his hand to his forehead.
“But my box!” protested Paul Pry.
“See my lawyer,” said Forman.
Out in a big house in an exclusive residential district Benjamin Franklin Gilvray, known to the underworld as Big Front Gilvray, stared at a man whose face was bruised, whose clothes were torn.
“And that’s all there was in the box?”
“Every damn thing — the tear-gas bomb and the paper in the envelope.”
Big Front Gilvray’s eyes were glittering with rage. His mouth was twitching, and the flabby facial muscles distorted his features as they writhed in an ecstasy of rage. He read again the note in his hand.
Doubtless you are wondering why I don’t pick on someone else. It’s your name, and the crudity of your methods that makes me want to pick on you. When you were christened Benjamin Franklin it was because your proud parents thought you would grow to be like that kindly philosopher. It needs no comment to emphasize your betrayal of their affection and confidence.
And then again, you’re such a nice fat goose to lay golden eggs for me. The rewards I’ve picked up from busting up your crooked schemes are running into a tidy figure. You’re an ideal victim because you’re so slick the police can get nothing on you. That leaves me without competition in plucking the golden eggs from your nest.
And thanks a lot for Woozy Wiker, the gentleman who was imported from Chicago to put me on the spot. I find his childlike innocence so refreshing after dealing with hard-boiled crooks. I could really never have engineered this little coup, if it hadn’t been for the esteemed imported killer, Woozy Wiker, from Chicago.
Big Front Gilvray dashed the note to the floor, stamped on it with his heel, and began to curse. The gangster who sat opposite him cowered under the blast of that blistering profanity.
Inspector Quigley sat in Paul Pry’s apartment, and his expression was anything but placid.
“Look here, Pry, you admit you planted that box so there’d be a robbery. You pinched the tear-gas bomb from the police department. Now you’ve assigned your claim against Forman to some girl, and you’re dickering with me to turn in the jewellery for a reward. This is the fourth time you’ve recovered stolen property and claimed a reward on it. It begins to smell fishy.”
Paul Pry shrugged his shoulders and reached for a cigarette.
“Suit yourself, inspector. You know that Woozy Wiker was imported from Chicago to kill me. I knew he would do it unless I beat him to the punch. You know as well as I do the police are powerless to prevent these gang killings.
“I planted the box, figuring that he’d steal it and it alone. The tear-gas bomb just happened to be left in my pocket after the police had armed me to capture a gangster. That turned out to be a false alarm, a couple of rats in my closet, you know.
“How was I to know that bandits would make their escape before the police arrived on the scene? How was I to know that Forman would leave out a few choice bits of jewellery for the bandits to take?
“I thought the bandits would grab the box, try to make their escape in their Cadillac, spring the tear-gas bomb which I’d fixed to go off when the box was open, wreck the car, and fall into the hands of the police. You see, that Cadillac had to be operated with the windows tightly closed to guard against bullets. It was the one weak point in the scheme of its operation. The seeds of its own destruction, one might say.
“I admit that I was the first one on the scene of the accident, that I grabbed a black bag, not knowing at the time what was in it. Then I ran to look for the police. Before I could find an officer and get back, the men had gone.”
Inspector Quigley bit the end from a cigar, scraped a vicious match across the sole of his shoe.
“We were sending the officers out to put a cordon around the district,” he said.
Paul Pry nodded.
“Of course, but I couldn’t know that. And— Well, inspector, it wouldn’t look very well in print. You threw out your officers, left the shopping district unprotected, and allowed the criminals to escape.
“How much better it would be for you to announce that you had recovered the stolen jewellery, captured the armoured Cadillac, and expected to make some important arrests within the next twenty-four hours. Then you could collect the reward which Forman has offered for the recovery of the jewellery.”
Inspector Quigley flung the burning match into the gas fireplace and grunted.
“And split the reward with you, eh?”
“Of course,” said Paul Pry. “You take the credit and half of the reward. I get half of the reward and take all of the risk. You know, inspector, I’ve made you a pretty penny in reward money the last few months, and it’s all been legitimate.”
Inspector Quigley regarded the smoking end of the cigar with judicious deliberation.
“How about this claim your lawyer has presented against Forman for the loss of fifty thousand dollars cash that was entrusted to his possession. You must admit there wasn’t fifty thousand dollars cash in that box.”
Paul Pry looked his innocence.
“Why, how can you say that? No one knows just exactly what was in that box except the bandits who stole it, and they won’t testify, of course.”
“Of course,” echoed the inspector.
“And then again,” resumed Paul Pry, “that claim has been assigned to Miss Virginia Smithers, a very estimable young lady who claims Forman swindled her out of seventeen hundred dollars’ worth of diamonds through a substitution. I understand my attorney is compromising the claim with Forman for exactly seventeen hundred dollars — the claim for the loss of the fifty thousand dollars in cash.”
“Humph!” said Inspector Quigley.
It was significant that he had come alone, that there were no outside witnesses to his interview with Paul Pry.
“Humph!” he said again.
“The reward offered for the return of the jewels is seven thousand five hundred dollars,” reminded Paul Pry. “You can figure fifty percent of that as well as I can. It takes no great problem in mental arithmetic.”
Quigley nodded, again regarded the smouldering tip of his cigar.
“What I’m trying to convince myself of is that you ain’t sort of an accomplice,” he said. “I couldn’t compound a felony.”
“Of course not,” agreed Paul Pry with a smile. “If you think I have committed a felony, you have only to ask the district attorney if he’d like to prosecute me before a jury. His case would disclose that I was at war with a gang, that I was fighting for my life against methods which admittedly leave the police powerless. My life was threatened by a notorious gangster killer from Chicago, I set a trap to defend myself. Unwittingly, that trap included the recovery of stolen gems. I offer to surrender those gems to the police and split the reward.
“If such a case were prosecuted against me, you’d have a hard time proving the facts. You’d make the police the laughing stock of the country. The district attorney would be laughed out of court, and you’d lose the reward.”
“And if you even spoke to the district attorney about it and got his advice, he’d want you to split your half of the reward with him. One fourth of seven thousand five hundred dollars is much less than one half of that sum.”