“Very well. I will be here at 3.45. That will give you a chance to have the necklaces properly displayed.”
Moffit tugged at the fingers of his left hand with his right hand until the knuckle joints popped, one by one.
“I’d like to have you here as soon as possible. If you don’t want the necklaces I’d want to send them back on the 4.15. I haven’t facilities for keeping such valuable gems here.”
Paul Pry nodded casually.
“I’ll make a selection by four o’clock,” he promised. “Good morning, Mr. Moffit.”
The jeweller looked at his watch.
“It’s afternoon now,” he said. “I’ll telephone my wholesaler before I go to lunch.”
Paul Pry smiled.
“My mistake. Good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Garfield.”
Paul Pry sauntered down a side street from which he could watch the door of Moffit’s jewellery store. In precisely five minutes he saw Mr. Moffit emerge and hobble excitedly toward the bank. From time to time, the snowy-haired gentleman glanced apprehensively over his shoulder.
Paul Pry smiled and returned to his room in the hotel, where he made some casual inquiries about train service, placed a telephone call to the baggage department of the depot, and then summoned the porter.
“My baggage is lost,” he informed that individual. “What’s the best way to get action?”
“There ain’t any,” said the porter. “You cuss out the local man. He ain’t got the baggage. He puts in a tracer. You can’t cuss the man that lost the baggage and there ain’t no satisfaction in cussing anybody else. If they find it, they’ll send it to you. If they don’t you’ll have an argument with the claim department. I can’t help you.”
Paul Pry gathered himself in erect dignity.
“I,” he announced, “shall go directly to headquarters. How can I get to the city?”
“Interurban.”
“No other way?”
“Automobile.”
“There isn’t a train for two hours, and automobile will be almost as slow as a train by the time I’ve fought my way through all the traffic.”
The porter shrugged.
“Airport down here. A guy’s barnstorming at five bucks a throw.”
Paul Pry snapped his jaw shut.
“Here,” he said, “is where you see some action on a baggage claim. I’m going to talk turkey to the higher-ups in that railroad company, and I don’t mean maybe.”
He pulled his hat on with a vigorous gesture of defiance to the world in general, left the hotel, found the barnstorming aviator and arranged for passage to the city.
The plane roared from the field, clipped against the blue of the skyline like some great bird and droned into the horizon. Paul Pry consulted his watch, made careful note of the time, sat back in his seat and smiled.
The vacant stretches of rocky woodland flashed past, relieved by occasional buildings clustered in little grounds. A great body of water showed dark and sluggish. In the distance the congested district of the city showed as a white haze of buildings.
Momentarily those buildings became more clear. The ground below presented scattering dwellings which gave place to small communities, and finally merged into a compact mass of structures. The streets became congested, walled by higher buildings, and finally became deep canyons. Towering skyscrapers seemed to stretch clutching fingers at the undercarriage. The roar of the motor suddenly throttled down to a mere clicking. The plane stood on one wing, drifted down in a steep slant. A field opened up below. The plane straightened into a flat glide, and little jars ran up from the landing wheels.
Paul Pry took off helmet and goggles, shook hands with the pilot, handed him a bill, and strode purposefully toward that end of the field where taxicabs were clustered.
“Stillwell Hotel,” he snapped at the driver as he entered the cab.
The cab speeded down the cross streets, stopped and eased its way into the traffic of the boulevard. At the Stillwell Hotel, Paul Pry walked across the lobby, engaged another cab, and was taken to the interurban depot.
He had twenty-five minutes to spare.
He employed that twenty-five minutes in studying the faces of such passengers as presented themselves at the gate marked Centerville.
The women he dismissed with a single glance. A florid gentleman with a suitcase and an anaemic man with a briefcase were also passed up. It was when a young man appeared, striding purposefully, a black handbag under his arm, that Paul Pry’s eyes became diamond hard.
That man glanced at a wristwatch, clamped the bag under his arm in a solid grip and turned his eyes to the sporting section of the newspaper which he carried.
For ten minutes he was engrossed in the paper, then the gate slid back upon well-oiled rollers, and the little group filed toward the interurban car.
The young man glanced about him, took mental note of the occupants of the car, set the black handbag on the seat beside him, and turned his attention toward the newspaper again. The black bag was distinctly studded with brass rivets.
Apparently, the transportation of small fortunes in gems was merely a matter of daily routine with the young man. He watched the bag as a mere routine, not nervously or apprehensively.
The car jolted out of the depot, clanged its way into the subway tunnel, rushed through the darkness, and finally began a long sloping climb. Out into the daylight and the city streets it emerged. On either side were thronged sidewalks and tall buildings.
The man with the bag lurched and swayed with the motion of the car, his eyes still devouring the sporting page of the afternoon newspaper. The black bag reposed on the seat beside him.
Yet the man was watchful, as was shown when the car came to a stop at its first station. The sporting page came down and the man’s eyes came up, searched the faces of the passengers, turned to the black bag.
Two people got off. The bell clanged. The car lurched forward, gathered speed, and the sporting page came up again.
Paul Pry lounged back in his seat. He was sitting where he could command a view of the young man, and to say that any single motion missed the diamond-hard glitter of his appraising eyes would be to distort the facts.
At 3.37 the car jolted to a stop at Centerville. Paul Pry glanced from the window. He saw that a paunchy individual in olive drab with a gold star on his vest and a big cigar in his mouth was scrutinizing the faces of the passengers as they descended from the car.
The man with the black bag, now quietly watchful, eased his way to the vestibule of the car, walked down the steel steps with a catlike tread, glanced at the paunchy individual and bowed.
The officer came forward, extended a fat hand, talked for a few minutes in a mysterious undertone, and then escorted the messenger to the jewellery store of Samuel Moffit.
Paul Pry waited for five minutes, then strolled casually toward the store. But he did not enter. Instead he waited to see if the messenger was coming out. When he found that the messenger remained inside the store, Paul Pry walked briskly to his hotel, went to his room, and telephoned Moffit.
“Garfield speaking, Mr. Moffit. Did the gems come?”
“Yes. I have them here.”
“Sorry I can’t get down right away. I have a long-distance call coming in. I’ll make it as soon as I can.”
Moffit’s voice sounded a little nervous.
“I’d like to get the messenger back on the 4.15, you know,” said Moffit.
Pry hesitated.
“Tell you what you do,” he said at length, “bring the stones on up to my room, 908. I’ll look them over here. That will be better than coming down to the store, anyhow.”
“Very well,” said Moffit, but his tone was suddenly cold.
Five minutes later there were steps in the corridor, followed by a knock at the door.