“But,” said Paul Pry, “what good would it do?”
“Simply this,” she said. “You could break away from the dance and move around the house. I could show you where the papers were. If you encountered any of the servants or anyone, you could pull your gun and act the part of a highwayman. If anything went wrong you could claim that it was merely in fun as a part of the masquerade.
“But nothing will go wrong. You can get in and get the papers. I know exactly where he keeps them. Then you could mingle with the guests, attract attention for your unusual costume, slip out and join me on the outside.”
“But,” said Paul Pry, “I have no invitation.”
“You wouldn’t need any,” she said. “There is a ladder in the back of the house and we could put it up to one of the second-storey windows. Those are always unlocked. You could climb in.”
“No,” said Paul Pry slowly, “that wouldn’t be such a good scheme. It would be better to try and crash the party. I might forge an invitation.”
“There’s a thought!” she exclaimed. “I could get you an invitation. You could walk right in the front door and then you could slip away from the crowd and go up to his study where he keeps the letters.”
“But they would be under lock and key, wouldn’t they?”
“No. That is, they’d be in a desk and the desk has a lock on it; but you could handle that lock easily enough. I think I could get you a skeleton key that would work it.”
Paul Pry slipped an arm about her waist. “I’ll do it, Stella,” he said, “for an old friend.”
She laughed throatily. “Such a gallant creature,” she said, “deserves another — prerogative of friendship.”
She leaned forward.
3. Murder Masquerade
Mugs Magoo was seated in the apartment when Paul Pry latch-keyed the door and walked in. Magoo looked up in glassy-eyed appraisal. Then he reached for the half-filled whiskey bottle at this elbow, poured out a generous drink in a tumbler and drained it with a single motion.
“Well,” he said, “I never expected to see you again.”
“You always were a cheerful cuss,” said Paul Pry, depositing his coat and hat in the closet.
“Just a fool for luck,” said Mugs Magoo jovially. “You’ve had an appointment that’s six months overdue that I know of. There’s a marble slab all picked out for you and why you haven’t been on it for a long time is more than I know.”
“Mugs,” said Paul Pry laughing, “you’re a natural pessimist.”
“Pessimist nothing,” said Mugs. “You disregard signals, you walk into the damnedest traps and how you ever get out is more than I know.”
“How do you mean?” asked Paul Pry.
“The woman that was with you at the table,” Mugs Magoo said, “was ‘Slick’ Stella Molay, and she was covering Tom Meek. I saw you slip over and get the letter and she saw you, too. Frank Bostwick is just a lawyer. He’s all right to stand up in front of a jury and wave his arms and talk about the Constitution, but he isn’t fast on his feet. That’s why Tompkins had Slick Stella Molay follow Tom Meek to make sure that the letter got delivered.”
“I see,” said Paul Pry. “Then Slick Stella knew that I had the letter. Is that it?”
“Of course she did.”
“Why didn’t she accuse me of it, or try to steal it?”
“Because she knew it wouldn’t do any good. She knew that you were wise to the play and that you were going to read the letter.”
“What did she want with me then?” asked Paul Pry.
Mugs Magoo gave a snorting gesture of disgust. “Want with you!” he exclaimed. “She wanted to get you out of the way, of course. She wanted to put you where you’ll be pushing up daisies.”
Paul Pry grinned gleefully. “Well,” he said, “I’m still here.”
“Still here because of that providence which watches over fools and idiots,” Mugs Magoo told him. “With the chances you take and the way you walk into trouble, it’s a wonder you haven’t been killed months ago. Why, do you know that Slick Stella Molay is the one who got ‘Big’ Ben Desmond killed in Chicago?”
“Indeed,” said Paul Pry, raising polite eyebrows, “and how did Big Ben Desmond cash in? Did she shoot him or use poison?”
Mugs Magoo poured himself another drink of whiskey. “Not that baby,” he said. “She’s too slick for that.”
“All right,” said Paul Pry, “I confess to my interest, Mugs. Go ahead and quit keeping me in suspense.”
“Well,” said Mugs Magoo, “it was so slick there wasn’t a flaw in it. The grand jury looked it all over and couldn’t do anything about it.”
Paul Pry relaxed comfortably in a reclining chair, lit a cigarette and let his face show polite interest.
“Do you mean to say, Mugs, that a person could murder another, under such circumstances that a grand jury could look it over and couldn’t find anything wrong with it?”
“Slick Stella Molay could,” said Mugs Magoo.
“And just how did she do it?”
“She got Big Ben Desmond sold on the idea that he was to go to a masquerade ball dressed as a highwayman. Then she got him to go prowling around the house of the man that was giving the masquerade. That man was in his bedroom standing in front of a wall safe, putting some jewellery away, when he heard the sound of a door opening. He turned around and saw a man dressed like a crook, with gloves and a mask, a gun and all the rest of it.
“The guy who was giving the party was heeled, and he just snapped up his gun and plopped five shells into Big Ben Dawson’s guts before he found out that he was shooting a guest who had just been walking around the house in a masquerade costume.”
Paul Pry yawned and stifled the yawn with four polite fingers.
“Indeed, Mugs,” he said. “Rather crude. I had thought it might be sufficiently novel to be interesting.”
“Well,” said Mugs Magoo, “it was novel enough to get Big Ben Desmond out of the way; and the grand jury couldn’t do anything to the guy that killed him because they claimed the guy was entitled to shoot a burglar. And Slick Stella Molay was out in the clear. She put an onion in her handkerchief, went before the grand jury full of weeps and red-eyed grief. They say her eyes looked like hell when she was testifying, but she was damned careful her legs were all right. She wore the best pair of stockings in her wardrobe and when she crossed her knees the grand jury decided that, no matter what had happened, Slick Stella didn’t know anything about it.”
“And so,” asked Paul Pry, “you think she’d like to get me out of the way?”
“Sure she would. What was in the letter?”
“I don’t know.”
Mugs Magoo sat bolt upright in his chair and stared with protruding, glassy eyes at Paul Pry.
“You mean to say that you don’t know what’s in the letter?”
“No. I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“Well, what the devil did you take the letter for?”
“To read, of course.”
“Well, why didn’t you read it?”
“I put it down in my shoe and haven’t had a chance,” said Paul Pry.
Casually, as if the matter were of minor importance, he took the envelope from his shoe, opened his penknife with great deliberation, and slit the envelope along the side. He shook out a folded piece of paper.
“What’s it say?” asked Mugs Magoo eagerly.
Paul Pry frowned.
“Rather a puzzling message, I should say, Mugs.”
“Well, what is it?”
Paul Pry read the letter out loud — “Tell Stella there’s a screw loose, it’s Bunny’s nutcracker and to make the play but spring me before you flash the take.”