“Is that all of it?” asked Mugs Magoo.
“That’s all of it,” said Paul Pry.
“Well,” said Mugs, “we know now why Stella was sticking around that lawyer. Frank Bostwick would never have known what that meant.”
“Do you know?” asked Paul Pry.
“Well,” said Mugs Magoo, regarding the diminishing level of amber fluid in the whiskey bottle with a mournful expression, “there’s some things about it I don’t understand. Bunny must be Bunny Myers and when Tompkins says to spring him before flashing the take, it means that he’s to actually be out of jail before they exhibit the diamond or turn it over to the insurance company.”
“Do you suppose that means that there’s something phoney about the diamond?” asked Paul Pry.
Mugs said: “Tompkins wouldn’t dare to deliver a phoney gem to the insurance company. But he’s just playing cautious. Lots of times the insurance companies make promises about what they’ll do with the district attorney if the crook will come through and tell the hiding place of the gem. Then, when it comes to a showdown, and the insurance company is in the clear, they lose all interest in the matter and the crook gets about twice as stiff a jolt as he would otherwise have drawn.”
“Tell me some more about Bunny Myers,” said Paul Pry.
“He’s an undersized guy with mild eyes and a big nose and rabbit teeth. They stick out in front and make you feel like feeding him a carrot whenever you see him. I haven’t run across Bunny for four or five years; but I know that he used to run around with Tompkins on some of the gem stuff.
“Bunny is a good man to have along because he’s so harmless. He looks like a regular rabbit and damned if he don’t act like one.”
“Any great amount of ability?” asked Paul Pry.
“Yes, he’s pretty fast with his noodle,” Mugs Magoo admitted, “and he’s a pretty good actor. He’s cultivated that manner of meekness because nobody ever expects a stick-up artist to have such a meek appearance.”
“Well,” said Paul Pry, “there’s no use bothering my head about it. The message is in some sort of code and it doesn’t seem to help us very much. I’ve got to get my beauty sleep, because I’ve got a hard night ahead of me tomorrow night.”
“Pulling a job tomorrow night?” asked Mugs Magoo, showing interest.
“No,” said Paul Pry, “I’m going out to a ball tomorrow night.”
“What sort of a ball?” Mugs Magoo inquired.
“A ball that Slick Stella Molay wants me to go to with her,” said Paul Pry. “She’s going to arrange for an invitation. I’m going in rather a unique costume. She’s worked it all out for me, Mugs. It’s rather novel. I’m going as a conventional burglar, dressed in a mask and carrying a gun and kit of burglar tools.”
Mugs Magoo whirled around and the whiskey bottle, struck by his shoulder, toppled for a moment and crashed to the floor.
“You’re what?” he yelled.
“Don’t shout,” said Paul Pry. “I’m merely going to a masquerade ball with Slick Stella Molay, dressed as a burglar.”
Mugs Magoo shook his head dolefully. His hand went to his forehead, as though trying to hold his brain to some semblance of sanity by physical pressure.
“Oh, my God!” he groaned.
“And, by the way,” said Paul Pry, “undoubtedly, you’re correct in your assumption that Stella knows I picked up the letter Tom Meek left for the lawyer. They’ll try to get another one smuggled out of the jail. How long will it take them?”
Mugs Magoo shook his head lugubriously from side to side.
“As far as that’s concerned,” he said, “it’ll probably take them a couple of days. They’ve got to smuggle a message in to Tompkins and then Tompkins has got to get another letter to Meek and have it delivered. But you don’t need to worry about it, guy. You won’t be here when it happens. You’ll be lying flat on your back with a lily in your hand. You were a good pal while you lasted but you’re like the pitcher that went to the well too often.
“I don’t want to intrude on your private affairs, but if you’d let me know the songs that you like best, I’ll see that the undertaker gives you the breaks when it comes to the music.”
4. Bunny’s Nutcracker
The cab driver swung in behind the line of cars that crawled along close to the kerb and Slick Stella Molay said: “This is the place.”
Within a few seconds Paul Pry was handing Stella out from the taxicab and receiving her gracious smile.
“Darling,” she said, “you look splendid. You make my heart go pitty-pat. You look exactly like a burglar.”
Paul Pry accepted the compliment and paid off the taxi driver.
“I’ll say he looks like a burglar,” said the taxi driver, pocketing the money. “It was all I could do to keep from shelling out instead of handing him the meter slip. You see, lady, I was stuck up a week ago and my stomach still feels cold where the gun was pointed.”
“And, so this,” said Paul Pry, “is the lair of the famous Silver Dawson?”
“Yes,” she said. “He’s the blackmail king of the underworld. He’s a fighter. I wish someone would kill him.”
“Will I meet him,” asked Paul Pry, “as we go in?”
“No,” she said. “Simply show your invitation to the man at the door and then we’ll go in and mingle with the crowd for a minute, have a drink of punch and perhaps a dance. After that you go upstairs. The study is the room on the front of the house on the second floor and the papers are there in the desk. I’ve given you the key.”
“Then what?” asked Paul Pry.
“Then,” she said, “we mingle around with the crowd a little longer and then go back to the apartment.”
“Without unmasking?” asked Paul Pry.
“Without unmasking,” she said. “I would have to unmask if you did, and if Silver Dawson saw me here he’d know right away something was wrong and that our invitations had been forged.”
“And if I should meet any of the servants?” asked Paul Pry.
“Then,” she said, “go ahead and stick a gun in their ribs. Tie them and gag them if you have to, or knock them out. You don’t need to worry, because if anybody should touch you, you could claim that you were looking for the restroom.”
She turned and flashed him a dazzling look from her wide blue eyes, a smile from her sensuous, parted lips.
“You see,” she said, “everybody would know that you had attended the masquerade in this costume so it would be all right.”
Paul Pry nodded. “All right,” he said, “let’s go.”
They walked into the house, surrendered their forged invitations to a doorman and mingled with the crowd. A dozen or more couples were already hilarious from the effects of a remarkably strong punch which was being dished out in quantities by an urbane individual in evening clothes, who had a napkin hanging over his left forearm.
Paul Pry escorted Stella to the punch bowl and, after the second drink of punch, she whirled him out to the floor as the orchestra struck up a dance.
She held herself close to him and whispered words of soft endearment in his ear as they moved lightly across the floor.
“Darling,” she said, “you’d be surprised at how grateful I’m going to be.”
“Yes?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “The prerogatives of a long friendship, you know.”
Paul Pry missed a step and suddenly tightened his arms about the willowy figure in order to let her understand his appreciation.
“I think,” she cooed, leaning toward him so that her lips were close to his, “we had better swing over toward this darkest corner by the door. That door leads to the hallway and you go up the stairs and into the front room. I think Silver Dawson is the man dressed in the red devil suit over there by the punch bowl. I’m quite certain there won’t be anyone on the upper floor. I’ve kept my eyes open, getting the servants spotted, and I’m sure they’re all downstairs.”