Paul Pry nodded smilingly.
“Of course!” he purred.
The clerk vanished, returned with the package.
“It’s scheduled for the six o’clock bus. Sure you don’t want it sent out?”
“Certain. The order’s been cancelled. Thank you.”
“Twenty-five cent handling charge. Shipped prepaid. You’ve got a credit coming.”
“Buy a cigar with it,” said Paul Pry, as he walked out of the door with the package which had originally been sent by Samuel Bergen to Herbert Dangerfield, the bill of lading for which had been through so many adventures.
In his pocket there still remained the bill of lading for an incense burner, shipped to Herbert Dangerfield at Midland, and due to leave on the six o’clock bus — the bill of lading for the purchase he himself had made for a very good reason.
He consulted his watch, muttered an exclamation of surprise.
“How rapidly time flies,” he remarked to himself, and sauntered toward the corner of the Cody Building.
A man with a pink carnation in his coat was waiting there when Paul arrived. The man seemed impatient.
Paul bowed, smiled.
“A certain young lady, who was unable to get away from her employment, requested that I deliver a certain document to you, and ask if you had any further instructions,” he drawled.
The man grabbed the bill of lading.
“About time,” he snapped, and hurried into the crowd, taking elaborate preparations to see that he was not followed.
But Paul Pry had no need to follow the man.
He returned to his rented roadster, parked within sight of the exit from the offices of the Interurban Motor Express Company. In the rear of that roadster was the package he had received when he had cancelled the shipment of Bergen’s package and surrendered the bill of lading.
He swung into the seat, cocked his feet up on the dash, lit a cigarette, and surveyed the faces of the hurrying throng that surged around him with a smile of placid repose.
Big Front Gilvray had arranged to have the bill of lading surrendered to his man during the rush hour when the streets were at the height of late-afternoon congestion. His man surrendered the papers Paul had given him at a time when the Interurban Motor Express Company was at the peak of its rush hour, employees rushing about, packages cascading down metal-lined chutes, truck engines roaring, men sweating, telephones ringing.
The man with the carnation swung from the door of the express company with a square package under his arm. He glanced surreptitiously up and down the street, then plunged into the mass of humanity.
Ten seconds later, ensconced in a closed car which had been parked at the kerb, a car driven by a coloured chauffeur in livery, the man was whisked away.
Behind that closed car, driving with consummate skill, Paul Pry piloted his rented roadster.
The chase led to an apartment building, one that was very similar to the one where Paul Pry maintained his own quarters.
The man jumped from the car, ran toward a door.
Paul Pry whistled, sharply.
The man turned. A hand went back to his hip pocket.
Paul Pry slammed on the brakes, jumped to the kerb.
“I forgot to include my card with the package,” he said, and extended a slip of oblong pasteboard.
The man took the pasteboard.
“How the hell did you get here?” he demanded.
Paul merely bowed, smiled.
“Thank you, thank you.”
“Not so fast,” growled the man. His gaze went swiftly up and down the street. “Back into that doorway, you damn fool, and keep your hands up.”
Paul Pry backed into the doorway, his face wearing a pained expression of puzzled surprise.
The man with the carnation lunged forward. Blued steel glittered in his right hand.
“Stick ’m up,” he said.
Paul Pry’s wrist swung the cane in a glittering arc, too swiftly rapid for the eye to follow. There was the sound of a cracking click as the wood crashed against the blued steel, the whoosh of expelled breath as the point jabbed into the pit of the man’s stomach.
“Touché!” exclaimed Paul Pry, as he pushed past the figure.
The man groped for his gun, his face writhing in agony, his skin greenish, his mouth open, gasping for air.
Paul Pry vaulted into the seat of his roadster. Behind it a long string of cars was clamouring for action. Paul Pry slammed in the gears. The roadster shot forward. The string of impatient cars filled up the gap. By the time the man with the carnation reached the closed car pursuit was out of the question. Paul Pry was driving at the head of a snarled mass of traffic.
He reached his apartment just as Mugs Magoo was reaching for a telephone.
“Oh, there you are, sir. I was wondering if I hadn’t better find out where Gilvray was holed up and get in touch with him. I was getting a mite worried, sir.”
“No need, Mugs. I had a perfectly delightful afternoon. The only thing that bothered me was the fact that Gilvray might suspect the moll of a double-cross and make it hot for her, so I had to send him my card with a brief note of thanks, telling him just how I had put two and two together.”
“And did you make four?” asked Mugs.
“I think so, Mugs. I think so. We’ll watch the personal column of The Examiner for the next few days. And just imagine the surprise of Big Front Gilvray when he opens the package and finds he’s got one brass incense burner, no more, no less. And do you know, Mugs, I stopped at an art store and arranged to have two pounds of choice incense delivered to him at his apartment. His name’s on the apartment directory, Mugs, B F Gilvray — can you feature that? I suppose the initials stand for Big Front?”
“Nope, they stand for Benjamin Franklin. The boys all call him Big Front. Sure he lives under his own name, right out in the open.”
Paul Pry smiled.
“Benjamin Franklin, eh?” he queried.
R. C. Fenniman was obstinate. It was not until after he had exhausted every possible source of aid from police and detectives that he availed himself of Paul Pry’s offer. It was one day a good two weeks after the episode of the substituted packages that Mugs Magoo looked up from The Examiner.
“Here it is, sir — an ad signed with the initials R. C. F.”
Party offering return package for reward: You were right. Order was fake. Reward of two thousand dollars offered for return. Package worth six thousand, no more.
Paul Pry chuckled.
“Make up as a panhandler, Mugs. Take the package around to him. Call his attention to the fact that it’s never been opened. And if he tries to question you, simply tell him you were working the streets when a man asked you to deliver the package, take the reward and put in it this envelope.”
“He may grab the package and refuse to kick through with the reward.”
“That would be wonderful, Mugs. You could tell him that, if he didn’t come through, the man who gave you the package said he would collect the reward with interest by methods of his own.”
Mugs chuckled.
“An’ I guess he’s had enough of them sort of methods, sir. Bet he’s thrown a fit first and last. The receipt he returned to the express company tallied with the number on the box he got back. It’s probably never occurred to ’em that the bills of lading were switched. They’ve been looking for an inside job in the express office.”
Paul Pry lit a cigarette.
“Perhaps, Mugs. But we can’t be concerned with details. By the way, drop past the Caledonia Apartments on your way back and see if Gilvray is still registered there. I would rather fancy making a little more money out of the criminal activities of this Gilvray chap. Benjamin Franklin! Fancy!”
The Racket Buster