His quick eyes had detected a small enamelled box for outgoing mail, and Paul Pry’s deft fingers raised the lid of the box and explored the interior.
There were three letters addressed in a cramped, angular handwriting. Paul Pry flipped the letters, one over the other, in rapid succession, scanning the addresses. The third envelope was addressed to Fremont Burke, General Delivery.
Paul Pry stuck it in his pocket, returned the others to the mail box, and then moved on furtive feet back into the reception parlour.
He had barely resumed his seat when the butler entered through another door. “Mr. Hammond,” he said, “will see you.”
Paul Pry walked across the room, followed the butler down a passageway and went through a door the servant indicated.
A man with great puffs under his eyes, a look of infinite weariness upon his face, stared at him with expressionless interrogation. “Well,” he said, “what was it you wanted?”
“I have reason,” said Paul Pry, “to believe that your life is in danger.”
“I think you are mistaken,” said Hammond.
“I have reason,” said Paul Pry, “to believe that the same fate which overtook Charles C Darwin may, perhaps, be in store for you.”
Perry Hammond shook his head. “Whoever gave you your information,” he said, “misinformed you.”
“In other words,” said Paul Pry slowly, “you deny that you have received any demands from a person who has threatened you with death or disaster in the event you fail to comply? You deny that you have been threatened with death, under circumstances similar to the threats which were made to Mr. Charles Darwin?”
“I,” said Perry Hammond, slowly and deliberately, “don’t know what you’re talking about. I saw you because I thought you might be interested in getting some information about Mr. Darwin. As far as I am concerned, you can get out and stay out.”
Paul Pry bowed. “Thank you very much,” he said, “for your interview, Mr. Hammond.” He turned on his heel.
“Wait a minute,” said the millionaire in a cold, husky voice. “Are you a newspaper reporter?”
“No,” said Paul Pry without turning.
“Then who the devil are you?” asked Hammond with sudden irritation.
Paul Pry turned to face the millionaire. “I am a man,” he said, smiling affably, “who is going to make you extremely sorry you lied to him.”
With that, he turned once more and strode steadily and purposefully down the carpeted corridor.
Mugs Magoo looked up from his whiskey glass as Paul Pry latch-keyed the apartment door. “Well,” he said mournfully, “I see you’re still with us.”
“Temporarily, at least, Mugs,” Paul Pry retorted, smiling.
He hung up his hat and coat, crossed to a closet and opened the door. The closet contained a collection of drums, drums of various sorts and descriptions.
Mugs Magoo shuddered. “For God’s sake,” he said, “don’t start that!”
Paul Pry laughed lightly and fingered the drums with the attentive care that a hunter might give to the selection of a gun from a gun cabinet.
Mugs Magoo hastily poured liquor into the glass. “At least,” he said, “give me fifteen minutes to get liquored before you start. Those damn drums do things to me. They get into my blood and make the pulses pound.”
Paul Pry’s voice was almost dreamy as he picked out a round piece of wood which seemed to be entirely solid, save for a cut along one end, with two holes bored at the end of the cut.
“That, Mugs,” he said, “is the function of drums. We don’t know exactly what it is they do, but they seem to get into a person’s blood. You don’t like the sound of drums, Mugs, because you are afraid of the primitive. You are continually trying to run away from yourself. Doubtless a psychoanalyst could look into your past and find that your taste for whiskey had its inception in an attempt to drown some real or fancied sorrow.”
Mugs Magoo let his face show extreme consternation. “You’re not going to take me to one of those psychoanalysts?” he asked.
Paul Pry shook his head. “Certainly not, Mugs,” he said. “I think it is too late to effect a cure now, and, in the event a cure was effected, Mugs, you would lose your taste for whiskey.
“Drums, Mugs, do to me exactly what whiskey does to you. If you could cultivate a taste for drums, I think I would endeavour to cure you of the whiskey habit. But, since you cannot, the only thing I can do is to let you enjoy your pleasures in your own way, and insist that you allow me an equal latitude.”
Paul Pry sat down in the chair which faced the big fireplace, took a long, slender stick, to the end of which had been affixed a rosebud-shaped bit of hard wood.
“Now, Mugs,” he said, “here we have a Mok Yeitt, otherwise known as a ‘wooden fish’. The wooden fish is a prayer drum used by the Buddhists in China to pave the way for a friendly reception to their prayers. If you will listen, Mugs, you will get the remarkable delicacy of tone which the better specimens of these drums give. They are cunningly carved by hand. A hole is made in either end of the slit, and the wood is hollowed out with painstaking care...”
“For God’s sake!” said Mugs Magoo, “don’t! You’re going to drive me crazy with that thing!”
Paul Pry shook his head, started tapping the wooden stick against the bulge of the drum. A throbbing sound filled the apartment, a sound which had a peculiar wooden resonance which trailed off into vibrating overtones.
Mugs Magoo frantically downed the whiskey, poured himself another drink, gulped it, then shivered and sat motionless. After a moment, he placed his one hand against his ear.
“I can shut out half of the sound, anyhow,” he said, at length.
Paul Pry paid no attention to him, but continued tapping upon the drum at regular intervals.
“What’s the idea of all the drumming now?” asked Mugs Magoo.
“I’m trying to concentrate,” said Paul Pry. “I think I almost have the solution I want.”
Abruptly, he ceased drumming and smiled benignly at Mugs. “Yes, Mugs,” he said, “I have the solution.”
Mugs Magoo shivered. “It’ll be another five minutes,” he said, “before that whiskey takes effect. I was spared five minutes of torture anyway. What is the solution?”
Paul Pry set down the Mok Yeitt. He reached into the inside pocket of his coat, pulled out an envelope, the flap of which had been steamed open, and took out a letter and a tinted oblong of paper.
“Mugs,” he said, “I have here a letter bearing the angular signature of Perry C Hammond, a multi-millionaire. Let me read it to you.
“Mr. Fremont Burke,
General Delivery,
City.
Dear Mr. Burke:
I herewith comply with your request. You will find enclosed my cheque for twenty-five thousand dollars, payable to bearer. I wish to assure you that no attempt whatever will be made to interfere with the cashing of that cheque. On the other hand, I have notified my bankers by telephone that the cheque represents the transfer of consideration in a bona fide business deal, and that they are to promptly honour the cheque when it is presented.
Trusting that this complies in full with your demands and that I may now be at liberty to consider the matter closed, I am,
Very truly yours,
Mugs Magoo stared at Paul Pry. “A cheque,” he said, “for twenty-five thousand dollars?”
Paul Pry nodded. “And don’t forget, Mugs,” he said, “that it’s payable to bearer.”
“But,” said Mugs Magoo, “who is the bearer?”
Paul Pry got to his feet, replaced the wooden fish in the drum closet, closed the door, turned to Mugs and smiled once more. “Mugs,” he said, “I am the bearer.”