Lange went momentarily mad with rage. Every semblance of self-control went from him. He lashed out furiously and caught Farris a stinging blow on the side of the head. “You’re going to take a beating!” cried Lange.
But Farris met his rush with a straight-arm jolt to the wind which sat Lange neatly upon his haunches. Infuriated, the tears of chagrin streaming down his face, Lange drew his gun as he staggered to his feet.
Farris closed in. They wrestled. Farris slipped and in his attempt to keep the gun from being twisted against his chest, he unfortunately put his hand over the front of the barrel just as Lange pulled the trigger.
His left hand crushed by ball and powder, Farris backed away. He reached his desk and jerked at a drawer. Lange sent a second bullet through Farris’ left shoulder. Farris fell. From a sitting position, he reached into the drawer and fetched his revolver.
Quite deliberately he aimed at Lange who was sneaking out of the room. He fired and Lange crumpled to the floor. Then Farris, too, lapsed into unconsciousness.
A woman in the next apartment telephoned to the police...
III
The next morning, Detective McKeane, after a visit to the hospital, called on the district attorney and announced that both Farris and Lange would pull through.
“And even though he’s already disposed of the jewels, I got a confession covering the Scofield and Ellingwood robberies,” said McKeane. “Look here — know what this is?”
The district attorney looked at the curious thing McKeane had handed him and shook his head.
“It’s all shot to pieces — doesn’t look like much now. But it was once the most perfect artificial finger ever fashioned by man! It took Farris one year to make it — and he was an expert at the manufacture of artificial limbs. Lost his own finger in an accident — the finger next to the pinky on the left hand. Cut off just above the knuckle. Well, he took his own finger and made a plaster mold of it. In the mold, he made this artificial finger of rubber and other substances. Feel it... you can’t tell it from flesh. Look at the ridges — the veins painted in... and he could get a perfect finger-print with it! It will stand a microscopic test! It is hollow — that’s where he hid the lavalliere!”
“But how was the finger kept—?”
“He made a thin silver ring which fitted snugly around his stump; this silver ring was threaded. Inside the open end of the artificial finger he had another silver ring, also threaded... he simply screwed the finger on — and off! Matter of a few seconds!.. The artificial finger came over the stump: there was a slight visible line, which was painted flesh-color and then protected again by a gold band ring he always wore around the place where the finger and the stump joined.”
“And the finger was perfect in every respect—?”
“But two. By sight or touch it could not be distinguished from a flesh and bone finger. And by a few month’s practice, he had even learned to move it! You see, with his stump, he could move it up to the first joint. The other joint he manipulated by pressure with his pinky. But in these two respects the finger was wanting: it did not take temperature, and if you squeezed hard, you could press it together. But in these latter respects, he was in little danger, since he shook hands with his right hand, of course, and there was no other reason why anyone should ever feel his left. Try to imagine me searching that guy for a lavalliere!”
“H’m. I should say it’s a good thing he’s in for a long siesta!”
“Well... he’s already promised that when he gets out he’s going to make an artificial hand to replace the one Lange blew off of him. Then, he says, he’ll be able to hide half a jewelry store...”
Appearances Are Deceiving
by George B. Jenkins, Jr
I
Garbett squeezed himself out of the East Side subway train, walked through the tunnel, and took a shuttle train that would disgorge its passengers at Times Square. He hung to a strap in complete oblivion of his surroundings, for his mind was busy with the “trick” he was planning.
Mazie had been loitering in the vicinity of the wholesale silk house for the last two weeks. On the following evening she would be ready to report. At that time she would give him a complete description of the location, together with a floor-plan of the building, showing all entrances and exits. Then, there remained the selection of the men he would use, and hiring the trucks to carry away the loot, and making arrangements for selling the silk.
Garbett was an executive. He planned crimes as business men plan advertising or selling campaigns, and with equal skill and intelligence. Not once during his long career had he ventured upon an undertaking without first making careful and thorough investigations. Quick to take advantage of every opportunity, he nevertheless had a code of ethics. He preferred to scheme and plan rather than to wait for a lucky chance. And he had the skilled worker’s justifiable contempt for blunderings and amateurish crudities.
As he stepped from the shuttle train and hurried through the underground tunnel that crawls under Broadway, his mind was busy. Nothing must be left to Fate, every possibility must be anticipated. For half of his thirty-four years he had been in active conflict with law and order. Consequently, even in his moments of concentration he was unconsciously alert.
A portly, white-haired gentleman, moving with the dignity demanded by his weight and build, was walking a short distance before Garbett. A thin clerk, sprinting for a train, collided with Peter Riddick, and raced on without apology. A bobbed, trim stenographer, after completing her toilette with the aid of a pocket mirror, jolted the white-haired gentleman. And Peter Riddick’s long, flat, leather wallet, disturbed from its repose in his hip pocket, fell to the grimy floor.
Temptation reared its tempting head within the crook’s mind. Unaware of his loss, Peter Riddick continued upon his peaceful though buffeted way. Garbett stopped and picked up the purse.
The thunderous roar of racing subway trains, the voices of bellowing subway guards as they called the name of the station, the conversations and shuffling feet of hundreds of subway dwellers, mingled and blended, sounding like the murmurous roar of angry surf breaking upon a rocky shore. Garbett stared at the purse a second, and then he smiled scornfully at the voice of Temptation. He had not acquired this purse and contents in a legitimate and honorable way. Neither had he secured it through his own skill or cunning. Anyone, irrespective of their intelligence or ability, might have found it.
Garbett had worked in crowds before when he had been serving under an instructor in pocket-picking. Therefore he knew how to avoid unwelcome collisions, how to weave his way through tightly packed humanity. He squirmed his way through the flowing masses of people like a drop of water sliding down greased glass.
Peter Riddick turned at the firm touch on his arm and observed the young man who had stopped him. He saw a keen-eyed man, nervously assured in manner, who wore an inconspicuous blue serge suit, a soft brown felt hat, tan shoes, and a sombre necktie.
“I think you dropped this,” said Garbett, presenting the purse to its portly owner.
Naturally, Peter Riddick was astonished when he saw what the young man offered him.
“Well, I’ll— Yes, that’s mine!” he said, his face breaking into a smile of startled happiness as he tapped a pocket and made sure his own wallet was missing. “Young man, I thank you.” He studied his benefactor again.