Tony Iglano, top-sergeant of The Mogul’s yeggs, spoke up. “Do you like that pear-shape stone, Rita? I had to croak a guy to get it. It has blood on it.”
“A little thing like that doesn’t trouble our pretty friend,” put in Geiger, his lips twitching into a cruel, sarcastic smile. “Remember Bradshaw!”
The taunt stung. Rita flushed; she popped out of her seat and flared angrily: “You quit that, Geiger! I’ve had enough of your—”
“Dry up,” broke in Judith. “The neighbors’ll think we’re having a fight.”
Geiger lit a cigarette. “Excuse me, my sensitive young lady. I had no idea you were finicky on that subject.”
So the matter was dropped. At, least, so they thought. But the fury of the embittered Rita did not abate. To be twitted on a murder was not her idea of good humor. And while Geiger’s insult blistered and burned in her heart, her mind strived eagerly to concoct a swift vengeance. Thinking along these lines, she remembered Nevins, and looking up, she saw that his shadow was still on the shade of the house across the way. A few moments ago she was angry with Nevins for having followed her; now, strangely, nothing would have pleased her more than to have Nevins in the same room with her, and see him hand Geiger what was known in the parlance of her set as a swift slap in the snoot.
Still sitting at the open window, she fell into a moody, thoughtful silence. She often affected this pose; the others disregarded her and continued their conversation. Meanwhile, Rita’s troubled mind — and conscience — urged and spurred her to immediate vindictive action.
When she came to the Geiger house that evening, he showed her the jewels which had been stolen by Tony Iglano and one of his gang. Geiger had never come under the suspicion of the police, but he played safe nevertheless. He never kept stolen articles in his safe or in any other place which was likely to be searched. During such time as he had them in his possession, he kept the pilfered treasures in the hollow of the moulding which ran across the wall between the two windows in his parlor. That’s where the stolen jewels were now, in the hollow brass-lined moulding that ran across the wall one foot from the ceiling, from the window near which she sat to the other end of the room.
There was a lavaliere, a pearl necklace and several rings. The lavaliere had a pear-shaped blue-white stone, the rings were engraved with initials and dates. The necklace clasp bore a scratch number. That made all of the jewels easily identifiable. She knew that circulars describing the pieces had been sent to all the police and to private detective agencies.
Tony Iglano had been surprised during the burglary and he had shot and killed. If the jewels were found by the police, Geiger and Iglano could be held on a murder charge.
And friend Nevins, a detective, was across the street, less than a hundred feet away!
And yet the difficulties which blocked her betrayal of Geiger seemed almost insurmountable. For this one point must be kept constantly in the foreground of the reader’s, as it was in Rita’s thoughts; she could under no circumstances commit any act which would disclose her identity. She had to retain the confidence of her circle till she penetrated to its centre, The Mogul.He, after all, was the one she was seeking; if she revealed herself now as a spy, all her previous suffering would have been in vain.
She could, therefore not cry out nor send any message to Nevins or to the police. Her problem was to communicate with Nevins by some method that would escape the attention of the other persons in the room with her. And the message would have to be complicated and of some length; it would have to tell the secret of the hidden jewels.
Such a message could be written or telephoned, but neither of these agencies was practicable. She had neither pen, pencil nor paper, and if she asked for them her request would be certain to arouse some curiosity on the part of her “friends.” And even assuming she could write a note, how could she have it delivered? If she dropped it out of the front window, it would land on the roof of the porch. If she tied it to some heavy object and threw it out, that would be sure to attract attention — and it probably would escape the notice of Nevins who was sitting on the other side of a drawn shade. And, of course, it was altogether impossible to have a note carried to Nevins; she couldn’t run across the street herself nor could she stop a passerby. All this would too obviously arouse the curiosity of the Creightons.
Neither could she telephone. That was one respect in which Creighton guarded her anxiously. Though he appeared to trust her absolutely in all other matters, he always tried to listen in when she phoned.
The task seemed hopeless.
Then someone on the same block started his victrola playing the foxtrot, “Say It With Music.”
Say it with music. Rita could have kissed the man who wrote that song, the band which made the record and the man who had the inspiration to play it at that particular moment.
Rita looked meditatively up at the silvered moulding which held the loot. Her eyes then rested on the mountain landscape which hung on the wall between the two windows. She continued her reflections a few seconds longer, then she sauntered leisurely to Geiger’s victrola and began examining the list of his records.
Geiger fortunately, was an inveterate jazz-fiend. His cabinets held hundreds of records. He had all the popular songs from “Sweet Rosie O’Grady” to “When Frances Dances With Me, Hully Gee!”
There were six titles which especially interested Rita. Her heart beat furiously as she dug out a record, put it on the machine and cranked up the motor.
At that moment, the clock on Geiger’s mantlepiece tolled one, indicating half past nine. She would be leaving in half an hour. There would be just time enough to play six records.
But — would the “stranger” across the street tumble? It was late August; her windows were open — there was a screen in the one at which Nevins was sitting — it was a quiet neighborhood — the other victrola had stopped playing — Nevins would hear clearly the music that was poured from Geiger’s machine. Did Nevins have the intelligence, the quick-wittedness to—
Rita cut short her reflections. All she could do was to chance it and — hope.
“You need a little noise in this joint,” she said to Geiger, “we’re falling asleep.” She put the needle on the record and then took her seat at the open window again.
From Geiger’s victrola poured the sweet voice of Margaret Romaine, pleading “Do You Hear Me Calling?”
Almost instantly Alan Nevins raised his shade!
Rita sitting with one arm on the window sill waved her handkerchief across to him once. The light in his room was turned out and Nevins came down to join several members of the Franklin family who were sitting on the front porch.
“I think that’s an awfully pretty record,” said Rita, keeping her head turned toward the window and fighting desperately to ward off a feeling of faintness.
“Put on sumpin we c’n dance to,” said Tony Iglano when the song had run down.
“Nice fox-trot?” asked Rita, hurrying to the victrola. “Here’s something with pep. Come on, Harry.”
So they paired off, Rita with Creighton and Iglano with Judith; and they danced to the tune of “Blue Diamonds.”
“I’ll try Tony this time,” smiled Rita as she cranked up the machine again. “I want to see how he foxtrots.”
“And I’ll rest,” said Creighton.
“Which leaves Judith for me. Thank you,” grinned Geiger.
So they danced again. This time to the music of “Look For The Silver Lining.”