“Let me see them.”
Pratt extended his greedy hands, scrutinized the letters, the addresses, looked at the postmarks, cancelled stamps, stretched his razor-edged mouth into a smile.
“Ah, yes,” he said, summoned a clerk.
“Cash this check and get the gentleman ten thousand dollars,” he said.
The clerk brought in the money, handed it to Dundley.
That individual tried to count it, but nervousness made his hands tremble until they refused to function.
“I guess it’s right,” he said, thrust the money into his coat pocket, arose from the chair, made a short bow and dived for the door.
Ten thousand dollars! It had not all been some dream then; the words of the mysterious yachtsman had been true. He was to get three thousand, and the balance was to be distributed as instructed. But three thousand went for himself, his wife and daughter.
As the realization gripped him, he sprinted for the outer door.
Behind him, Mr. Albert Pratt sucked his lips into his mouth as he gave a dry chuckle. Then he proceeded to untie the pink ribbon and read the letters.
They were warm letters, letters that would make a jury lean forward on chair edges. They were the sort of letters that sound damning in a court room, look foolish in print, only seem natural when tied with scented pink ribbon.
Carefully, giving close attention to contents, Albert Pratt picked out two of the most lurid of the letters and dropped them into a desk drawer. Those two letters contained, in essence, all that the rest of the packet contained.
Then Mr. Pratt retied the package with the scented pink ribbon and reached for the telephone.
“Ah, Mr. Stapleton,” he purred, when the connection had been made. “It gives me pleasure to report that your little matter has been entirely closed in accordance with your instructions, and I didn’t have to go above the ten thousand dollars, either.”
“I’ll be there in three minutes!” yelled Mr. George Stapleton, his voice a crescendo of joy, and slammed up the telephone.
In fact, he beat his estimated time by thirty seconds.
Puffing, breathless, his face beaming, eyes blinking rapidly behind his owlish glasses, he reached for the letters, clasped them in eager hands.
Albert Pratt watched him with cold, pale eyes.
Stapleton untied the ribbon, glanced through the letters, nodded eagerly.
“Yes, yes — these are the ones. What a fool I was to write them! But... Good God! No!... It can’t be... Why...”
Albert Pratt leaned forward, suave, courteous.
“Something wrong?” he inquired with just the right trace of impersonal concern.
“Two... two letters missing,” stuttered George Stapleton.
The banker tilted back in his swivel chair, nodded gently as though his judgment had been confirmed in a matter that was of no moment to him.
“I thought you might find something like that. You’ll remember I suggested the letters should be identified in some way before I handed over the money. But you were positive that this Miss Ramsay would be a square shooter! ‘As square as a cornerstone’ was the expression you used, I believe.”
Stapleton sighed, then flung his head forward on his arms.
“Good heavens! What will that mean? Those two letters are as damning as the other eight.”
Pratt nodded.
“Probably more so. When you start dealing with blackmailers, you must be on your guard.”
“What shall I do? What shall I do? What shall I do?” asked Stapleton, his voice rising to a note that was almost hysterical.
Albert Pratt sighed.
“Return to your office. You’ll probably hear from the blackmailers soon. It will cost you money. But you can rest assured that’s all it will cost you. You’re too good a thing to lose. They’ll shake you down for another thousand or two. Probably they’ll let you off for a thousand dollars a letter.”
Stapleton got to his feet in a daze.
“I’d pay fifty thousand if I had to,” he muttered. “I still have forty thousand on deposit here, and I can get more.”
“Tut, tut,” warned Mr. Pratt, “you’re talking foolishness. If they gave you the letters for ten thousand and only held out two, it’s likely they’ll fix an outside price of an additional three thousand dollars. You’re all wrought up. Go back to your office. I have your telephone number. If anything happens I’ll let you know. A Mr. Dundley brought in the letters. I believe you said it was Mr. Dundley who would bring them. Perhaps he was the one who took out the two letters?” Pratt’s tone was politely inquiring.
“No,” said Stapleton, reluctantly. “It must have been Myrtle herself. Dundley hasn’t sense enough.”
“You can’t ever tell,” said Pratt.
Stapleton shook his head.
“No. It was Myrtle. I’ll get her on the telephone if I can.”
The banker’s shake of the head was more crisply positive than any gesture he had made.
“I’m quite sure it was Dundley. I can read character, and that young man had something he was concealing. You should have followed my advice and left me a list of the letters. As it is, return to your office. I’ll telephone if I hear anything. Be sure you don’t leave your telephone for a moment. This is important.”
“Of course,” promised Stapleton, and went out, the packet of letters clutched in a moist palm.
VI
Albert Pratt watched him go with that peculiar synthetic smile twisting the comers of his lips yet not changing for a moment the calculating expression of the pale eyes.
Ten minutes later he clapped on his hat and left the building.
He took a cab for half a mile, walked into a public pay station, called the number which Stapleton had given him.
“Hello,” he said, when he heard Stapleton’s answer, and disguising his own voice as much as possible. “You know who this is?”
“No,” said Stapleton’s anxious voice. “Who is it?”
“Never mind who. It’s a man who has two letters of yours, addressed to Miss Myrtle Ramsay, all in your writing, signed by you. Those letters are for sale.”
“Who are you?” yelled Stapleton.
“Never mind. Do you want to buy the letters?”
“I’ll give two thousand for them,” said Stapleton.
A hollow laugh was his answer.
“Come again. Just because Myrtle’s a fool is no sign I am. Those letters will cost you forty thousand dollars — cash!”
“No, no!” groaned Stapleton.
“All right. I’ll offer them to your wife’s lawyer then. I could get more money from him, anyway. I was just being a good sport and letting you off easy.”
There was a period of tense silence. The wire vibrated and buzzed. At length it transmitted a sigh which came from the Stapleton end of the line.
“How would I get the letters?”
“Same way you got the others. They were left at some bank, weren’t they?”
“Yes.”
“What bank was it?”
“As though you didn’t know!”
“No, I don’t know. I’m an independent operator who horned in on the deal. You’ll have to tell me the name of the bank. I’m willing to take a chance on you shooting square. You did this morning with Myrtle. You should this afternoon with me.”
“It’s the Pratt Bank, and you’ll ask for Mr. Albert Pratt,” said Stapleton.
“Wait a minute,” muttered Pratt. “I’ll have to write that down. Pratt Bank, eh? How do you spell it?... P-R-A-T-T, eh? All right, I’ve got it. I’ll take the letters over. This guy Pratt honest?”
“Yes,” answered Stapleton, “If I’d taken his advice I wouldn’t have been in this pickle. He’s protecting my interests, but you can trust him to do what he says he will.”