“Yeah. But he don’t admit it’s hot. Says his old master gave him a lot of jewels and other junk before he died. Says he’s afraid the family wouldn’t believe it. That’s why he’s got to hock the stuff quietlike.”
Dopey snarled a contemptuous laugh. Soaker motioned him to the door; the sweatered crook sidled out and watched the pawnshop proprietor lock up.
“This guy Myram,” confided Soaker, “is living off of what he grabbed. How much more of it he’s got, I don’t know. That ain’t my business, Dopey.”
“I’ll make it mine, Soaker. An’ don’t worry about no squawk if I bring it here. From what you say about this guy Myram, he ain’t nobody that’s goin’ to squeal to the bulls.”
SOAKER shrugged his shoulders and sauntered down the street. Dopey shifted off in the opposite direction. He reached the corner and stopped there. A passing rowdy paused to jab him in the ribs.
“Hello, Dopey,” grinned the tough. “Still stickin’ around here, ain’t you? Well, I don’t blame you. The harness bull on this beat don’t bother nobody much.”
“Hello, Buck,” returned Dopey, grinning sourly. “Ain’t seen you in a long time. Yeah, you’re right about the flatfoot. He’s not such a dumb copper, though. I just keep out of sight when he goes by. I know when he’s due.”
“Buck” moved away. Dopey shifted past the corner; then sneaked toward the butcher shop. The place was closed; but through the window Dopey could see a dim clock face that registered half-past six.
Dopey went up the steps of the house next door; he found the front door open and entered a gloomy, gas-lit hall.
No one was about; Dopey saw opportunity. He snaked up the stairs, passed the gloomy second floor and went up to the third. He found the room that he supposed was Myram’s. Light showed through the keyhole and beneath the door.
Dopey tried the knob. The door opened.
Swinging into the lighted room, the pasty-faced crook yanked a revolver from his pocket. His face was as evil as a rat’s as he shot a quick glance toward the far side of the room, where a tall man was closing a bureau drawer.
The fellow turned with a startled cry; then his gasp faded. Dopey grinned and closed the door behind him. He had found the man he wanted: the palefaced individual who had visited Soaker’s pawnshop.
“YOUR name’s Myram?” quizzed Dopey.
The pale man nodded as he raised his hands. Dopey saw him tremble and decided that his prey was an easy mark. With an evil grin, the pasty-faced crook flourished his revolver as he advanced. Myram backed against the wall, near the half-opened door of a closet.
“I’m a dick,” announced Dopey. “Sent here to pinch you, Myram. You got hot stuff; been freezin’ it aroun’ the corner at the hockshop, ain’t you? Come on — don’t lie about it. I’ve been watchin’ you.”
Dopey’s bluff was ludicrous; but it passed with Myram. The former butler was frightened enough to believe that this fatty intruder was actually from headquarters. Myram began to beg.
“I–I didn’t really steal anything,” he declared. “Really, it was — it was the old master who gave me the trinkets that I have been pawning. I–I am no thief.
“Can the stall,” snarled Dopey. “Listen, mug, I’m here to get the goods! That’s all. I’m goin’ to let you off, just because I’m kind of soft at times. You keep quiet about it. Savvy? An’ to-morrow you duck out of here. Because there ain’t many dicks as easy on a guy as I am. Where’s the swag? In this drawer?”
Dopey opened the drawer with one hand, as he spoke. The glitter of gold and silver caught his eye. Still covering Myram, he used his left hand to pocket the objects that lay in view. He took a pair of huge gold cuff links, each studded with a small diamond. Next, a silver statuette, part of an ornamental desk set.
Myram watched him pocket a heavy gold watch chain, an antique bracelet of the same metal; then a golden scarab that Bigelow Doyd had once brought back from Egypt. Trinkets followed; these spoils had all been clustered in a corner of the drawer. Then, fishing beneath a shirt, Dopey brought out a square, flat box of ebony.
For a moment, he was about to replace the casket, particularly because it did not rattle when he shook it.
Then the silver initials on the cover caught his eye. Dopey decided to keep the box.
“No, no!” gasped Myram. “Don’t — don’t take the casket! I–I want to keep it. Really, it is worth nothing.”
“What do you want it for then?” demanded Dopey. “It don’t belong to you, does it?”
“The old master valued it. Most highly—”
Myram paused abruptly as Dopey grinned. The palefaced butler had realized his mistake. So had Dopey.
“Thought you’d slip one past me, eh?” sneered the crook. His rat face was vicious. “Well, if your boss thought it was worth more than this joolry, you ought to have thought the same. Is that it?”
“Yes, sir. I must admit that such was my impression. The casket is made of ebony. A highly prized wood, sir. But I thought—”
“Quit thinkin’. I’m here to grab this swag, without no squawk from you.”
MYRAM’S eyes narrowed. This time it was Dopey who had made the slip. His flimsy bluff had failed; for the first time, Myram realized that this intruder was a crook. Sharply, the former servant put a question.
“Do you have a badge?”
“A what?”
“A badge. All detectives wear them.”
Dopey delivered a snarled chuckle. He had not believed that his bluff had continued to pass. He thought Myram’s question a huge joke; it increased his contempt for a man whom he regarded as easy prey.
Dopey’s guffaw, however, had an unexpected effect upon Myram. The servant straightened suddenly; then, with a hiss of anger, hurled himself upon the man with the gun.
The attack caught the crook flatfooted. For a moment, Dopey crumpled beneath the onslaught. The ebony box clattered to the carpet; Dopey tried vainly to grapple with the victim who had so suddenly become a formidable foe. He was afraid to fire, for the revolver shot might be heard below; but he did have the sudden impulse to wrest away and jab the muzzle of his gun against Myram’s ribs.
The move made Myram wilt. Feeling the gun point, Myram uttered a tightened gasp and ceased his resistance. Dopey straightened and pressed the palefaced fellow back toward the wall; then edged him into the closet.
A sudden fright seized Myram. He thrust his hands for Dopey’s throat. This time, the crook was too quick.
Lurching forward, Dopey hurled Myram into the closet and pulled the door behind him. In total darkness, he pressed the trigger of his revolver, shifting the muzzle viciously, back and forth against his victim’s body. Myram slumped with a final gasp.
The reek of powder became stifling. Dopey emerged coughing; he closed the door to hide the body of his victim. Snatching up the ebony box, he closed the bureau drawer; then darted toward the door of the room. He joggled a small table as he passed; a key fell to the floor. Dopey stopped to pick it up; a grin showed on his rattish countenance.
Gaining false nerve, the crook moved more slowly. He realized at last that the muffled shots could not have been heard. The closet door had fully covered the sharp sounds. Sneaking out into the hall, Dopey closed the door behind him and tried the key. It fitted.
Dopey locked the door and pocketed the key. He sneaked down the stairs and reached the street, unnoticed. He glanced through the butcher shop window as he passed. The clock showed fifteen minutes of seven.
Pockets filled with swag, the ebony box buried beneath his coat, Dopey had accomplished theft and murder within the span of fifteen minutes. Crime committed, he went slinking off beyond the shelter of the elevated structure.