“I'm looking for George Dunlap,” he began. He reached into an inside pocket. Without making mention of his connection with the district attorney he took out a card which read:
HARPER & MUNN
Private Investigators
Wyman took it, but he did not look at it. His eyes, like pale-blue disks, were on Harper. “Who's George Dunlap?” he asked.
“Slug can tell you.”
“And where do I fit?”
Harper smiled. “That's what I've been wondering about. A half-dozen rich men who've been in a jam have come to Boston. George Dunlap was one, and Slug brought him here. There might be”—Harper leaned back in his chair and stroked his mustache idly with his free hand—“some connection between these men and the body the police picked up last night; between that man and the one they picked up a month ago.
“I was wondering if maybe there wasn't some sort of racket back of it all. It would take somebody pretty big to swing it, I should think; somebody who knows his way around and has connections. That's why I came to you.”
Wyman's face was impassive, but his nostrils dilated slightly as he glanced down at Harper's card. He looked up again and smiled deliberately.
“You think of things, don't you?” He fell silent for a moment, then continued, “I never saw a private dick yet that wasn't sticking his nose in other people's business and trying to chisel out some gravy. You stuck your nose in my business and, well”—Wyman paused—“well I don't like trouble. How about a trip to Europe?”
He leaned over on the desk, rested his weight on his elbows and forearms. “I might have a little job for you to do over there. It might take you a couple months and it might be worth about five grand and expenses.”
Harper uncrossed his legs and stood up. “Sounds good,” he said. “Maybe I'll take you up on it—after I find out what happened to George Dunlap. I think he gypped me out of a grand, and I want it. I'll stop by in a few days and have a talk with you.” Harper backed toward the door.
Wyman looked at the detective a moment, then his flashing eyes flicked over his shoulder to Slug. He nodded his head toward Harper, and without raising his voice said, “All right, Slug.”
Slug grinned and lurched forward on flat feet.
Harper took one backward step, stopped and whipped out the .38. “Stay there, Slug!” he ordered. “Stay there and keep your hands where I can see 'em.” He glanced at Wyman. “That goes for you, too!”
Slug stopped and his grin turned to a scowl of anger. He took a half-step and glanced questioningly at Wyman, his hands clenching convulsively in impotent rage.
THE detective took another backward step, turned so his eyes took in the two men and the edge of the door toward which he moved.
“Drop it!”
Harper stiffened. For a second he held the gun on Slug. Both he and Wyman held their positions, but on Wyman's face, a knowing smile began to curve over his perfect teeth.
“Drop it, punk, or—”
The voice came from the wall behind Harper. There was a faint twitch of his mouth, a tightening of the lips. Then he let the gun fall from his fingers. He turned around.
From a spot midway between the ends of the room, and above the safe, a picture had been pushed aside so that it hung askew. There was a seven-inch hole behind this, and from the circular cavity a heavy automatic protruded.
Wyman repeated his command. “All right, Slug.”
The man moved toward Harper, who stood motionless, his hands at his side. Slug feinted with his left, shot a vicious right to Harper's chin. The detective slipped the punch, pivoted as Slug lurched off balance, and shot his own left behind the man's ear. Slug stumbled under the blow, spun about with a curse on his lips. Wyman's voice stopped him.
“Never mind that stuff, stupid!” he said. “There's time for that later.” His laugh was a grunt. “At that I think he might take you.” Wyman got up from the desk. “Get his gun.”
Slug obeyed and Wyman took it. He said, “Now clear out of here. Stay outside the door; I want to talk to this dick alone.” He swung his gun on Harper, glanced at the man behind the circular hole in the wall and said, “All right, Leo. Go back downstairs.”
Slug's little eyes took on a hurt expression. “Don't I get a chance to work out on this baby?”
Wyman snapped, “Blow!” And to Harper, “Sit down!”
Harper dropped into a chair. He stretched his legs, and hooked his thumbs in his upper vest pockets.
Wyman said, “You were out with Captain Galpin last night. I was going to call on you, Harper; but this makes it better.” When Harper responded to this by nothing more than a slight raising of his dark eyebrows, Wyman continued. “I want you to call Galpin. I want you to tell him you're on your way to catch a train for Montreal, that you've got a new lead on Dunlap.”
Wyman leaned well over on the desk, so that his gun and his eyes were scarcely two feet from the detective's head. “Then I want you to wire your partner. Tell him you got a new lead and are taking the Honoric for Havre at midnight.”
Harper sat up in his chair and his dark eyes stared into Wyman's blue ones with a careless, bland expression. “Then what?” he said quietly.
“Then we'll arrange a little trip for you.”
“That's swell.” Harper smiled with his lips only, and slipped his metal pencil from his vest pocket. “Got a sheet of paper?”
Wyman blinked at the sudden acquiescence. Then an expression of crafty guile suffused his handsome face. Without taking his eyes from Harper he reached down to a side drawer, took out a sheet of paper and slid it in front of him.
Harper pulled the paper toward himself. He turned the pencil idly in his hands and asked, “What am I supposed to say?”
“Say—”
The one word was all Wyman spoke. His mouth was open when Harper flicked the clip on the pencil with his thumb. There was a faint click, then a louder click as the .38-caliber gas shell exploded in Wyman's face. The man coughed, dropped his gun, and clawed at his eyes and nose.
Harper leaped from the chair as the white cloud of smoke-like tear gas enveloped Wyman's head. With catlike quickness he snatched up his gun, slipped the now empty pencil into his pocket, and sprang toward the door.
He jerked it open. Slug, who must have been half-leaning against the steel panel, stumbled inward. Harper, the gun held flat in his hand, slapped it against the side of the man's head. Slug kept right on falling. He hit the floor and was trying to get up when Harper turned toward the other two men who had been standing near the door.
He jammed the gun into the stomach of the nearest man, said, “Back up, Jack!”
The fellow drew back. Harper withdrew the gun, reached out with his left hand, grabbed the shoulder of the other man. He spun him about like a top and stuck the gun in his back.