There was a little display stand for the platinum wrist watch. It was covered with black velvet. The watch itself had been carefully tucked to bed in the big safe in the back of the store. But the price tag and the display stand remained, waiting for the wrist watch to make its appearance with the opening of the business day.
“Lady’s wrist watch—genuine platinum,” read the price tag. “A marked down bargain at $980.00.” Then a red line had been drawn through the figure and another figure below it pencilled in: “$795.00.” This figure, in turn, had been crossed out with a blue pencil, and down below, in flaming red ink, appeared the latest bargain price $599.99.
The Patent Leather Kid surveyed the window in gloomy meditation. Some subtle sixth sense caused him to turn suddenly and glance over his shoulder.
A touring car with drawn side curtains was swinging around the corner from the boulevard. It swung in close to the curb and slowed its speed, crawling along until it came to a stop before the Maplewood Apartment Hotel.
The Kid could not see the driver, but he remembered the sudden exit of Winton, the clerk, and he had an instinctive distrust of touring cars that cruised about with the curtains locked into position on the side. He slipped into the shadows of the dark store building next to the jewelry shop, moved upon swiftly silent feet until he came to the cross street and then broke into a light, swift run. When the welcome mouth of the alley loomed before him he dodged into its inky blackness.
It was half an hour later that he entered a telephone booth in a cabaret and called the residence number of Sol Asher, the owner of the jewelry store.
It took three minutes before a sleepy voice answered.
The Kid let his own voice show that slight slurring of word endings which marks a certain stage of alcoholic conviviality.
“Sol,” he said, “d’yuh wanta sell that platinum wrist watch bad enough to open up the joint?”
There was a moment of tense silence at the other end of the line.
“Who’s speakin’?” asked the voice.
“A customer,” said the Kid. “I gotta swell wren that’s nuts over the wrist watch, an’ I’m nuts over the wren.”
“Would tomorrow do?” asked the voice. “The watch’ll keep, y’know.”
The Kid’s voice was crisply determined.
“The wren won’t,” he said.
There was a moment of silence.
“The price is five ninety-nine, ninety-nine,” said the voice over the wire, this time with a certain oily accent of keen alertness.
“Yeah,” said The Kid.
“Okay,” said Asher. “You got the cash?”
“I got a check that’s good as gold,” observed The Kid.
“This ain’t bankin’ hours,” whined the voice over the telephone. “Me, I do a cash business, y’understand. That there watch is priced now so close that I’m losin’ money when I make the sale. I ain’t goin’ to lose my sleep, y’understand, to lose money.”
The Kid let his voice become cheerful.
“Well, it’ll take fifteen minutes or so for me to get somebody to stake me to the dough. I’ll give you a buzz if I make it.”
The voice of Sol Asher was complaining.
“You want it I should wait up fifteen minutes in the cold to see if somebody cashes you a check?”
“Hell no,” observed The Kid. “I want you to wait up fifteen minutes to see if you’re going to ring up six hundred bucks in your cash drawer.”
And he slid the receiver back on the hook.
He left the telephone booth and went upstairs to the cabaret’s private dining rooms. A waiter gazed appreciatively at the five spot which was pressed into his palm.
“Mabel?” he asked.
“That’s the one I said,” observed The Kid. “And a couple of Bacardi cocktails.”
The waiter dropped the curtain into place, bowed deferentially. Exactly two minutes and thirty seconds later the curtain was pulled to one side again, and a big blonde with tired eyes stood on the threshold and gave The Kid a synthetic smile.
The Kid arose and held a chair for her.
The tired eyes lighted up.
“It’s swell to meet up with a real gent,” said the blonde. “Most of ’em don’t know how to treat a lady.”
The Kid grinned, patted her hand, sat down. The waiter arrived with the Bacardi cocktails, withdrew, paused to pull the curtain carefully into position, closing off every crack and cranny of the door so that the interior of the booth could not be viewed from the hallway.
The Kid raised his glass, smiled.
“Here’s how,” he said.
“I know,” said the blonde, and grinned.
“How’s the divorce coming, Mabel?” asked The Kid.
The blonde’s fingers quivered. The smile faded from her lips. The tired eyes were startled. The glass tilted, part of the liquid slopped over to the tablecloth. The blonde lowered the glass just in time to keep it from dropping from the limp fingers.
“Who the hell are you?” she asked.
The Patent Leather Kid grinned.
“Just a bird who makes it his business to be in the know,” he observed.
“What,” asked the blonde, “do you know?”
Her hands were gripping the side of the table top now.
“I know,” observed The Kid, speaking slowly and distinctly, “that you married Everett Winton, the night clerk at The Maplewood Apartment Hotel. I know that you separated two years ago. I know he gave you a raw deal and no money. I know that you had to earn your living and you tried fifteen or twenty things before you had to come to this.”
And when The Kid mentioned the “this” he waved his hand in an inclusive gesture.
“And I know that you’ve met a chap that offers you everything you want in life, marriage, a home, a chance to be decent. I know that he’s a good kid, and that he’ll make you happy. And I know that Winton won’t give you a divorce unless you slip him a nice piece of change, and that you’re having a hard time getting your hands on the dough. Because of all this life here you can’t get the divorce if he fights. He’ll fight unless he gets his cut.”
The Kid ceased speaking. The blonde stared at him with a sagging mouth and eyes that were glassy in surprise.
The Kid sipped his drink.
“You . . . you sure as hell do get around, big boy!”
The Kid nodded.
“I keep my health by knowing what I know,” he said.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“To you,” said The Kid, “I’m just the big hearted guy that plays Santa Claus, the boy that’s going to pass the sugar!”
“Yes?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“What’s your cut going to be?” she demanded, cautiously.
“That depends,” said The Kid.
“Well, spill it.”
The Kid leaned forward and set down his Bacardi glass.
“Ever hear of The Patent Leather Kid?” he asked.
Her laugh was harsh.
“Naturally. You going to claim you’re him?”
The Kid laughed, shook his head.
“No. I’m going to tell you where The Patent Leather Kid is going to be at precisely fifteen minutes past one o’clock. He’s going to be buying a wrist watch at Sol Asher’s jewelry store on the corner of Maplewood, down a half a block or so from The Maplewood Hotel.”
Her forehead puckered.
“Well?” she asked.
“Winton, your dear husband, knows where that information can be sold for enough dough to give him his cut and more. He’ll let you have your divorce for that information, maybe. Anyhow, he’ll promise you.”
The blonde’s strident laugh showed what she thought of her husband’s promises.