She turned and flashed him a dazzling look from her wide blue eyes, a smile from her sensuous, parted lips.

  “You see,” she said, “everybody would know that you had attended the masquerade in this costume so it would be all right.”

  Paul Pry nodded. “All right,” he said, “let’s go.”

  They walked into the house, surrendered their forged invitations to a doorman and mingled with the crowd. A dozen or more couples were already hilarious from the effects of a remarkably strong punch which was being dished out in quantities by an urbane individual in evening clothes, who had a napkin hanging over his left forearm.

  Paul Pry escorted Stella to the punch bowl and, after the second drink of punch, she whirled him out to the floor as the orchestra struck up a dance.

  She held herself close to him and whispered words of soft endearment in his ear as they moved lightly across the floor.

  “Darling,” she said, “you’d be surprised at how grateful Pm going to be.”

  “Yes?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “The prerogatives of a long friendship, you know.”

  Paul Pry missed a step and suddenly tightened his arms about the willowy figure in order to let her understand his appreciation.

  “I think,” she cooed, leaning toward him so that her lips were close to his, “we had better swing over toward this darkest corner by the door. That door leads to the hallway and you go up the stairs and into the front room. I think Silver Dawson is the man dressed in the red devil suit over there by the punch bowl. I’m quite certain there won’t be anyone on the upper floor. I’ve kept my eyes open, getting the servants spotted, and I’m sure they’re all downstairs.”

  “You seem to know the house quite well,” said Paul Pry.

  “Yes,” she said, “I have been here several times before. Sometimes as a guest and more recently as a suppliant, offering anything to get the letters back.”

  “Anything?” asked Paul Pry.

  “Almost anything,” she said softly.

  The music stopped. Stella pressed her form close to Paul Pry’s for one tantalizing moment, then breathed softly: “Hurry, dear, and then we can leave.”

  Paul Pry nodded and slipped unostentatiously through the doorway into the dark hall.

  There were no servants in sight. A flight of stairs led to the upper corridor and Paul Pry took them on swiftly silent feet, moving with a light grace and catlike speed.

  But Paul Pry did not turn to the left and go toward the front of the house. Instead he flattened himself against a door which opened upon the corridor near the head of the stairs, and listened carefully.

  After a second or two he dropped to his hands and knees and tried the knob of the door.

  The door swung inward and Paul Pry, lying prone on the floor, where he would be clear of the line of fire in the event anyone should have been standing in the doorway, peered into the dark interior of the room.

  There was no sound or motion. The room was a bedroom and the light which filtered in from the hallway showed a walnut bed, a dressing table and bureau.

  There was a ribbon of light which seeped through from the bottom of a door at the other end of the room.

  Paul Pry got to his feet, moved swiftly and silently, stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. Then he walked purposefully toward the door where he could see the ribbon of light.

  He was more confident as he tried the knob of this door, but equally careful to make no sound. He leaned his weight against the door so as to remove any tension from the latch, turned the knob very slowly to eliminate any possibility of noise. When the catch was free, he pulled the door toward him a bit at a time.

  The door opened and Paul Pry, peering through, saw that he was looking into a bathroom, sumptuously appointed. At the other side of the bathroom was a door paneled with a full-length mirror.

  Paul Pry stepped into the bathroom and turned out the light by the simple expedient of unscrewing the globe a half turn. Then he devoted his attention to the knob of the opposite doorway.

  That knob slowly turned till the catch was free and Paul Pry opened the door an inch at a time.

  The bathroom was now dark, so that there was no light behind him to pour into the room as the door was opened.

  This door opened into the study which Stella had pointed out to him as being at the front of the house, and the place where the desk was located that contained the precious letters.

  A floor lamp was arranged with the shade tilted so that the rays of light were directed full against a door, which Paul Pry surmised must be the door into the corridor and through which he had been supposed to make his entrance.

  Standing in the shadows, back of that light, his eyes cold and grim, a heavy automatic held in his right hand, was an undersized man with a sloping forehead, a large nose and rabbit teeth that showed through his half-parted lips.

  Noiselessly Paul Pry swung the door open and stepped into the room upon catlike feet.

  He had made three steps before some slight noise or perhaps some intuition warned the man with the gun. He whirled with an exclamation of surprise and raised the weapon.

  Paul Pry swung swiftly with his right fist. At the same time he leaped forward.

  There was the sound of the hissing exclamation of surprise which came from the man with the gun, the noise of swiftly shuffling feet, the impact of a fist on flesh and then a half groan as the man with the rabbit teeth sank to the carpeted floor.

  Paul Pry pocketed the gun. “Make a sound,” he said, “and I’ll slit your throat.”

  But the man on the floor was limp and unconscious.

  Paul Pry moved swiftly. A handkerchief was thrust into the man’s mouth, a bit of strong cord from his pocket looped around the man’s wrist and bit into the flesh. Then Paul Pry’s hands darted swiftly and purposefully through the man’s clothing.

  He found a roll of bills, a penknife, cigarette lighter, cigarette case, a handkerchief, fountain pen, some small change, a leather key container well filled with keys, and a blackjack.

  The blackjack, hung from a light cord under the left armpit, was worn and shiny from much carrying. It had a conventional leather thong looped around the handle so that it could circle a man’s writs in time of necessity.

  Paul Pry jerked the slungshot free and put it in his pocket. He also pocketed the roll of currency. Then he arose, took the keys and moved swiftly about the room, opening locked drawers and the cover of a roll-top desk.

  It was at the back of a drawer of the desk that Paul Pry found a packet of letters tied with ribbon. He unfastened the ribbon and glanced swiftly at some of the letters.

  The cursory examination showed that they were letters in a feminine handwriting, addressed to “Dearest Bunny” and signed “your own, Stella” in some instances, and “your darling red-hot mamma, Stella” in others.

  Paul Pry slipped the letters into his pocket, gave a last swift glance at the figure on the floor and stepped into the bathroom. He walked across the bathroom, through the darkened bedroom, out into the corridor and down the stairs.

  Stella Molay was standing in the hallway at the foot of the stairs. Her head was cocked slightly to one side, after the manner of one who is listening, momentarily expecting some noise to crash out on the stillness of the night. A noise which can well be followed by a feminine scream.

  As Paul Pry crept lithely down the stairs she stared at him with wide incredulous eyes.

  “Good God!” she said. “What’s happened!”

  Paul Pry walked across to her and made a low bow. “Congratulations, dear,” he said. “Your honor is safe.”

  He straightened to stare into the incredulous dismay of the wide blue eyes.

  “Where’s Bunny?” she asked.

  “Bunny?” he said.

  “I mean Silver. Silver Dawson,” she corrected herself hastily. “A short man with funny teeth and a big nose.”

  “Oh,” said Paul Pry, “he’s in the ballroom. Don’t you remember? The man in the devil suit standing over by the punch bowl.”

  She looked at him with a sudden glint of suspicion in the blue eyes, but Paul Pry returned her stare with a look of childlike candor.

  “Well,” he said, “let’s get out of here and go to the apartment.”

  “Look here,” she said suspiciously, “there’s something wrong. You must have got the wrong letters.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  She bit her lip and then said slowly: “Just a hunch, that’s all.”

  Paul Pry gently took her arm. “I’m quite sure it’s all right,” he said. “I’ve got the letters.”

  She paused for a moment as though trying to think up some excuse and then reluctantly accompanied him through the door, across the porch, and down to the line of cars where Paul Pry summoned a cab that was waiting on the off chance of picking up a bit of business.

  Once within the taxicab, Paul Pry switched on the dome light and took the letters from his pocket.

  “You must be sure you’ve got the right letters,” she said. “Otherwise, you’ll have to go back. The letters that I wrote were— quite indiscreet.”

  “Well,” said Paul Pry, pulling one of the letters from the envelope, “let’s see if this is indiscreet enough.”

  He unfolded the letter while she leaned toward him to stare over his shoulder.

  As her eyes saw the writing, she gave a gasp. “The damn fool,” she said, “to have saved those!”

  Paul Pry, apparendy heedless of the remark, read a line aloud and then broke into a chuckle. “Certainly,” he said, “that’s indiscreet enough for you.”

  She snatched the letter from his hand, stared at him with blazing eyes.

  “Come, sweetheart,” he said, “and give me another of those prerogatives of friendship.”

  Mugs Magoo stood up as Paul Pry entered the room and gave a dramatic imitation of one who is seeing a ghost.

  He swung his arm across his eyes.

  “Go away!” he shouted. “Go away! Don’t hurt me! I was good to him in his lifetime! His ghost can’t haunt me! Get away, I say!”

  Paul Pry dropped into a chair without bothering to remove either his topcoat or his hat. He lit a cigarette and thrust it in his smiling lips at a jaunty angle.

  “What’s the matter, Mugs?” he asked.

  “My God,” said Mugs, “it talks! A ghost that talks! I know it can’t be you, because you’re dead! You were killed tonight, but how is it that your ghost doesn’t have any bullet holes in its body? And it’s the first time in my life I ever saw a ghost smoke a cigarette!”

  Paul Pry laughed and his hand, dropping to his trouser pocket, brought out a roll of bills. Carelessly, he tossed them to the table.

  Mugs stared at the roll. “How much?” he asked.

  “Oh, five or six thousand,” said Paul Pry carelessly.

  “What!” Mugs exclaimed.

  Paul Pry nodded.

  “Where did it come from?”

  “Well,” said Paul Pry, “part of it was a donation that was made to me by Bunny Myers. It was an involuntary donation and Bunny will probably not recall it when he wakes up, but it was a donation, nevertheless.”

  “And the rest?” asked Mugs Magoo.

  Paul Pry settled himself more comfortably in his chair.

  “Do you know, Mugs,” he said, “I got the idea that possibly Tompkins didn’t trust even his own gang. He had concealed the gem where no one knew where it was. That was a funny crack he made in the note about Bunny’s nutcracker. So when Bunny Myers was making his involuntary donation to me, I examined the slungshot that he carried under his arm.

  “Sure enough, there was a screw loose in it. Rather the whole handle could be unscrewed, by exerting proper pressure. Evidently, it was a slungshot that Tompkins had given to Bunny and one he intended to use in a pinch as a receptacle for something that was too hot for him to handle.

  “When I unscrewed it, I found the Leg-get diamond, and a very affable gentleman by the name of Mr. Edgar Patten, an adjuster for the insurance company that handled the insurance on the gem, was good enough to insist that I take a slight reward for my services when I returned the stone to him.”

  Mugs Magoo pursed his lips and gave a low whistle. “Just a fool for luck!” he exclaimed. “You sure picked two of the toughest nuts in the game, and you’re still alive! It ain’t right!”

  Paul Pry chuckled softly. “Tough nuts to crack all right, Mugs,” he mused, “but, with the aid of Bunny’s nutcracker, I managed all right.”

  The Cross-Stitch Killer

  Millionaires were that hunter’s only game, and when he’d bagged

  them he sewed their lips up tight for he knew that even dead

  men sometimes talk. But Paul Pry, professional opportunist,

  was a tailor of sorts himself, with a needle as sharp and deadly

  as the cross-stitch killer’s— an avenging sword cane to dam living flesh!

  1

  Murdered Millions

  Paul Pry polished the razor-keen blade of his sword cane with the same attentive care a stone polisher might take in putting just the right lustre upon a fine piece of onyx.

  “Mugs” Magoo sat slumped in a big over-stuffed chair in the corner. He held a whiskey glass in his left hand. His right arm was off at the shoulder.

  Eva Bentley sat in a small, glass-enclosed booth and listened to a radio which was tuned in on the wave length of the police broadcasting station. From time to time she took swift notes in competent shorthand, occasionally rattled out a few paragraphs on a portable typewriter which was on a desk at her elbow.

  Mugs Magoo rolled his glassy eyes in the direction of Paul Pry. “Some day,” he said, “some crook is going to grab the blade of that sword cane and bust it in two. Why don’t you pack a big gun and forget that sword cane business? The blade ain’t big enough to cut off a plug of chewing tobacco.”

  Paul Pry smiled. “The efficacy of this sword cane, Mugs, lies in its lightness and speed. It’s like a clever boxer who flashes in, lands a telling blow, and jumps out again before a heavier adversary can even get set to deliver a punch.”

  Mugs Magoo nodded his head slowly and lugubriously. “Now,” he said, “I know why you like that weapon—that’s the way you like to play game, jumping in ahead of the police, side-stepping the crooks, ducking out before anyone knows what’s happened, and leaving a hell of a mess behind.”

  Paul Pry’s smile broadened into a grin, and the grin became a chuckle. “Well, Mugs,” he said, “there’s just a chance there may be something in that.”

  At that moment, Eva Bentley jumped to her feet, picked up her shorthand notebook and opened the door of the glass-enclosed compartment. Instantly, the sound of the police radio became audible.

  “What is it, Eva?” asked Paul Pry. “Something important?”

  “Yes,” she said, “there’s just been another corpse found, with his lips sewed together. Like the other one, he’s a millionaire—Charles B. Darwin is the victim this time. His murder is almost identical with that of the murder of Harry Travers. Both men were stabbed to death; both men had been receiving threatening letters through the mail; both men were found dead, with their lips sewed together with a peculiar cross-stitch. ’ ’

  Mugs Magoo poured himself a glass of whiskey. “Thank God I ain’t no millionaire!” he said.

  Paul Pry finished polishing the blade of the sword cane, and inserted it in the cunningly disguised scabbard. His eyes were level-lidded in concentration, and his voice was quick and sharp.

  “I presume the police are making quite a commotion about it,” he said.

  “I’ll say they are,” Eva Bentley told him. “They’ve broadcast a general alarm telling all cars to drop everything and concentrate on finding this mysterious murderer. It seems to be a question of money. In fact, the police are certain of it. Evidently they have some information which has not been given to the press. However, it’s common knowledge that both men received letters demanding that they place a certain sum of money in an envelope and mail it to a certain person at a certain address. Both men disregarded the request and turned the letter over to the police.”

  “Any information about any other men who have received similar letters?” asked Paul Pry.

  “None. The police are simply giving instructions to the cars. They’re assigning cars to the district in which the body was found.”

  “Where was it—in a house.”

  “No, it was found in an automobile. The man had evidently been driving an automobile and had pulled in to the curb and stopped. He was killed seated at the wheel. The officers place the death as having taken place at about three o’clock this morning. They are inclined to believe there was some woman companion in the automobile with him, and they’re trying to find her. They think that she knows something of the crime, or can at least give some clue to the murderer.

  “Anything else?” asked Paul Pry.

  “That’s about all of it,” she said. “You don’t want the detailed instructions which are being given the automobiles, do you?”

  “No,” he told her, “not now. But make notes of everything that goes over the radio in connection with this crime.”

  She returned to the booth, where she closed the door and once more started her pencil flying over the pages of the shorthand notebook.

  Paul Pry turned to Mugs Magoo. His face was fixed in an expression of keen concentration. “All right, Mugs,” he said, “snap out of it and tell me what you know about the millionaires.”

  Mugs Magoo groaned. “Ain’t it enough for me to know about the crooks?” he asked, “without having to spill all the dope on the millionaires?”

  Paul Pry laughed. “I know what you’re trying to do, Mugs,” he said. “You’re trying to keep me from taking an interest in this case because you’re afraid of it. But I’m going to take an interest in it just the same.”