Paul Pry’s eyes were hard and insistent. “The key,” he said.

  “I don’t know who you are,” she said, “and I don’t know what right you’ve got to ask for the key.”

  Paul Pry moved toward her. His eyes were cold and hypnotic. “The key,” he repeated.

  She stared into his eyes for several seconds, then slowly opened her hand.

  The key dropped to the carpet.

  Paul Pry stooped to pick it up.

  At the moment she moved with swift speed. Paul Pry swung himself to one side and dodged as a small, pearl-handled automatic glittered in her hand. “Stick them up!” she said savagely.

  Paul Pry lunged forward, caught her about the knees. She gave a half scream and fell forward, the gun dropping from her hand. They came together on the floor, a tangled mass of arms and legs, from which Paul Pry emerged presently, smiling and debonair.

  “Naughty, naughty,” he said. “I really should spank you for that.”

  He took the automatic and slipped it into his hip pocket. Then, as the young woman sat on the floor arranging her clothes so as to cover her legs, Paul Pry searched until he found the key, held it up and smiled knowingly.

  “I thought so,” he said. “A skeleton key.”

  She stared at him wordlessly.

  “You are,” said Paul Pry, “in the eyes of the law, a burglar, a person guilty of making a felonious entrance and taking property which does not belong to you.”

  She said nothing.

  “Under the circumstances,” said Paul Pry, striding easily across the room, “I think I will have to telephone to the police.”

  She remained as he had left her—motionless, silent, and with a face which was drained of expression.

  Paul Pry approached the door which led into the corridor, turned and smiled. “Upon second thought, however,” he said, “in view of the most charming display of feminine pulchritude which you unwittingly gave me, I am going to let mercy temper justice.”

  With a swift motion of his arms and hands, he flipped back the spring catch on the door, pulled the door open, stepped into the corridor and slammed the door behind him.

  There was no sound of pursuit, no commotion. The apartment remained completely silent.

  3

  The Wooden Fish

  Paul Pry was faultlessly attired in evening clothes when he pressed the doorbell of the magnificent residence of Perry C. Hammond.

  A dour-visaged butler opened the door. Pry met his sour look with a disarming smile.

  “A gentleman,” he said, “who refuses to divulge his name, wishes to see Mr. Hammond at once upon a matter of the most urgent nature.”

  “Mr. Hammond, sir,” said the butler, “is not at home.”

  “You will explain to Mr. Hammond,” said Paul Pry, still smiling, “that I am a specialist in my line.”

  “Mr. Hammond, sir, is not at home.”

  “Quite right, my man, quite right. And, will you please add to the explanation you make to Mr. Hammond that my particular specialty is in disorders of the lips—disorders which have to do with a permanent silence, brought about through mechanical means.”

  Paul Pry’s smiling eyes locked with those of the butler, and suddenly the smile left Paul Pry’s eyes. His face became cold and stern.

  “You will,” he said, “convey that message to Mr. Hammond immediately. Otherwise, I will communicate with Mr. Hammond in some other way, and explain to him the reason my message was not delivered personally. I don’t mind assuring you that Mr. Hammond will consider you have committed a major indiscretion.”

  The butler hesitated for a long moment. “Will you step this way, sir?” he asked.

  He ushered Paul Pry through a reception hallway, into a small entrance parlor. “Please be seated, sir,” he said. “I will see if, perhaps, Mr. Hammond has returned.”

  The butler glided from the room, and the door had no sooner closed upon him, than Paul Pry, moving with noiseless stealth, jerked open the door and stepped once more into the reception corridor.

  His quick eyes had detected a small enameled box for out-going mail, and Paul Pry’s deft fingers raised the lid of the box and explored the interior.

  There were three letters addressed in a cramped, angular handwriting. Paul Pry flipped the letters, one over the other, in rapid succession, scanning the addresses. The third envelope was addressed to Fremont Burke, General Delivery.

  Paul Pry stuck it in his pocket, returned the others to the mail box, and then moved on furtive feet back into the reception parlor.

  He had barely resumed his seat when the butler entered through another door. “Mr. Hammond,” he said, “will see you.”

  Paul Pry walked across the room, followed the butler down a passageway and went through a door the servant indicated.

  A man with great puffs under his eyes, a look of infinite weariness upon his face, stared at him with expressionless interrogation. “Well,” he said, “what was it you wanted?”

  “I have reason,” said Paul Pry, “to believe that your life is in danger.”

  “I think you are mistaken,” said Hammond.

  “I have reason,” said Paul Pry, “to believe that the same fate which overtook Charles C. Darwin may, perhaps, be in store for you.”

  Perry Hammond shook his head. “Whoever gave you your information,” he said, “misinformed you.”

  “In other words,” said Paul Pry slowly, “you deny that you have received any demands from a person who has threatened you with death or disaster in the event you fail to comply? You deny that you have been threatened with death, under circumstances similar to the threats which were made to Mr. Charles Darwin?”

  “I,” said Perry Hammond, slowly and deliberately, “don’t know what you’re talking about. I saw you because I thought you might be interested in getting some information about Mr. Darwin. As far as I am concerned, you can get out and stay out.” Paul Pry bowed. “Thank you very much,” he said, “for your interview, Mr. Hammond.” He turned on his heel.

  “Wait a minute,” said the millionaire in a cold, husky voice.

  “Are you a newspaper reporter?”

  “No,” said Paul Pry without turning. “Then who the devil are you?” asked Hammond with sudden irritation.

  Paul Pry turned to face the millionaire. “I am a man,” he said, smiling affably, “who is going to make you extremely sorry you lied to him.”

  With that, he turned once more and strode steadily and purposefully down the carpeted corridor.

  Mugs Magoo looked up from his whiskey glass as Paul Pry latchkeyed the apartment door. “Well,” he said mournfully, “I see you’re still with us.”

  “Temporarily, at least, Mugs,” Paul Pry retorted, smiling.

  He hung up his hat and coat, crossed to a closet and opened the door. The closet contained a collection of drums, drums of various sorts and descriptions.

  Mugs Magoo shuddered. “For God’s sake,” he said, “don’t start that!”

  Paul Pry laughed lightly and fingered the drums with the attentive care that a hunter might give to the selection of a gun from a gun cabinet.

  Mugs Magoo hastily poured liquor into the glass. “At least,” he said, “give me fifteen minutes to get liquored before you start. Those damn drums do things to me. They get into my blood and make the pulses pound.”

  Paul Pry’s voice was almost dreamy as he picked out a round piece of wood which seemed to be entirely solid, save for a cut along one end, with two holes bored at the end of the cut.

  “That, Mugs,” he said, “is the function of drums. We don’t know exactly what it is they do, but they seem to get into a person’s blood. You don’t like the sound of drums, Mugs, because you are afraid of the primitive. You are continually trying to run away from yourself. Doubtless a psycho-analyst could look into your past and find that your taste for whiskey had its inception in an attempt to drown some real or fancied sorrow.”

  Mugs Magoo let his face show extreme consternation. “You’re not going to take me to one of those psycho-analysts?” he asked.

  Paul Pry shook his head. “Certainly not, Mugs,” he said. “I think it is too late to effect a cure now, and, in the event a cure was effected, Mugs, you would lose your taste for whiskey.

  “Drums, Mugs, do to me exactly what whiskey does to you. If you could cultivate a taste for drums, I think I would endeavor to cure you of the whiskey habit. But, since you cannot, the only thing I can do is to let you enjoy your pleasures in your own way, and insist that you allow me an equal latitude.”

  Paul Pry sat down in the chair which faced the big fireplace, took a long, slender stick, to the end of which had been affixed a rose-bud-shaped bit of hard wood.

  “Now, Mugs,” he said, “here we have a Mok Yeitt, otherwise known as a ‘wooden fish.’ The wooden fish is a prayer drum used by the Buddhists in China to pave the way for a friendly reception to their prayers. If you will listen, Mugs, you will get the remarkable delicacy of tone which the better specimens of these drums give. They are cunningly carved by hand. A hole is made in either end of the slit, and the wood is hollowed out with painstaking care …”

  “For God’s sake!” said Mugs Magoo, “don’t! You’re going to drive me crazy with that thing!”

  Paul Pry shook his head, started tapping the wooden stick against the bulge of the drum. A throbbing sound filled the apartment, a sound which had a peculiar wooden resonance which trailed off into vibrating overtones.

  Mugs Magoo frantically downed the whiskey, poured himself another drink, gulped it, then shivered and sat motionless. After a moment, he placed his one hand against his ear.

  “I can shut out half of the sound, anyhow,” he said, at length.

  Paul Pry paid no attention to him, but continued tapping upon the drum at regular intervals.

  “What’s the idea of all the drumming now?” asked Mugs Magoo.

  “I’m trying to concentrate,” said Paul Pry. “I think I almost have the solution I want.”

  Abruptly, he ceased drumming and smiled benignly at Mugs. “Yes, Mugs,” he said, “I have the solution.”

  Mugs Magoo shivered. “It’ll be another five minutes,” he said, “before that whiskey takes effect. I was spared five minutes of torture anyway. What is the solution?”

  Paul Pry set down the Mok Yeitt. He reached into the inside pocket of his coat, pulled out an envelope, the flap of which had been steamed open, and took out a letter and a tinted oblong of paper.

  “Mugs,” he said, “I have here a letter bearing the angular signature of Perry C. Hammond, a multi-millionaire. Let me read it to you.

  “Mr. Fremont Burke,

  General Delivery,

  City.

  Dear Mr. Burke:

  I herewith comply with your request. You will find enclosed my check for twenty-five thousand dollars, payable to bearer. I wish to assure you that no attempt whatever will be made to interfere with the cashing of that check. On the other hand, I have notified my bankers by telephone that the check represents the transfer of consideration in a bona fide business deal, and that they are to promptly honor the check when it is presented.

  Trusting that this complies in full with your demands and that I may now be at liberty to consider the matter closed, I am,

  Very truly yours,

  Perry C. Hammond.

  Mugs Magoo stared at Paul Pry. “A check,” he said, “for twenty-five thousand dollars?”

  Paul Pry nodded. “And don’t forget, Mugs,” he said, “that it’s payable to bearer.”

  “But,” said Mugs Magoo, “who is the bearer?”

  Paul Pry got to his feet, replaced the wooden fish in the drum closet, closed the door, turned to Mugs and smiled once more. “Mugs,” he said, “I am the bearer.”

  Mugs Magoo stared at him with eyes that seemed to pop from his head. “My God!” he said. “You’ve been mixing into things again! You’re going to have the police after you for theft, Perry Hammond after you for fraud, and probably the man who pulls the cross-stitch murders after you, hammer and tongs, trying to kill you and sew your lips up!”

  Paul Pry pursed his lips thoughtfully, then nodded his head.

  “Yes, Mugs,” he said, “I should say that that is a very fair statement of the probable consequences. In fact, I would say that it is a somewhat conservative estimate.”

  Smiling, he crossed to the writing desk and pulled down the slab of heavy wood which served as a writing table. He explored the pigeon holes which were disclosed in the back of the desk.

  “You will remember, Mugs,” he said, “that at one time I secured a long, purple envelope, with a red border. You asked me what the devil I wanted with such an envelope, and I told you that I was keeping it because it was distinctive.”

  Mugs Magoo nodded. “Yes,” he said, “I remember that.”

  Paul Pry took a fountain pen from his pocket and addressed the purple envelope with the red border.

  “Mr. Fremont Burke, General Delivery, City,” he said when he had finished writing. “The red ink shows up rather to advantage on that purple background. It makes it quite harmonious.”

  “What’s in the envelope?” asked Mugs Magoo.

  “Nothing,” said Paul Pry.

  “What’s going to be in it?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What’s the idea?” asked Mugs Magoo.

  Paul Pry smiled. He took from another compartment of the desk a stamped envelope. He addressed that envelope also to Fremont Burke, General Delivery, City.

  “What’s going in that envelope?” asked Mugs Magoo.

  “In this envelope,” said Paul Pry, smiling, “is going the best forgery of this check which I can make, and I’m satisfied, Mugs, that it will be quite a clever forgery.”

  Mugs Magoo stared at Paul Pry in wordless contemplation. Then, “You’re going to cash the original check?” he asked.

  Paul Pry nodded.

  “How about the forged check?” asked Mugs Magoo.

  Paul Pry shrugged his shoulders. “That, Mugs,” he said, “is a matter which lies between the bank and the man who presents the check.”

  “But,” said Mugs Magoo, “suppose the forged check should be presented first?”

  Paul Pry smiled patronizingly. “Come, come, Mugs,” he said, “you must give me credit for a little intelligence. The original check will be cashed before the forged check ever reaches the post office.”

  “And what,” asked Mugs Magoo, “is the idea of the two letters—one in the colored envelope and one in the plain envelope?”

  “That, Mugs,” said Paul Pry, “comes under that classification of a trade secret. Really, it’s something that I can’t tell you unless you permit me to do a little more drumming.”

  Mugs Magoo shook his head violently from side to side in extreme agitation.

  “What’s the idea of the shake?” asked Paul Pry.

  “I wanted to see if the whiskey had taken effect,” said Mugs Magoo. “If it had, I’d let you drum some more, but I see that I either didn’t get enough whiskey, or else I misjudged the time it would take to make me dizzy. I can’t stand the drumming, so you can keep your damned trade secret to yourself.”

  Paul Pry chuckled and thrust the envelopes into his inside pocket. “Tomorrow at this time, Mugs, I’ll be twenty-five thousand dollars richer. Moreover, I’ll be embarked upon an interesting adventure.”

  “Tomorrow at this time,” said Mugs Magoo, with solemn melancholy, “you’ll be stretched out on a marble slab, and a coroner and an autopsy surgeon will be staring at the cross-stitches that are placed across your lips.”

  4

  The Second Check

  Paul Pry, wearing an overcoat which was turned up around the neck, a felt hat which 207

  was pulled down low over his forehead, and with heavily smoked glasses shielding his eyes, shoved the check through the cashier’s window.

  The cashier stared at Paul Pry’s smoked glasses, looked at the check, said, “Just a moment,” and stepped from his grilled cage. He consulted a memorandum, looked at the check once more, sighed, and, with obvious reluctance, picked up a sheaf of currency.

  “How,” he asked, “would you like to have this?”

  “In hundreds,” said Paul Pry, “if that’s convenient.”

  The cashier counted out hundred dollar bills in lots of ten, stacked them all together and snapped a large elastic band about them.

  “You’ll take them that way?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You wish to count them?”

  “No,” said Paul Pry, and turned away.

  His long overcoat flapped about his ankles as he walked. He could feel the gaze of the cashier striking between his shoulder blades with almost physical impact.

  Paul Pry went at once to the post office, where he dropped the two letters through the slot marked for city mail. Then he went out to lunch, and, after lunch, he strolled back to the post office.

  He managed to stand where, without seeming to be too conspicuous, he could watch the window marked “General Delivery—A to G.”

  Shortly after two-thirty, a young woman, stylishly gowned, presented herself at the window.

  Paul Pry, standing some thirty feet away, at the end of a corridor, saw the clerk at the general-delivery window hand out a long envelope of purple tint, with a red border. The young woman took it, looked at it curiously. A moment later, the man behind the grill slid another envelope through the window. The girl took it, stared curiously at both envelopes. A moment later she moved away from the window, paused to open the envelopes, staring with puzzled countenance at the empty interior of the purple envelope.

  Evidently she expected the check which was in the second envelope, for, as she removed the slip of paper, a look of relief came over her features. Paul Pry, standing where he could observe her every move, saw that she was laboring under great tension. Her lips seemed inclined to quiver, and her hands shook as she crumpled the purple envelope, held it over the huge iron waste basket as though to drop it. Then, apparently she thought better of it, for she uncrumpled the envelope, folded it and thrust it in her purse.