The girl elevated one knee as she scraped a match across the sole of her foot, applied the flame to a cigarette which was placed between her vivid lips.

  “Horse radish!” she said. “Bob Dundley brought in the whole ten letters. He’ll swear to it and I’ll swear to it. I was outside waiting in the car. I seen him come in, an’ I seen him come out. Don’t think Mrs. Ramsay raised no foolish children by the name of Myrtle who would trust any Bob Dundley with ten thousand berries of her money.”

  Pratt shook his head.

  “There’s a mistake somewhere.”

  “You’re damn tootin’ there’s a mistake. You made it when you lifted those two letters. They call that by an ugly name down at the district attorney’s office. You fork over those two letters an’ be damned speedy about it, too.”

  Pratt shook his head, not quite so emphatically as he had before, but, nevertheless, in a strong negative.

  “No. They are held in trust.”

  The woman blew out a cloud of smoke, reached for the telephone.

  “All right. I’ll just call your bluff, you bat-eared, white-eyed bum. I’ll just call up Papa Stapleton and tell him not to worry, that I’ll swear the letters are forgeries if anybody tries to use ’em. If you’re holding ’em for someone else, you just turn ’em back to that bozo, an’ tell him he’s goin’ to be arrested for blackmail if he even tries to use those letters.

  “Old Stapleton was a lukewarm daddy, but he used me square when he decorated the mahogany with the ten grand. That’s the price I made, an’ that’s the price I stick to. I’m a woman of my word. Maybe I could have got more with a breach of promise suit, but juries don’t figure much heart balm for a poor jane that has to work the chorus of a burlesque—”

  And the woman lifted the receiver from the hook.

  Albert Pratt’s hand crushed down upon the hook, stopped the connection. There were beads of perspiration on his forehead.

  “Listen,” he soothed. “You want money. Here’s your chance. Take five thousand dollars and walk out of town for an afternoon.”

  Her eyes narrowed.

  “Applesauce. It’s worth twice that. Gimme the telephone, or have I gotta call a cop?”

  “All right,” hastily agreed the agonized banker, with a swift glance at the clock. “I’ll give you the ten thousand. But get out of here and lay low.”

  She got to her feet, nodded.

  “It’s a rotten trick, but a workin’ girl has gotta take the breaks as she gets ’em. Fork over the ten grand.”

  It took exactly one minute and thirty-eight seconds for Albert Pratt to produce the money and bow his unwelcome visitor to the door.

  There followed an interval of fifteen minutes, and then Sidney Zoom, still disguised as the fictitious Mr. George Stapleton, entered the bank.

  Albert Pratt welcomed him with a cordial handshake, ushered him into the inner office, produced a check made out to “cash” in the sum of forty thousand dollars, flipped the two letters from his desk drawer.

  “Just sign there, and I’ll turn over the letters,” he said. “After all, I guess you were right. These letters are pretty purple. They’d wreck you if they ever got out.”

  George Stapleton beamed at him.

  “Would you believe it? I made a settlement with the wife. Her attorney relented just after you telephoned. I settled with her for forty thousand dollars. And that means I don’t care a hoot about the letters.”

  VIII

  ALBERT PRATT clutched the edge of the desk.

  “But Myrtle Ramsay! How about her breach of promise suit?”

  “Nonsense!” said his visitor. “Myrtle Ramsay is a gold digger, but she’s square as a cornerstone. When she sets her price she’ll abide by it. She said ten thousand dollars, and she got the ten thousand dollars. Congratulate me, Pratt. I feel like a new man. Hang it, you don’t seem pleased!”

  And Stapleton extended his hand, a frown of puzzled perplexity on his features. Albert Pratt took a deep breath, extended a moist, limp lump of flesh.

  “But the letters, those damning, purple, passionate, foolish letters! What’ll I do with them?”

  “They’re left with you as an escrow holder?”

  “Yes, for forty thousand. Of course, the man might take less, perhaps twenty thousand, possibly even fifteen.”

  Stapleton gave a glad laugh.

  “Forget it. Hand him back the letters on a silver platter. Tell him to frame ’em and hang ’em in the city hall if he wants to. What the devil do I care. I’ve made a settlement with the wife. I gave her a check on my account here. That cleans it up. We’re all quits.”

  Albert Pratt’s trained mind, skilled in chicanery, suddenly clicked the parts of the puzzle into a perfect picture. He lunged forward. His clutching fingers caught the horn-rimmed glasses, jerked them off. His other hand clutched the trick mustache, tore it loose from the upper lip.

  “Framed!” he yelled. “Defrauded. I can have you arrested for criminal conspiracy.

  You’re not George Stapleton at all, and that woman was a confederate!”

  And Sidney Zoom, straightened to his full height, letting his cold hawk-like eyes bore into the pale orbs of the banker, nodded.

  “I didn’t care much for this disguise, anyway,” he said, “but I had to look the part of a sucker.”

  And his hands, going to his head, slipped off the oily, perfumed wig he wore. “My name is Zoom! Sidney Zoom, at your service. A specialist in legalized fraud, a subject, by the way, to which I understand you have devoted much of your life, Mr. Pratt.”

  The banker stared at him with eyes that were as palely inexpressive as twin clam shells fished from a chowder.

  “Specialist in what?”

  “Legalized frauds, those little chicaneries by which a man can take advantage of his fellow mortal, yet be well within the law.”

  “Legalized fiddlesticks! If I can’t convict you of criminal conspiracy in this case I’ll go out of the banking business.”

  Sidney Zoom perched his tall frame upon a corner of the desk, reached for a cigarette. His eyes were now as hard as those of a swooping hawk.

  “Yes? Well, think again. You’ll have to admit the theft of two letters before you can make out any case. And that will convict you of larceny to start with. In the second place, there was no wrongful act on my part. I merely deposited money with which to redeem certain letters that were being delivered by a confederate. In other words I was merely buying letters from myself.

  “You were the one that committed the crime, and you were the one that did the conspiring. You paid the young lady ten thousand dollars to keep quiet about your theft of the letters. Try that on your thinking apparatus and see if you can get the answer without turning to the back of the book.”

  And get the answer Albert Pratt undoubtedly did, for his mouth sagged open. He swallowed painfully a couple of times, then raised his eyes to confront the rigid forefinger of Sidney Zoom, jabbing into his necktie.

  “And this is just a warning. As I mentioned, I specialize in legalized fraud. I know a hundred ways by which I can take money from you, yet never violate the letter of the law. I specialize in lost souls, and you’ve contributed your share. You with your damned rediscount company and your bum stocks. Sit still! Move and I’ll alter your features so the directors won’t know you when you try to preside at the next meeting! “I’ve had my eye on you for some time. This little visit is long overdue. I’m taking ten thousand dollars as a warning. That money is being given, three thousand to a deserving applicant, seven thousand toward making partial restitution to some of the fellows you’ve charged illegal interest, wiped out their little savings with bum stock deals. You’ve got a chance to turn over a new leaf right now. If you don’t, I shall call again. And the next time your fine will be twenty thousand dollars!”

  Albert Pratt rubbed a bony forefinger around the inside of his collar. Then he laughed, a hollow, mirthless laugh.

  “Well, if you’re counting on getting any of the ten thousand dollars from the woman who got it from me, you’ve got another guess coming. I happen to know something of her type of woman. She may be a confederate, but she’ll skip out with the ten grand.”

  Sidney Zoom thrust his face close to that of the banker.

  “That young woman,” he snapped, “is just like I told you—as square as a cornerstone. Think that over, and keep this to remember me by.”

  And Sidney Zoom swung his open hand from the vicinity of his hip, hard, forward.

  The open palm struck the banker’s cheek with such force that it sounded like the crack of a miniature pistol.

  Albert Pratt staggered back, got to his feet, his pale eyes flabby with fear. “I shall call an officer!” he threatened.

  Sidney Zoom laughed in his face.

  “Call out the reserves, you cheap crook,” he said, and then slammed the door, leaving the private banker alone with his thoughts and his smarting face; leaving him with the knowledge that he had no redress, either civil or criminal. He had been outsmarted by a past master in the art of legalized fraud.

  BORROWED BULLETS

  CHAPTER I

  A Fight on the Wharf

  SIDNEY ZOOM turned the wheel of the Alberta F. hard to star-board.

  The yacht swung in a sweeping curve through the dark water of the bay. The lighted ferry slips, backed by blinking electric signs advertising half a dozen national products, were blotted out by a projecting wharf.

  In their place loomed the black hulks of towering freighters, massive wharves against which the little wavelets slapped invisible fingers.

  Here and there, one of the big boats was preparing for sea. Half-naked men toiled like white beetles in the glare of incandescents. Donkey engines rattled, cables clanked against metal spars. But for the most part the black hulls of the boats towered in dark silence.

  Sidney Zoom turned to the figure at his side—a young woman, well formed, alert, vital.

  “Looking for someone?” she asked.

  Sidney Zoom thrust forward his grim features. The hawk like eyes peered into the darkness.

  “The Willmoto,” he said. “I want to see Captain McGahan. You’ll get a kick out of him, Vera. Most efficient captain in the coastal service. Gets more cargo aboard in less time, moves more freight faster with less crew—”

  He broke off.

  Over the chug of the engines, through the damp darkness of the waterfront, there sounded a scream. It was the scream of a woman in terror.

  Sidney Zoom slammed the throttle shut, kicked out the clutch.

  In the comparative silence the scream sounded the second time, knifing the darkness of the yacht’s pilot house. It was followed by the sound of a masculine laugh, and that laugh contained many emotions other than humor.

  “There!”

  The girl’s arm pointed and Sidney Zoom’s gaze followed the direction of the outstretched finger.

  A little knot of struggling forms cast grotesque black shadows out on the end of one of the piers. Back of them showed a freighter, getting ready for sea. All the hatches were loaded except number four, and the donkey engines were busily clattering supplies into that hold. The lights were concentrated upon the section of the freighter that was being loaded. For the rest, the boat was dark and silent.

  Sidney Zoom twisted the spokes of the wheel. In his eyes showed a sudden lust of conflict. At his side, in the darkness, came the sound of a low growl, and a tawny police dog, a bulking shadow of ominous strength, got to his feet and stood braced, shoulders low and forward.

  “Steady, Rip,” warned Sidney Zoom. “I’ll handle this. Hold her against that pier head. Vera. There’s a rope ladder there. No, no, not so far over. There it is, right on the end. Throw her into reverse as you make the swing. Then stand by.”

  And Sidney Zoom was out of the pilot house, on to the deck of the yacht in four swift strides that sounded merely as rapid thumps upon the planking. He went to the rail, paused, leaped out into the darkness.

  His long arms swung his weight into the night as his hands clenched the rungs of the rope ladder. The yacht swung around, then bumped into the pilings of the wharf and flung clear.

  Sidney Zoom went up the ladder, all angles, like a huge jumping-jack, yet with the swift efficiency of a climbing monkey.

  The struggle was over when he reached the pier. Three men were carrying some limp object which might have been a sack of meal, but was not.

  Sidney Zoom padded purposefully through the half-darkness.

  A masculine voice, coming in irregular spasms of sound, after the manner of a man who is talking after a struggle, reached his ears. “… so damned anxious … to travel … let her travel.”

  “We can’t help it if she stows away,” said another. And then there was another laugh, coarse, primitive. “Gentlemen,” said Sidney Zoom.

  They whirled at the sound.

  “Just a moment,” said Sidney Zoom. The men set their burden to the wharf. “Well?” rasped one of the group.

  “I heard a woman scream,” Zoom said.

  “You’re a liar,” said one of the men, and rushed.

  The other two followed, spread out a bit, one on either side. They came in, crouching low, men who had learned the advantage of being close to the ground in a rough-and-tumble.

  These were no amateur fighters, but men who had learned the art of conflict in various ports of the world. The science of the padded gloves was not for them; rather, had they mastered the little tricks of the trade that were dirty, but effective. A trick with the knee, a bit of shoulder stuff, a butting with the head, and all combined with a swift aggression of purposeful silence that had been the result of long and bitter experience.

  The leader reckoned without the terrific length of arm which had fooled more than one antagonist. His head snapped back as Zoom’s fist crashed out. Then the other two closed and the planks of the pier thudded to the rapid tattoo of swift conflict.

  The struggling knot of figures milled into a circle.

  There was the sound of a terrific impact and one of the men staggered backward and out of the circle. For what seemed a long breath he paused teetering on the edge of the pier, then he vanished into the night. An appreciable interval later, there sounded the noise of a terrific splash.

  The other two drew back, hesitated, then charged again.

  The inert figure that had been lowered to the wharf by the three men at the challenge of Sidney Zoom, stirred, got to its feet, ran blindly toward the struggling figures, veered off.

  Sidney Zoom’s voice sounded from the midst of the mêlée. “There’s a rope ladder at the end. Go down it to the yacht.”

  But the running figure seemed in a daze. It dashed to the end of the pier, flung itself outward, and again came the noise of a splash.

  The three figures separated for a split second. Zoom’s fist thudded home. A man staggered backward, wobbled, charged blindly once more.

  In the interval, however, there had sounded twin thuds. The third combatant had reeled away, and Sidney Zoom, running lightly, made for the end of the pier.

  He went out into the darkness in a long are of graceful motion. Down, down, down … a vast sea of black before him, a splash, the cold waters of the bay hissing past him, then a few swift strokes as he fought his way to the surface.

  The Alberta F. was almost on top of him as he came up into the dark night. He could see her white sides, the knife-like overhang of her bow. He swung to his side, kicked out, made a long, powerful stroke, and shot to the side.

  “He’s right over there behind you, sir,” said the voice of one of the crew, standing in white watchfulness against the rail of the yacht.

  Sidney Zoom caught the ripple of water, the sound of hands beating frantically, and went to the place from which those sounds emanated, in a racing flurry of overhand strokes.

  His questing fingers caught a woolen garment just as a rope snaked through the darkness and splashed to the water within an arm’s length.

  “Okay,” said Sidney Zoom, clutching the garment with one hand and the rope with the other, “pull away.”

  The rope tightened. The yacht loomed again. Strong hands clutched and heaved, and they had her on the deck, a bedraggled figure clad in men’s rough clothes. But the clothes had been torn almost to shreds. It did not need the revealing clutch of the moist garments to show that here was no man at all, but a young woman whose right eye was swollen nearly shut and growing very, very black.

  She sat up and spat out salt water, looked at Sidney Zoom with her single good eye, and grinned.

  “Thanks,” she said, “for the buggy ride.”

  Sidney Zoom smiled, and there was approval in that smile.

  “If you’ll go into that cabin,” he said, “Miss Vera Thurmond, my secretory, will see that you have dry clothes.”

  She got to her feet, clutched at the hand rail on the top of the cabin for support, turned back to Sidney Zoom.

  “Okay,” she said, and entered the cabin. Sidney Zoom walked to the pilot house. “Clothes, sir?” asked one of the men.

  “Can wait, Johnson. I’m taking her into the mooring float. Get the lines ready. Make her fast when I come up alongside. The tide’s running fast, so I’ll come in with it on the port bow. Get the bow line first. The tide will swing in the stern.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  The door of the pilot house slammed. The deep throated motors purred into coughing life and the yacht slipped through the dark waters in a long circle of increasing speed. The lights of the ferry slips showed once more. The blinking electric signs threw varicolored reflections upon the waters. A ferry boomed a hoarse warning.

  The yacht crossed the ferry lanes, swung into the more gloomy channel, and nosed its way past the small craft moorings to bump against the mooring float maintained by Sidney Zoom.

  Lines thudded. The motors idled. Feet ran along the booming planks, and a voice from the darkness shouted, “All fast, sir.”

  CHAPTER II