“All right then. So have I.”

  Paul Pry laughed and patted her hand. “And,” she said meaningfully, “I intend to do other things that I shouldn’t do. It’s lots of fun. But I don’t like to lose an inheritance on account of an innocent affair.” “Innocent?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “Of course.”

  “Then the letters can’t be so very bad,” he told her.

  “The letters,” she said archly, “are quite likely to be misunderstood. You understand I have always been a woman of restrictions and inhibitions. It goes back to the time of my girlhood. I was brought up by old-fashioned parents and I was the victim of a too puritanical training. As a result, when I started to write, all of my repressed desires came to the front and were manifest in the letters.”

  “I take it, then,” said Paul Pry, “the letters would not listen well in front of a jury.” “Well,” she said judicially, “unless the members of the jury were pretty well up on love-making they’d get some great ideas.” “Therefore,” said Paul Pry, “you do not wish to have the letters read before a jury.” “Naturally.”

  “What,” asked Paul Pry, “does Silver Dawson say about it?”

  “He’s a cold-blooded snake,” she said. “He’s called Silver because of his shock of white hair, that makes him look old, patient, dignified and sort of grand. But he’d steal the pennies off the eyes of a corpse.” “Naturally,” said Paul Pry, “he has some proposition to offer.”

  “Yes,” she said. “It’s ruinous.”

  “Certainly,” said Paul Pry, “he wouldn’t want more than a percentage of what you inherited.”

  “It isn’t money he wants,” she said. “He wants things that I cannot give.”

  Her voice lowered until it was hardly more than a whisper.

  “He said that I must go to Europe with him.”

  Her face took on an expression of virginal, injured innocence. Her eyes seemed limpid with tears that were about to spring to the surface and she stared pathetically at Paul Pry.

  “And what do you intend to do?” asked Paul Pry.

  “I told you,” she said, “I was going to commit suicide.”

  “Now you’ve changed your mind?” he asked her, petting her hand.

  “Yes. I’ve so much to live for—now.”

  “Well,” pressed Paul Pry, “haven’t you any scheme?”

  She looked at him in impersonal appraisal. Just the sort of a glance which a scientist might give to an impaled butterfly before classifying it.

  “Well,” she said slowly, “I have a scheme which I was thinking of while we were dancing. You seemed so graceful and well knit, so poised and completely able to take care of yourself, that a wild idea flashed through my head. But I’m afraid that it’s hardly practicable, and it’s something I have no right to ask a virtual stranger.”

  “An old friend, Stella,” he said, patting her hand.

  “Very well then,” she said, “as an old friend you’re entitled to hear the scheme, and—to have the prerogatives of an old friendship.”

  She leaned forward and kissed him lingeringly, full upon the lips.

  “Ah,” said Paul Pry. “The duties of such a friendship certainly cannot detract from its net advantage!”

  She laughed and pinched his cheek. “Silly boy!” she said.

  Paul Pry said nothing, but sat waiting.

  Once more the blue eyes gave him that appraising glance, and then she spoke in low, throaty tones.

  “Silver Dawson has a certain circle of acquaintances, not in the best class of society but, nevertheless, a wealthy class. He’s giving a masquerade party tomorrow night at his house. I just had an idea that you might capitalize on that. You see, the guests will be in all sorts of costumes. I thought it might be possible for you to go as a highwayman.”

  “A highwayman?” asked Paul Pry.

  “Yes. You know with a mask and a gun and everything. It would make an interesting costume.”

  “But,” said Paul Pry, “what good would it do?”

  “Simply this,” she said. “You could break away from the dance and move around the house. I could show you where the papers were. If you encountered any of the servants or anyone, you could pull your gun and act the part of a highwayman. If anything went wrong you could claim that it was merely in fun as a part of the masquerade.

  “But nothing will go wrong. You can get in and get the papers. I know exactly where he keeps them. Then you could mingle with the guests, attract attention for your unusual costume, slip out and join me on the outside.”

  “But,” said Paul Pry, “I have no invitation.”

  “You wouldn’t need any,” she said.

  “There is a ladder in the back of the house and we could put it up to one of the second-story windows. Those are always unlocked. You could climb in.”

  “No,” said Paul Pry slowly, “that wouldn’t be such a good scheme. It would be better to try and crash the party. I might forge an invitation.”

  “There’s a thought!” she exclaimed. “I could get you an invitation. You could walk right in the front door and then you could slip away from the crowd and go up to his study where he keeps the letters.”

  “But they would be under lock and key, wouldn’t they?”

  “No. That is, they’d be in a desk and the desk has a lock on it; but you could handle that lock easily enough. I think I could get you a skeleton key that would work it.” Paul Pry slipped an arm about her waist. “I’ll do it, Stella,” he said, “for an old friend.”

  She laughed throatily. “Such a gallant creature,” she said, “deserves another— prerogative of friendship.”

  She leaned forward.

  3

  Murder Masquerade

  Mugs Magoo was seated in the apartment when Paul Pry latchkeyed the door and walked in. Magoo looked up in glassy-eyed appraisal. Then he reached for the half-filled whiskey bottle at this elbow, poured out a generous drink in a tumbler and drained it with a single motion.

  “Well,” he said, “I never expected to see you again.”

  “You always were a cheerful cuss,” said Paul Pry, depositing his coat and hat in the closet.

  “Just a fool for luck,” said Mugs Magoo jovially. “You’ve had an appointment that’s six months overdue that I know of. There’s a marble slab all picked out for you and why you haven’t been on it for a long time is more than I know.”

  “Mugs,” said Paul Pry laughing, “you’re a natural pessimist.”

  “Pessimist nothing,” said Mugs. “You disregard signals, you walk into the damnedest traps and how you ever get out is more than I know.”

  “How do you mean?” asked Paul Pry.

  “The woman that was with you at the table,” Mugs Magoo said, “was ‘Slick’ Stella Molay, and she was covering Tom Meek. I saw you slip over and get the letter and she saw you, too. Frank Bostwick is just a lawyer. He’s all right to stand up in front of a jury and wave his arms and talk about the Constitution, but he isn’t fast on his feet. That’s why Tompkins had Slick Stella Molay follow Tom Meek to make sure that the letter got delivered.”

  “I see,” said Paul Pry. “Then Slick Stella knew that I had the letter. Is that it?”

  “Of course she did.”

  “Why didn’t she accuse me of it, or try to steal it?”

  “Because she knew it wouldn’t do any good. She knew that you were wise to the play and that you were going to read the letter.”

  “What did she want with me then?” asked Paul Pry.

  Mugs Magoo gave a snorting gesture of disgust. “Want with you!” he exclaimed. “She wanted to get you out of the way, of course. She wanted to put you where you’ll be pushing up daisies.”

  Paul Pry grinned gleefully. “Well,” he said, “I’m still here.”

  “Still here because of that providence which watches over fools and idiots,” Mugs Magoo told him. “With the chances you take and the way you walk into trouble, it’s a wonder you haven’t been killed months ago. Why, do you know that Slick Stella Molay is the one who got ‘Big’ Ben Desmond killed in Chicago?”

  “Indeed,” said Paul Pry, raising polite eyebrows, “and how did Big Ben Desmond cash in? Did she shoot him or use poison?” Mugs Magoo poured himself another drink of whiskey. “Not that baby,” he said. “She’s too slick for that.”

  “All right,” said Paul Pry, “I confess to my interest, Mugs. Go ahead and quit keeping me in suspense.”

  “Well,” said Mugs Magoo, “it was so slick there wasn’t a flaw in it. The grand jury looked it all over and couldn’t do anything about it.”

  Paul Pry relaxed comfortably in a reclining chair, lit a cigarette and let his face show polite interest.

  “Do you mean to say, Mugs, that a person could murder another, under such circumstances that a grand jury could look it over and couldn’t find anything wrong with it?”

  “Slick Stella Molay could,” said Mugs Magoo.

  “And just how did she do it?”

  “She got Big Ben Desmond sold on the idea that he was to go to a masquerade ball dressed as a highwayman. Then she got him to go prowling around the house of the man that was giving the masquerade. That man was in his bedroom standing in front of a wall safe, putting some jewelry away, when he heard the sound of a door opening. He turned around and saw a man dressed like a crook, with gloves and a mask, a gun and all the rest of it.

  “The guy who was giving the party was heeled, and he just snapped up his gun and plopped five shells into Big Ben Dawson’s guts before he found out that he was shooting a guest who had just been walking around the house in a masquerade costume.”

  Paul Pry yawned and stifled the yawn with four polite fingers.

  “Indeed, Mugs,” he said. “Rather crude.

  I had thought it might be sufficiently novel to be interesting.”

  “Well,” said Mugs Magoo, “it was novel enough to get Big Ben Desmond out of the way; and the grand jury couldn’t do anything to the guy that killed him because they claimed the guy was entitled to shoot a burglar. And Slick Stella Molay was out in the clear. She put an onion in her handkerchief, went before the grand jury full of weeps and red-eyed grief. They say her eyes looked like hell when she was testifying, but she was damned careful her legs were all right. She wore the best pair of stockings in her wardrobe and when she crossed her knees the grand jury decided that, no matter what had happened, Slick Stella didn’t know anything about it.”

  “And so,” asked Paul Pry, “you think she’d like to get me out of the way?”

  “Sure she would. What was in the letter?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Mugs Magoo sat bolt upright in his chair and stared with protruding, glassy eyes at Paul Pry.

  “You mean to say that you don’t know what’s in the letter?”

  “No. I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  “Well, what the devil did you take the letter for?”

  “To read, of course.”

  “Well, why didn’t you read it?”

  “I put it down in my shoe and haven’t had a chance,” said Paul Pry.

  Casually, as if the matter were of minor importance, he took the envelope from his shoe, opened his penknife with great deliberation, and slit the envelope along the side. He shook out a folded piece of paper.

  “What’s it say?” asked Mugs Magoo eagerly.

  Paul Pry frowned.

  “Rather a puzzling message, I should say, Mugs.”

  “Well, what is it?”

  Paul Pry read the letter out loud—“Tell Stella there’s a screw loose, it’s Bunny’s nutcracker and to make the play but spring me before you flash the take.”

  “Is that all of it?” asked Mugs Magoo.

  “That’s all of it,” said Paul Pry.

  “Well,” said Mugs, “we know now why Stella was sticking around that lawyer. Frank Bostwick would never have known what that meant.”

  “Do you know?” asked Paul Pry.

  “Well,” said Mugs Magoo, regarding the diminishing level of amber fluid in the whiskey bottle with a mournful expression, “there’s some things about it I don’t understand. Bunny must be Bunny Myers and when Tompkins says to spring him before flashing the take, it means that he’s to actually be out of jail before they exhibit the diamond or turn it over to the insurance company.”

  “Do you suppose that means that there’s something phony about the diamond?” asked Paul Pry.

  Mugs said: “Tompkins wouldn’t dare to deliver a phony gem to the insurance company. But he’s just playing cautious. Lots of times the insurance companies make promises about what they’ll do with the district attorney if the crook will come through and tell the hiding place of the gem. Then, when it comes to a showdown, and the insurance company is in the clear, they lose all interest in the matter and the crook gets about twice as stiff a jolt as he would otherwise have drawn.”

  “Tell me some more about Bunny Myers,” said Paul Pry.

  “He’s an undersized guy with mild eyes and a big nose and rabbit teeth. They stick out in front and make you feel like feeding him a carrot whenever you see him. I haven’t run across Bunny for four or five years; but I know that he used to run around with Tompkins on some of the gem stuff.

  “Bunny is a good man to have along because he’s so harmless. He looks like a regular rabbit and damned if he don’t act like one.”

  “Any great amount of ability?” asked Paul Pry.

  “Yes, he’s pretty fast with his noodle,” Mugs Magoo admitted, “and he’s a pretty good actor. He’s cultivated that manner of meekness because nobody ever expects a stick-up artist to have such a meek appearance.”

  “Well,” said Paul Pry, “there’s no use bothering my head about it. The message is in some sort of code and it doesn’t seem to help us very much. I’ve got to get my beauty sleep, because I’ve got a hard night ahead of me tomorrow night.”

  “Pulling a job tomorrow night?” asked Mugs Magoo, showing interest.

  “No,” said Paul Pry, “I’m going out to a ball tomorrow night.”

  “What sort of a ball?” Mugs Magoo inquired.

  “A ball that Slick Stella Molay wants me to go to with her,” said Paul Pry. “She’s going to arrange for an invitation. Pm going in rather a unique costume. She’s worked it all out for me, Mugs. It’s rather novel. I’m going as a conventional burglar, dressed in a mask and carrying a gun and kit of burglar tools.”

  Mugs Magoo whirled around and the whiskey bottle, struck by his shoulder, toppled for a moment and crashed to the floor.

  “You’re what?” he yelled.

  “Don’t shout,” said Paul Pry. “I’m merely going to a masquerade ball with Slick Stella Molay, dressed as a burglar.”

  Mugs Magoo shook his head dolefully. His hand went to his forehead, as though trying to hold his brain to some semblance of sanity by physical pressure.

  “Oh, my God!” he groaned.

  “And, by the way,” said Paul Pry, “undoubtedly, you’re correct in your assumption that Stella knows I picked up the letter Tom Meek left for the lawyer. They’ll try to get another one smuggled out of the jail. How long will it take them?”

  Mugs Magoo shook his head lugubriously from side to side.

  “As far as that’s concerned,” he said, “it’ll probably take them a couple of days. They’ve got to smuggle a message in to Tompkins and then Tompkins has got to get another letter to Meek and have it delivered. But you don’t need to worry about it, guy. You won’t be here when it happens. You’ll be lying flat on your back with a lily in your hand. You were a good pal while you lasted but you’re like the pitcher that went to the well too often.

  “I don’t want to intrude on your private affairs, but if you’d let me know the songs that you like best, I’ll see that the undertaker gives you the breaks when it comes to the music.”

  4

  Bunny’s Nutcracker

  The cab driver swung in behind the line of cars that crawled along close to the curb and Slick Stella Molay said: “This is the place.” Within a few seconds Paul Pry was handing Stella out from the taxicab and receiving her gracious smile.

  “Darling,” she said, “you look splendid. You make my heart go pitty-pat. You look exactly like a burglar.”

  Paul Pry accepted the compliment and paid off the taxi driver.

  “I’ll say he looks like a burglar,” said the taxi driver, pocketing the money. “It was all I could do to keep from shelling out instead of handing him the meter slip. You see, lady, I was stuck up a week ago and my stomach still feels cold where the gun was pointed.”

  “And, so this,” said Paul Pry, “is the lair of the famous Silver Dawson?”

  “Yes,” she said. “He’s the blackmail king of the underworld. He’s a fighter. I wish someone would kill him.”

  “Will I meet him,” asked Paul Pry, “as we go in?”

  “No,” she said. “Simply show your invitation to the man at the door and then we’ll go in and mingle with the crowd for a minute, have a drink of punch and perhaps a dance. After that you go upstairs. The study is the room on the front of the house on the second floor and the papers are there in the desk. I’ve given you the key.” “Then what?” asked Paul Pry.

  “Then,” she said, “we mingle around with the crowd a little longer and then go back to the apartment.”

  “Without unmasking?” asked Paul Pry. “Without unmasking,” she said. “I would have to unmask if you did, and if Silver Dawson saw me here he’d know right away something was wrong and that our invitations had been forged.”

  “And if I should meet any of the servants?” asked Paul Pry.

  “Then,” she said, “go ahead and stick a gun in their ribs. Tie them and gag them if you have to, or knock them out. You don’t need to worry, because if anybody should touch you, you could claim that you were looking for the restroom.”