by Otto Penzler
—
Mr. Philip Borgley, first vice president of the Sixth Merchants & Traders National, regarded the dapper individual who smiled at him with such urbane assurance, and then consulted the slip of pasteboard which was held between his fingers.
“Mr. Paul Pry, eh?”
Paul Pry continued to smile.
The banker squirmed about in his chair and frowned. He did not encourage smiles during interviews. The great god of money must be approached in a spirit of proper reverence. And Philip Borgley wished to impress upon his customers that he was the priest of the great god.
“You do not have an account here?” There was almost accusation in the question.
“No,” remarked Paul Pry, and the smile became slightly more pronounced.
“Ah,” observed Borgley in a tone which had shattered the hopes of many a supplicant before the throne of wealth.
But the smile upon Paul Pry’s face remained.
“Well?” snapped the banker.
“The bank, I believe, has a standing reward for the recovery of stolen money?”
“Yes. In the event any is stolen.”
“Ah, yes. And does the bank, perhaps, offer any rewards for crime prevention?”
“No, sir. It does not. And may I suggest that if idle curiosity prompted you to seek this interview it had best be terminated.” Banker Borgley got to his feet.
Paul Pry poked at the toe of his well-fitting shoe with the tip of his cane. “How interesting. The bank will pay to recover the spoils of crime after the crime had been committed, but it will do nothing to prevent the commission of the crime.”
The banker moved toward the mahogany gate that swung in the marble partition which walled off the lower part of his office.
“The reason is simple,” he said, curtly. “To reward the prevention of crime would merely make it possible for some gang to plan an abortive crime, then send some slick representative here to shake us down for not committing the crime they themselves had planned.”
There was no attempt to disguise the suspicion in his voice.
“I’m sorry,” said Paul Pry. “I guess, under those circumstances, I’ll have to let the crime go through and collect a reward for recovery.”
Philip Borgley hesitated, and it was apparent from his manner that he was debating whether or not he should call the police.
Paul Pry leaned forward.
“Mr. Borgley, I am about to make a confession.”
“Ah!” snapped the banker, and returned to his chair.
Paul Pry lowered his voice until it was hardly above a whisper. “Will you treat my admission in confidence?”
“No. I accept confidences only from depositors.”
“Sorry,” Paul Pry said.
“You were about to make a confession?”
“Yes. I’m going to tell it to you. But it’s a secret. I’ve never admitted it before.”
“Well?”
“I’m an opportunist.”
The banker straightened and his face darkened.
“Are you, by any chance, trying to play a practical joke, or are you just trying to act smart?”
“Neither. I called to warn you of a theft of rather a large sum of money which is due to take place within the next few days. I am, however, an opportunist. I live, Mr. Borgley, by my wits, and my information is never imparted gratuitously.”
“I see,” said the banker, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “And let me point out to you, Mr. Pry, that this bank doesn’t temporize with crooks. This bank is well guarded, and the guards are instructed to shoot to kill. This bank is wired with the last word in burglar alarms. This bank is protected by devices which I do not care to discuss in detail. If any crook can rob us of any of this money he is welcome to it. And if any crook tries it, this bank will send that crook to the penitentiary. So now you understand. Have I made myself clear?”
Paul Pry yawned and got to his feet.
“I would say about twenty percent would be about right. Let us say two hundred dollars on every thousand you lose. That, of course, is for recovery. I would offer to prevent the crime for a mere ten percent.”
Banker Borgley quivered with rage.
“Get out,” he yelled.
Paul Pry smiled as he strolled leisurely through the mahogany gate.
“By the way,” he said, “I feel quite sure your disposition is such that you would be most unpopular. I understand your best friends won’t mention it. I am mentioning it because I am not your best friend. Good morning!”
The banker jabbed a finger on a button. An emergency alarm sounded and an officer came on the run.
“Show this gentleman out!” yelled the banker.
Paul Pry bowed his thanks. “Don’t mention it. So good of you,” he drawled.
The officer grasped Paul Pry’s arm, just above the elbow, and instantly the smile vanished from Paul Pry’s face. He turned to the banker.
“Are your orders that I should be ejected? Do you suggest that this officer lay his hands upon me?”
And something in the cold tone brought Borgley to a realization of lawsuits and assault actions.
“No, no,” he said, hastily, and the officer dropped his hand from Paul Pry’s arm.
“The price,” said Paul Pry, “will be two hundred and fifty dollars for each thousand recovered. Good morning.”
—
Truck number three of the Bankers’ Bonded Transportation Company lumbered out of the garage where the trucks were stored. The driver had a series of yellow sheets in his pocket, a route list of places where calls were to be made and valuable shipments picked up.
It was a hot day, and the truck was empty. There was not five cent’s worth of loot in the entire machine, and the guards were naturally enjoying the currents of air which came through the open windows. Later on, when the truck would become a rolling treasure chest, the guards would have to crouch within the hot steel tank, windows rolled up, suspicious eyes scrutinizing the surrounding traffic, perspiration smearing oily skins in a perpetual slime.
Now both driver and guard were relaxed, taking life easy. Their work had become mere routine to them. The contents of the boxes they carried meant nothing more to them than do the contents of packing cases to the drivers of department store trucks.
They were ten blocks from the garage, rolling down the boulevard with the steady speed of controlled momentum. There came a moment when there was no other traffic in sight.
The light car which flashed from the side street and disregarded the arterial stop, crashed against the curb, skidded, and sideswiped the big armored truck.
There was the sound of a splintering crash. The driver of the truck clamped his foot on the brake pedal. He had lost a little paint from the sides of the steel car. The flivver was wrecked. Its driver was jumping up and down, gesticulating.
“What the devil do you mean hogging the road? I’ll have you arrested. I’ll—”
The truck driver unwound himself from behind the wheel of the armored car and jumped to the ground.
“Sa-a-ay,” he snarled. “How do you get that way?”
The man who had driven the light car moved his left with the trained precision of a professional fighter. The function of that left was to measure the distance, hold the outthrust jaw of the truck driver steady. It was the flashing right which crossed to the button of the jaw and did the damage.
“Hey, you!” yelled a startled guard, and jumped out of the truck. “You’re in the wrong. What the devil are you trying to do? I’m an officer, and—”
He didn’t finish the sentence. A black, shiny car slid smoothly to a stop.
“I saw it,” said a man and jumped to the ground. “It was the truck’s fault.”
“What in hell—” yelled the infuriated guard.
The truck guard stopped. The gun that bored into his middle was held in a steady hand, and the eyes of the man who held it were aglitter with businesslike efficiency.
“Get into that car
and be damned quick about it, both of you,” said the man, as he swung his gun to cover the two astonished guards.
At that moment the door opened and two men stepped out. The guards’ jaws sagged with astonishment, for these men were attired in an exact replica of their own clothing. There were the olive drab shirts with the insignia of the Bankers’ Bonded Transportation Company; the identical caps with their shields, the belted trousers with their holstered weapons dangling from belts, the puttees, the polished shoes.
They never fully recovered from their gasps of surprise, for a tap with a slungshot collapsed them both like a sack of meal. Men moved with studied efficiency, and the two unconscious guards were in the shiny automobile before the first of an oncoming procession of cars came abreast of the scene of the accident.
Out of the little cluster of traffic two or three cars stopped. The drivers of these cars saw nothing unusual. The uniformed men who stood by the side of the truck were gravely exchanging license numbers with the driver of the demolished light car who was very, very meek.
The shiny sedan with drawn side curtains purred away. The meek man accepted a lift with a passing motorist. The armored truck rumbled away, and only the stolen flivver was left by the curb to mark the first step in the efficient plans of Big Front Gilvray.
From there on, it was smooth sailing. The Sixth Merchants & Traders National had some rather heavy gold shipments to make, and had telephoned its order for the truck to be at the door at a certain time.
The truck arrived, on time to the minute. The side door popped open, and special officers patrolled the sidewalk. Passing pedestrians gawked at the sight of the heavy boxes thudded to the floor of the armored car. The special officers watched the faces of the pedestrians with vigilance. The truck driver yawned as he signed the receipt for the given number of boxes.
The bank was rather casual in the matter. The drivers were bonded, the contents of the truck insured. The shipment had been safely transferred into the hands of the Bankers’ Bonded Transportation Company. There was nothing to worry about. It was mere routine.
The guard slammed the door shut. The driver crawled in behind the wheel, and the truck rumbled away into traffic.
The truck was next seen abandoned by the curb in a residential district. Residents had noticed certain boxes being transferred to a delivery truck. They could give little additional information. The ones who made the transfer had worn conventional uniforms, and the residents had not been overly curious—at first.
The captured guards were released two hours later. They were groggy, mortified, enraged, and they had aching heads. They were able to give only a vague description of the men who had engineered the capture of the truck, and the police knew that these men, unmasked as they were, were crooks imported especially for this one job.
They were at a standstill, but they hesitated to admit it. They made a great show of getting fingerprints from the armored car, but they might as well have saved their time.
Philip Borgley immediately reported his interview with Paul Pry, and insisted that Pry must be one of the robbers. The police laughed. They had crossed the trail of Paul Pry before. That young man was just what he claimed to be—an opportunist. He had solved several crimes, and in every event had collected a reward. The total of those rewards amounted to a tidy income.
But the police had investigated Paul Pry from one side to the other. His methods were shrouded in mystery. His technique was baffling. But he was not in league with any criminal.
All of which called Paul Pry to the attention of the directors of the bank who were in session.
At about that time the bank’s counsel delivered his opinion. The Bankers’ Bonded Transportation Company was not responsible for the loss. They had never sent a truck to the bank, had never signed for the shipment. The theft of the truck had been completed before it called at the bank. Therefore, the bank had voluntarily delivered its shipment of gold to two crooks.
The directors promptly announced a reward for the recovery of the stolen gold. But gold is hard to identify and easy to divide. It looked very much as though the bank was about to make a rather large entry in red ink upon its books of account.
—
Paul Pry knew of the reward within half an hour of the time it was announced. He telephoned the bank to verify the report, and then sauntered to the parking station which was around the corner from his apartment.
He had sufficient information to lay before the police to secure a search warrant for the residence of Benjamin F. Gilvray, and doubtless recover the missing coin. But Paul Pry had no intention of killing the goose that laid his golden eggs. Big Front Gilvray had indirectly furnished Paul Pry with a very nice income during the past few months.
At the parking station, Paul Pry surrendered a ticket and had delivered to him a new, shiny automobile. This automobile was registered in the name of Benjamin F. Gilvray, 7823 Maplewood Drive, although the information would have come as a distinct shock to Benjamin F. Gilvray.
Paul Pry drove the new car to a point well out of traffic, parked it, and switched to a red roadster which was registered in his own name. He drove this roadster to a point about a block and a half from the residence at 7823 Maplewood Drive, and parked it. Then he called a taxicab and returned to the place where he had parked the new automobile he had registered in the name of the arch-gangster.
In a deserted side street, Pry stopped the car, opened the tool box, and took out a big hammer. With this hammer he started operations on the left front fender.
When he had finished, the car presented a striking appearance. The shiny newness of its factory finish was marred by a left front fender which was as battered as a wad of discarded tinfoil. The paint had been chipped off. The fender had been rubbed against a telephone pole and dented in countless places.
By this time it was the dusk of early evening, and Paul Pry blithely piloted his new car out into the boulevard.
At a side street where there was a little traffic, yet enough potential danger to warrant an automatic signal, Paul parked the car and awaited his opportunity.
A traffic officer stood just under the automatic signal box on the southwest corner, peering sharply at such machines as passed. He was there to arrest violators, the theory being that the amount thus received in fines would more than offset his salary.
When Paul Pry considered the moment opportune, he eased his car away from the curb. The street was deserted as far as he could see in both directions. The traffic signal was againt him.
The rest was absurdly simple.
With the bewildered stupidity of a new driver, he slowly drove the car out into the middle of the intersection and brought it to a stop only when the whistle of the officer on duty had blown its third imperative summons.
The position in which the car had stopped was such that Paul had an uninterrupted view up and down both streets. He was, in fact, almost in the exact center of the intersection.
The traffic officer, striding purposefully and irately to the left side of the machine, took due note of the crumpled fender and the new finish of the car. His voice held that tone of patient weariness with which mothers address wayward children after waywardness has become a habit.
“I suppose you’re blind and can’t see, and deaf and can’t hear. You didn’t know there was a traffic signal, nor hear me yelling for you to stop.”
Paul Pry drew himself up with dignity.
“You,” he said, slowly and distinctly, “can go to hell. I am B. F. Gilvray, Benjamin Franklin Gilvray.”
The officer, his ears attuned to expectation of humble excuses, and half-inclined to be charitable with the driver of a new car, recoiled as though he had been struck. His face darkened, and the air of patient sarcasm slipped from him.
“You half-pint of a lounge lizard! You start talking to me like that and I’ll push your nose so hard it’ll stick wrong side out the back of your head. Who the bloody hell do you think you’re talking to?”
A
nd he thrust his rage-mottled face over the edge of the front door and glowered at Paul Pry.
Pry made no answer, none whatever.
For a full five seconds the officer glowered, hoping that the culprit would give him an excuse to use sufficient force to make an arrest on the charge of resisting an officer. But Paul Pry remained immobile.
The officer snorted and went to the front of the machine. He took down the license number, strode majestically back to the car and jerked open the left front door.
“Got your fender smashed. Did that just recently, didn’t yuh?”
“That, my man, is none of your business.”
The officer’s hand shot into the car, clutched the collar of Paul Pry’s coat, and Paul Pry came violently out from behind the steering wheel.
“Sa-a-ay, you’ve got lots to learn, you have. Get out your driving license and be quick about it. You’re going to take a drive to headquarters. That’s where you’re going!”
And, still holding Paul Pry by the collar, he reached in his free hand and ripped out the registration certificate.
There was no traffic up either street. The intersection showed no approaching headlights. There were no pedestrians. Paul Pry had carefully chosen his corner and his time. Abruptly he changed from a passive but impudent citizen in the hands of the law, to a bundle of steel muscles, and wire-hard sinews.
“Crack!” the impact of his fist on the side of the officer’s head sounded like a muffled pistol shot.
The officer staggered back, rage, surprise, and pain on his features. Paul Pry snapped his left home with that degree of accurate precision in timing which denotes the trained fighter.
The blow seemed almost unhurried, so perfectly timed was it, so gracefully were the arm and shoulder swung behind the punch. But the officer went down like a sack of meal, the registration certificate still clutched in his left hand.
Paul Pry got into the automobile, slipped in the clutch and purred down the street, turned on the next through boulevard and drove directly in front of the residence of Big Front Gilvray, where he parked the automobile.
Then he strolled across the street, sat down in the shadow of a hedge, and smoked a cigarette.