Having arrived at the Wendell Arms Apartments and followed the blonde’s lead to Apartment C on the seventh floor, Paul Pry was not in the least surprised when Doctor Paul Warfield turned out to be none other than Soup Scanlon, rigged out with a stethoscope, a concave reflector strapped around his forehead, and a gravely professional manner.
“Doctor” Warfield naturally examined his patient in the privacy of a separate room. His manner, when he returned to Paul Pry while the patient was “dressing,” was grave in the extreme.
“The poor girl,” he said to Paul Pry. “I’m afraid she doesn’t appreciate in the least what it is.”
“Good heavens,” Pry exclaimed. “You don’t mean to tell me she’s seriously injured?”
“Yes and no,” Doctor Warfield said, watching Paul Pry with alert eyes. “She’s suffering from an incurable disease which the injury has aggravated.”
“Surely not that young woman,” Paul Pry exclaimed.
The “doctor” nodded gravely. “A malignant condition,” he said, “which would have made itself manifest within the next six weeks or two months at the latest, has given the first preliminary twinges of pain due to the slight jar she received. There’s no external evidence of that injury, not even a bruise on the skin. But the internal condition has been aggravated, brought to her consciousness.”
“You’ve told her?” Paul Pry asked.
“Certainly not. She tells me that she is just embarking upon her vacation. It’s a vacation which she has looked forward to for some time, a chance to spend her savings living her own life in the city as she would like to live it. I fear that at the end of that vacation, she’ll be faced with the realization that she will never return to work. It will be a blessing if you will cooperate with me in the pleasant fiction of making her believe that any twinges of pain she may have from time to time are solely the result of a cracked rib, due entirely to the accident, and will disappear in the course of time. And, of course, that little deception will entail some continuing interest on your part — perhaps even some very nominal financial assistance.”
Paul Pry thrust out his hand, grabbed Doctor Warfield’s and shook it fervidly. “You,” Paul Pry said, “can count on me. I’ll do everything possible. I’ll go the limit.”
“Of course,” Doctor Warfield said, “I want to follow this thing up. I don’t want to pry into your private affairs, but I want to know something about who you are, where you live, what you do, and just what you contemplate doing.”
Paul Pry bowed. “I quite appreciate your position, Doctor,” he said. “The name is Rodney Bock. I reside at Four Hundred and Nine East Brookdale Avenue — the Brookdale Apartments. I’m not home very much of the time, as my business takes me about the country. Pm what you might call a sharpshooter. I know something about the value of real estate and various other things. I travel around the country keeping an eye on the economic pulse of different communities, knowing what towns are due to boom and approximately how long the boom should last. I drift into a town, buy up real estate, hold until I think the crest of the wave is about due, then unload.”
“It’s profitable, I suppose?” Doctor Warfield asked.
“Quite profitable,” Paul Pry assured him gravely. “And as far as this young lady is concerned, you may rest assured that I intend to see to it that everything is done which is humanly possible.”
Doctor Warfield’s tone was that of the physician fully alive to his responsibilities. “All that is humanly possible,” he said, “is that the realization of her condition be kept from her as long as possible and her last few weeks be made happy — if you understand what I mean.”
“I shall do my utmost to make them happy,” Paul Pry promised.
Chapter Three
Three Quarts a Day
Except by special dispensation from Paul Pry, Mugs Magoo was restricted to one quart of whiskey a day. Mugs had solemnly promised, and once having given his word would never go back on it, but there were times when he regretted his bargain, and this was one of them.
Paul Pry, alert, debonair, and smiling, opened the door, made a saluting gesture with his open hand, and said: “Hi, Mugs.”
Mugs Magoo, just filling his glass from the all-but-empty bottle, made a great show of rubbing his eyes with the knuckles of his left hand. “If it’s you,” he said, “I’m drunk, and I ain’t been drunk on one quart of whiskey in ten years. If it ain’t you, it’s your ghost, and I’m still drunk, only I can’t be drunk on what I’ve had to drink.”
“Me in person,” Paul Pry assured him, closing the door, “and not a ghost.”
“You’re living on borrowed time,” Mugs said. “A guy can’t pull the stunt you did and keep on living. You stuck your head into a powder magazine, and then obligingly dropped your own match.”
“So far,” Paul Pry said, with a grin, “nothing very awful has happened to me, Mugs. I’ve met a beautiful blonde by the name of Vivian Goff.”
“Who’s she?” Mugs Magoo asked.
“When you pointed her out to me this afternoon, you said her name was Merva Bond.”
“How’d you meet her?”
“Oh, I just ran into her,” Paul Pry said, breezily. “And then I met a Doctor Paul Warfield who’s her personal physician. When you pointed him out to me, you said he was Soup Scanlon.”
Mugs Magoo tossed off the glass of liquor, tilted the bottle to empty the last few drops into the glass, and then regarded the empty receptacle with tired, disillusioned eyes. “I don’t know why I let you sell me on this quart-a-day business,” he said. “A quart a day ain’t enough to get drunk on, and yet it keeps the desire alive. If I didn’t drink any, I’d gradually get over wanting the stuff.”
“Why not do that?” Paul Pry asked. “Why not become a teetotaler, Mugs?”
“I’d never last long enough to teetotal,” Mugs Magoo answered wearily. “I’m too old a dog to learn new tricks. Drinking whiskey has become a part of my daily routine. Take it away from me and I’d blow up with a bang.”
“No one wants you to do that,” Paul Pry said sympathetically. “You’ve managed to get along for months on a quart a day. If you can do it that long, you can continue to do it.”
“Oh, I guess I can continue all right,” Mugs Magoo said. “I ain’t living; I’m existing. Ordinarily, I can get along on a quart and manage to keep fairly comfortable, but then you come along and start rocking the boat, and my nerves need some sort of sedative.”
“It certainly is too bad,” Paul Pry sympathized, seeing the drift of the conversation, “that I couldn’t resist the opportunity to make the acquaintance of your charming friends.”
“They didn’t follow you here?” Mugs Magoo asked, tonelessly.
“No, I gave them the Brookdale Apartment address, and they followed me there. I took care they didn’t follow me from there on.”
“They’ll get you,” Mugs Magoo said.
“They seem very friendly,” Paul Pry pointed out.
Mugs Magoo tossed off the last of the whiskey, regarded the empty glass with the expression of a man gazing down into a coffin at the face of his best friend. “Yeah,” he said, slowly, “they’ll string you along for a while in order to find out how much you know. You see, you didn’t register as knowing anything about them, but only as knowing something about Big Jim Dolovo. So Big Jim signaled them to pick you up, and turn you inside out. After you’ve been turned inside out, Big Jim Dolovo will give the word, and you’ll start pushing up daisies.”
“In the meantime,” Paul Pry said, “I think I’m going to have some very delightful evenings with Miss Vivian Goff — Merva Bond to you, Mugs.”