Paul Pry hung up the telephone and dialed another number. “Put me through to the city editor’s desk,” he said. “This is a red-hot tip... Hello... Listen, I’m not giving my right name because I can’t figure in it, but you can give me a number — One-two-three-four-five. Get that, One-two-three-four-five. O.K., when a messenger comes to you and says ‘One-two-three-four-five,’ you give him an envelope with some dough in it for what the tip is worth, do you get me? Now listen, this is hot... All right. You can be the judge... Now get this.
“John J. Smith of Calcutta, who is registered at the Altamont Hotel, is really the Rajah of Rajore, and the women that are with him are the wives of his harem — all modern and up-to-date. They’re registered as servants because he don’t want to have any argument about bigamy with the State authorities... Don’t take my word for it. Just do a little snooping on your own. He’s here on business, and he’s spent a wad of dough to make certain that no one knows who John J. Smith really is. This is a scoop — and incidentally, that ruby in his turban is worth a cool quarter of a million, aside from having a religious significance. The rajah can’t ever be without that in his turban, and no hands except his own can touch it. If you want a swell yarn, there it is.”
Paul Pry hung up the telephone and grinned at Mugs Magoo.
Mugs Magoo groaned. “Ain’t ft enough,” he said, “for you to make a date to start pushing up daisies, without dragging me down into the grave with you?”
“But think of those women, Mugs? Those dusky-skinned, willowy figured—”
“Nuts,” Mugs Magoo said. “Plow much whiskey do I get?”
“Two quarts a day,” Paul Pry promised.
“No soap,” Mugs Magoo said.
“Make it three,” Paul Pry conceded, “and that’s the absolute limit.”
“Let’s see,” Mugs Magoo figured orally. “Eight hours for sleep, that leaves sixteen hours. One hour for bathing, shaving, and dressing. That leaves fifteen hours. Divide fifteen hours by three bottles of whiskey, and that’s one bottle for five hours. Five hours into one bottle of whiskey goes—”
“Goes three times as far as one bottle of whiskey into fifteen hours,” Paul Pry interrupted.
Mugs Magoo heaved a tremulous sigh. “Sold,” he said.
Chapter Four
Night-Club Confessional
The Hawaiian dancers in the floor show, accompanied by twanging guitars and the chanting of weird Polynesian melodies, swayed through the concluding motions of the hula. The music rose to an emotional crescendo, then died away on that peculiar, plaintive note which characterizes Hawaiian music. For a moment, the girls were motionless. Then they bowed as lights came on, and diners burst into applause.
Paul Pry smiled across into the watchful eyes of Merva Bond. “Did you enjoy it?” he asked.
“Oh, I thought it was wonderful,” she said. “I think those Island dances are just—” She broke off in the middle of the sentence. Her face twisted into an expression of pain as she pressed her hand against her left side. Her breath came in a quick, gasping intake. Then once more, the smile was back on her face. “I just adore those Islanders,” she said. “Some day I’m going to Honolulu and learn to do the hula. Tell me, Mr. Bock, do you suppose I could get one of these girls to teach me how to do the hula?”
“You might try,” Paul Pry said, his forehead wrinkling with sympathy. “What’s the matter? Does your side hurt?”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” she said, laughing. “Just a little catch that comes in there sometimes, a little twinge of pain, at the most unexpected moments.”
“Forget it,” Paul Pry said. “It will be all right in a day or two. Probably just a little aftermath of the accident. I certainly feel like a criminal spoiling your vacation.”
“Oh, but you haven’t! You’re making it simply wonderful!”
Paul Pry inclined his head. “Dead game!” he muttered, half under his breath.
“What was that?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “Just a thought that slipped out.”
“A good thought?” she asked.
“Very good.”
Suddenly her eyes accused him. “You’ve been stringing me,” she charged.
“Stringing you?” Paul Pry asked.
“Yes. You told me that you were a sharpshooter going around looking for investments.”
“But I am,” Paul Pry insisted.
Her eyes were hard as steel. “You,” she said, “are the business manager for Mr. John J. Smith who has the most expensive suite in the Altamont Hotel, and Mr. Smith, as tomorrow morning’s newspaper will announce, is in reality the Rajah of Rajore.”
Paul Pry’s face showed surprise. “You do get around, don’t you?”
“I found out about it,” she told him, “by accident.”
Paul Pry’s face twisted into a frown of annoyance.
“What’s the matter?” she asked. “Do you resent my asking that you be fair with me?”
“No,” Paul Pry said, “but I didn’t want to tell you. And yet I couldn’t go on deceiving you, but I had to.”
“Why did you have to deceive me?” she asked.
Paul Pry shook his shoulders as though shaking off a burden of deception. “All right,” he said, “if you want to know the truth, I’m an international gem thief. The Rajah of Rajore has a ruby on his turban that’s worth something over a quarter of a million. There’s no ruby exactly like it anywhere on earth. I happen to want that ruby.”
Paul Pry scraped back his chair.
“Now then,” he said, “you understand why I didn’t want you to know. You’re too nice a girl to associate with crooks, and yet I couldn’t keep on lying to you. This will be good-bye. It was swell while it lasted.”
Her eyes were big and starry. “Oh,” she said, “I respect you so much for telling me. And, after all, you know, I don’t think it’s exactly a crime to rob the very rich and— Well,” she rushed on, with a quick, nervous laugh, “anything that you do seems absolutely all right. I—” Her face twisted into a spasm of pain. “Oh,” she said, “that hurts. Excuse me. I’ve — I must go to the restroom and lie down for a moment. Promise me you won’t leave. Promise that no matter what happens, you won’t go away, that you’ll stay here and wait for me. I want to see you. I want to talk with you. But I can’t now. Oh, my side hurts!”
Paul Pry was on his feet, bending solicitously over her. She let him pull back her chair, walk for a few steps at her side, then said, “Wait, please. I’ll be back in a few minutes,” and threaded her way along the crowded dance floor to disappear behind the curtains of the ladies’ room.
Paul Pry beckoned to the girl who was selling cigars and cigarettes.
“Want to make five bucks, sister?” he asked.
Her face was, for the moment, coldly scornful. Then, as her eyes studied his profile, the corners of her lips twisted slightly into a smile.
“How?” she asked.
“The jane who was with me,” Paul Pry said, “is a married woman. There’s just a chance she may be taking me for the old badger game. She slipped into the ladies’ room, and I think she’s telephoning. She’s a blonde with a—”
“Yes, I noticed her,” the cigarette girl said. “What do I do?”
“Slip in there and hear as much of the conversation as you can, then relay it back to me.”
“For five bucks?” she asked.
“For ten, if you make a good job of it,” Paul Pry said.
She flashed him a smile over her shoulder as she vanished in the direction of the dressing-room.