Mugs said: “I rang up the hotel manager and gave him hell because they didn’t have water pipes in the hotel.”
“You,” Paul Pry charged, “are quite drunk.”
Mugs poured the first drink of whiskey from the third bottle. “Wrong again,” he said. “I’ve only had two quarts this afternoon.”
“You’re drunk,” Paul Pry repeated.
Mugs Magoo raised filmed, dubious eyes. “Damned if I don’t know but what you’re right, Paul,” he admitted. “I guess I’m getting soft. I can’t take it any more.”
Paul Pry said: “Well, keep your head, Mugs, because we have work to do.”
“Bring out the work,” Mugs said, tossing off the whiskey. “Ever try one of these water pipes, Paul? They’re swell.”
“I,” Paul Pry announced, “have come to knock you over the head, render you unconscious, and steal the ruby from your turban. Do you have any suggestions as to how the act should be put on?”
“How’s it happen you ain’t pushing up daisies?” Mugs asked, thickly.
“I’ve confessed to Merva Bond that I’m a thief, and that I have designs on your ruby. She’s very sick, but putting up a brave fight against her injuries. She made me promise that I’d let her see the ruby as soon as I got it.”
“Well,” Mugs Magoo said judicially, “that’s giving you a few more hours to live.”
“Just the way I doped it,” Paul Pry said. “A car of Soup Scanlon’s gang was parked in front of the night club ready for eventualities.”
“You’d have been the eventuality,” Mugs Magoo said. “You’re flirting with dynamite. Ever try one of these water pipes, Paul? They’re—”
Paul Pry said: “Now get your mind on this, Mugs. Do you know Adelaide Faraday?”
“Never met her,” Mugs Magoo said. “What’s her racket, knockout drops, badger game, blackmail, stickup, or just plain moll?”
“It happens,” Paul Pry said, “that she’s the leader of the Four Hundred. It also happens that she’s the owner of a string of diamonds valued at somewhere in the neighborhood of a hundred thousand dollars.”
Mugs Magoo sighed. “That’s nice,” he said. “Get her to try one of these water pipes sometime. She doesn’t know what she’s missing.”
Paul Pry went on patiently. “Now listen, Mugs, we’re coming to the critical period in this whole business. I’ve been thinking about those ads. Remember, one of them was signed Fara, and the other one was signed Day. Now I figure that that was a tip to Soup Scanlon that Big Jim Dolovo was in the market for the Faraday diamonds.”
Mugs Magoo said: “That’s no reason why I should lose so much motion.”
“What do you mean, lose motion?” Paul Pry asked.
“Pouring whiskey into a glass, the glass into me, and holding the empty glass back under the whiskey bottle,” Mugs said. “I could do a lot better getting direct action like this.”
He grasped the neck of the bottle, tilted it to his lips, and let the amber contents gurgle directly down his gullet.
Paul Pry frowned. “Look here, Mugs,” he said. “When I put you on this increased allowance, it was because you assured me you could take it.”
Mugs Magoo regarded the whiskey bottle. The level of the beverage had dropped down a full two inches. He indicated it with a nod of his head. “I’m taking it, ain’t I?”
Paul Pry sat down beside Mugs on the floor. “Now listen, Mugs. Snap out of it. You’ve got to sober up so you can tell me about the suitcase shift.”
Mugs raised the whiskey bottle to his lips, took another long drink, and said: “Hell, I could tell you all about that if I’d had six quarts.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a trick Big Jim Dolovo worked out, but some of the other crooks use it, too. If Big Jim wants to buy the Faraday diamonds for thirty thousand bucks, he puts thirty thousand dollars in a suitcase. Soup Scanlon puts the diamonds in another suitcase just like it. They meet at the Union Depot, only they don’t say anything. One of them puts down his suitcase, and the other one comes along and puts his near it. Then they circulate around for a minute buying tickets and cigars. When they come back, each picks up the other’s suitcase. That’s all. Even if the detectives are watching, they don’t spot anything, unless they’re wise to the play — which they ain’t. Big Jim has a moll to keep watch for dicks who might be a nuisance, and to keep chiselers from getting their fingers burnt. What gave you the idea?”
Paul Pry opened the evening newspaper and turned to the personal column. “Get a load of this ad,” he said. “It reads ‘O.K. J. D. Have everything. Suitcase switch. Feathersteel aeroplane, black, nine by sixteen by twenty-six. Twelve thirty A.M. train.’ And the ad is signed ‘S.S.’”
“Uh-huh,” Mugs said. “He’s got the necklace.”
“O.K.,” Paul Pry said. “Now get this, Mugs. I’m lifting your ruby. You wait until twelve thirty, then sneak out of the hotel. When you’re in the clear, call the management, say you’ve been robbed. Do you get me?”
“Yeah.”
Paul Pry reached over to Mugs Magoo’s turban and removed the imitation ruby. “Now go easy on that whiskey, Mugs, and join me at our hide-out as soon as you’ve reported your loss. Do you understand?”
Mugs Magoo nodded heavily, then raised filmed eyes to Paul Pry, and said: “Paul, did you ever try one of these water pipes? If you haven’t, you don’t know what you’re missing.”
Chapter Six
The Suitcase Switch
The Union Station at twelve thirty was a hive of nocturnal activity. Two transcontinental trains pulled out at twelve thirty. Other limited all-sleeper trains pulled out at twelve forty, twelve forty-five, and twelve fifty. Businessmen, intent on dashing to a neighboring metropolis for a morning appointment, bustled about with porters, suitcases and brief cases. Travelers, burdened with hand baggage, escorted by crowds of friends and relatives, repeated good-byes which had been started with the packing, hours before. Paul Pry, an overcoat folded over his arm, followed by a redcap porter carrying two black Feathersteel aeroplane suitcases, each measuring nine by sixteen by twenty-six inches, moved calmly about the station, walking from the information desk to the ticket window, from the ticket window to the baggage office, from the baggage office back to information.
Soup Scanlon drew up in a taxicab. He waved aside a redcap. Carrying a black Feathersteel aeroplane suitcase measuring exactly nine by sixteen by twenty-six inches, he entered the main waiting-room, walked to the bench seats, flung his overcoat over the back of a seat, placed his suitcase near it, and stood for a moment waiting. At length, he strolled aimlessly over to the magazine stand, and started browsing through the current periodicals.
Merva Bond, materializing out of nowhere, seated herself on one of the benches where she could watch the suitcase to advantage. She paid no attention whatever to Soup Scanlon.
Big Jim Dolovo made the springs squeak as he lurched from a taxicab with his duplicate suitcase and entered the station. A plain touring car drew up directly behind the taxicab. A quiet, unostentatious individual, clothed in a dark gray suit, followed Dolovo casually into the station.
Merva Bond’s quick brown eyes saw Dolovo, saw also the shadow which followed him. She raised her hand to stifle a yawn, and Soup Scanlon, looking up over the edge of the magazine he was holding in his hand, correctly interpreted that signal and drifted unobtrusively toward the men’s room.
Big Jim Dolovo walked to the information desk, asked a couple of questions, then moved over to the bench where Soup Scanlon’s overcoat reposed, deposited his suitcase on the floor near his feet, composed himself as though anticipating a wait, and closed his eyes.
Paul Pry said to his redcap, “Wait here until I signal you,” and walked directly toward Merva Bond.