“The name,” she said, “is Thelma.”
“A remarkably pretty name,” he told her. “And may I ask, Thelma, what are you doing in this apartment?”
“I was getting some clothes,” she said.
“Your clothes?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“Then,” he said, “you must be aware of the untimely death of the person who is maintaining this establishment.”
“No! No!” she said. “I don’t know anything about that. In fact, I don’t know anything about the place at all.”
“You just left your clothes here?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “I’d just moved in. You see, I subleased the apartment.”
“From whom?” he inquired.
“From an agent,” she said.
He laughed. “Come, come,” he said, “you’ll have to do better than that. Let’s be frank with each other. This apartment was maintained by Charles B Darwin. Darwin recently met a very violent end. You have doubtless heard of the death of Harry Travers. The circumstances surrounding the death of Darwin were almost identical. The lips, if I may be pardoned for speaking of such a gruesome matter, were sewed tightly shut with a peculiar cross-stitch. Now, it is quite apparent that a person who sews lips of a man, does so with some motive. Were the man living, that motive might well be to ensure temporary silence. But there are much better and less painful methods of ensuring silence. To sew the lips of a dead man had nothing whatever to do with the powers of speech. One would judge, therefore, that the sewing of the lips was either by way of warning to others, or as a gesture, to make the murder seem the more gruesome. It might also well be a warning to others who had been approached along certain lines not to communicate the facts to the police.”
She swayed slightly.
“You’re faint?” he asked. “Do sit down in one of these chairs.”
She shook her head in tense silence. “No,” she said, “I’m all right. I’m going to tell you the truth.”
“I wish you would, Thelma,” he said.
“I’m a model,” she said, “in a dressmaking establishment. I know the lady by sight who accompanied Mr. Darwin when these dresses were purchased. I happened to meet her on the street just an hour or so ago. She told me that owing to circumstances over which she had no control, she was leaving the city at once; that she had left a very fine wardrobe here, and that she knew the dresses would fit me, because we were almost identical in size. She gave me a key to the apartment, and told me to come up and take whatever I wanted.”
“Why didn’t you bring a trunk?” asked Paul Pry.
“Because,” she said, “I didn’t want too many clothes; I just wanted some of the pretty things that would give me a break.”
“And she gave you her key to the apartment.”
“Yes.”
“Is it at all possible,” Paul Pry inquired, “that you are, perhaps, drawing upon your imagination?”
She shook her head.
“And you’re not the young woman who occupied this apartment?”
“You should be able to figure that one out for yourself,” she said. “You stood there and watched me trying on the things.” She lowered her eyes.
“Are you, perhaps,” asked Paul Pry, “trying to blush?”
Her eyes flashed with swift emotion. “You should be ashamed of yourself,” she said, “standing there and watching a woman dress that way!”
Paul Pry bowed his head humbly. “Please accept my most profound apologies,” he said. “And would you, perhaps, let me see the key with which you entered the apartment?”
She inserted her fingers into a small pocket in her dress, took out a key, started to hand it to him, then stopped suddenly.
Paul Pry’s eyes were hard and insistent. “The key,” he said.
“I don’t know who you are,” she said, “and I don’t know what right you’ve got to ask for the key.”
Paul Pry moved toward her. His eyes were cold and hypnotic. “The key,” he repeated.
She stared into his eyes for several seconds, then slowly opened her hand.
The key dropped to the carpet.
Paul Pry stooped to pick it up.
At that moment she moved with swift speed. Paul Pry swung himself to one side and dodged as a small, pearl-handled automatic glittered in her hand. “Stick them up!” she said savagely.
Paul Pry lunged forward, caught her about the knees. She gave a half scream and fell forward, the gun dropping from her hand. They came together on the floor, a tangled mass of arms and legs, from which Paul Pry emerged presently, smiling and debonair.
“Naughty, naughty,” he said. “I really should spank you for that.”
He took the automatic and slipped it into his hip pocket. Then, as the young woman sat on the floor arranging her clothes so as to cover her legs, Paul Pry searched until he found the key, held it up and smiled knowingly.
“I thought so,” he said. “A skeleton key.”
She stared at him wordlessly.
“You are,” said Paul Pry, “in the eyes of the law, a burglar, a person guilty of making a felonious entrance and taking property which does not belong to you.”
She said nothing.
“Under the circumstances,” said Paul Pry, striding easily across the room, “I think I will have to telephone to the police.”
She remained as he had left her — motionless, silent, and with a face which was drained of expression.
Paul Pry approached the door which led into the corridor, turned and smiled. “Upon second thought, however,” he said, “in view of the most charming display of feminine pulchritude which you unwittingly gave me, I am going to let mercy temper justice.”
With a swift motion of his arms and hands, he flipped back the spring catch on the door, pulled the door open, stepped into the corridor and slammed the door behind him.
There was no sound of pursuit, no commotion. The apartment remained completely silent.
3. The Wooden Fish
Paul Pry was faultlessly attired in evening clothes when he pressed the doorbell of the magnificent residence of Perry C Hammond.
A dour-visaged butler opened the door. Pry met his sour look with a disarming smile.
“A gentleman,” he said, “who refuses to divulge his name, wishes to see Mr. Hammond at once upon a matter of the most urgent nature.”
“Mr. Hammond, sir,” said the butler, “is not at home.”
“You will explain to Mr. Hammond,” said Paul Pry, still smiling, “that I am a specialist in my line.”
“Mr. Hammond, sir, is not at home.”
“Quite right, my man, quite right. And, will you please add to the explanation you make to Mr. Hammond that my particular specialty is in disorders of the lips — disorders which have to do with a permanent silence, brought about through mechanical means.”
Paul Pry’s smiling eyes locked with those of the butler, and suddenly the smile left Paul Pry’s eyes. His face became cold and stern.
“You will,” he said, “convey that message to Mr. Hammond immediately. Otherwise, I will communicate with Mr. Hammond in some other way, and explain to him the reason my message was not delivered personally. I don’t mind assuring you that Mr. Hammond will consider you have committed a major indiscretion.”
The butler hesitated for a long moment. “Will you step this way, sir?” he asked.
He ushered Paul Pry through a reception hallway, into a small entrance parlour. “Please be seated, sir,” he said. “I will see if, perhaps, Mr. Hammond has returned.”
The butler glided from the room, and the door had no sooner closed upon him, than Paul Pry, moving with noiseless stealth, jerked open the door and stepped once more into the reception corridor.