“But,” she protested, “chorus girls aren’t all like that.”
“The one you’re going to take the part of is,” he assured her. “And, good night.”
She paused, opened her mouth as though to speak, then clamped it shut.
“Good night!” she said, and whirled on her heel.
At the door she paused again. But Sidney Zoom was apparently entirely lost to his surroundings. His long, artistic fingers were busily engaged with the disguises, and his touch contained a delicacy of handling that was almost a caress.
Swiftly the girl took two steps back into the room, stooped, pulled the dog’s shaggy head to her cheek, then opened the door.
“Good night,” she called again.
But Sidney Zoom apparently failed to hear the words. He was adjusting a false mustache to his upper lip, trying on a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles, contemplating the result in the mirror.
IV
Albert Pratt rested his bony knuckles upon the mahogany desk and frowned.
“You insisted upon seeing me personally, Mr. Stapleton?”
Sidney Zoom, so perfectly disguised that his personality seemed to have entirely melted into another individual, nodded a cringing assent.
“I’m sorry to disturb you. It’s most important.”
And there was in his appearance just the right touch of servility to match the part he was to play. To all appearances he was a man about town who liked to pose as a lion under the white lights, who expanded his chest and boomed a welcome to prosperity, but who cringed when luck ceased to smile, whined when he was hurt.
His hair was parted in the middle, slicked down almost to his cheek bones with some oily preparation which emanated a sickly sweet odor. His eyes blinked behind a pair of massive spectacles, obviously chosen to give him an appearance of owlish wisdom. His upper lip sported a trick mustache which looked like an elongated smudge. His tie was loud, flashy; his clothes, though well tailored, were cut in the style affected by extreme youth.
Albert Pratt was familiar with the type. Ordinarily there was no money to be made from them. He cast his pale eyes over the figure in haughty disapproval.
“If it’s a loan,” he said in his most icy manner, “you’ll have to make an application—”
He broke off as his visitor reached a well manicured hand toward an inner pocket and began pulling out money. The money was in crisp, new bills; the denominations were five hundred dollars each, and the stack which began to grow on the mahogany desk indicated that there was a small fortune in immediate cash being placed before the greedy pale eyes of Albert Pratt.
“There is a man bringing in some letters,” whined Zoom in his disguise of George Stapleton. “You see, he wouldn’t take any chances with them. He insisted that he’d deliver them to you in person and you could deliver him the money.”
“Ah, yes,” purred Albert Pratt. “Letters, letters, eh?”
“Yes. Letters.”
“Ah, yes, yes, indeed, letters. Oh, yes. And you’re to pay how much for them?”
“Ten thousand dollars.”
Albert Pratt extended his bony hands. The avaricious fingers curled about the sheaf of currency.
“Five, ten, fifteen, twenty— Why, there’s an even fifty thousand dollars here, Mr. Stapleton!”
The man leaned forward, lowered his voice.
“I know it. The man who has those letters doesn’t know how absolutely vital they are. My wife is ready to sue me for divorce, and I have over a million and a half involved. And this girl is threatening a suit for breach of promise, and she could collect a hundred thousand at the least.
“I’ve made a very advantageous bargain over the telephone. The letters are to be returned to me for ten thousand dollars. But, if anything should go wrong, I’ve simply got to have those letters. That’s why I want to leave the extra forty thousand. Then, if there’s any hitch, I can instruct you over the telephone to go higher and you’ll have the money available.”
Albert Pratt lowered calculating lids over his pale eyes. His tongue licked his wire-thin lips.
“Ah, yes,” he murmured, and his tone showed keen mental concentration.
“I’ll make a deposit of the money. Then I’ll leave you a check payable to cash for ten thousand dollars. If there should be any hitch I’ll send down another check for the balance, or so much of it as may be necessary.”
Pratt nodded.
“But how about the letters? Shouldn’t you identify them in some way before I pay over the check?”
Stapleton shook his head.
“Myrtle Ramsay is a hard baby to deal with when she’s sore, but she’s square as a cornerstone. When she says she’ll deliver those letters, she’ll deliver ’em. And she won’t jump the price, either, but — well, if anything should go wrong, I’d like to have the money right here where we can deal with it.”
“Those letters are worth more than ten thousand, eh?”
“I’ll say so. I’m willing to give fifty if necessary, and I guess I’d give a hundred if I had to.”
Pratt nodded.
“And the — er — collector, wouldn’t do business at your bank, eh?”
“No. He insisted upon the deal being made through this private bank.”
“I take it Miss Ramsay will not make the collection in person?”
“No. It’ll probably be Robert Dundley who makes the deal.”
Albert Pratt placed the tips of his fingers together.
“It’s really blackmail. You know, we could have a detective in here, and save that money—”
Stapleton shuddered, placed his hands before his face.
“No, no! Good heavens, no! Nothing like that! That would mean publicity. I can’t stand publicity.”
“Where can I reach you, Mr. Stapleton — just in case things shouldn’t go right?”
The visitor handed over a card with a telephone number.
“I’ll be waiting right there at that telephone. I can get over here in three minutes from the time you ring me, if it’s necessary.”
Albert Pratt sighed, the sigh of perfect contentment which comes to a cat that has just found a pitcher of rich cream.
“I think it can be attended to. It’s rather irregular, Mr. Stapleton, but we’ll handle it — for a consideration, of course. Come this way, and we’ll open an account and you can give me your check.”
The details disposed of, George Stapleton extended a flabby hand.
“You won’t forget the telephone number?” he inquired, anxiously.
“Most certainly not,” assured Albert Pratt, the pale-eyed banker, and there was a wealth of sincerity in his booming tone for the first time during the interview. Stapleton nodded.
“I didn’t think you would,” he muttered cryptically, bowed, and walked rapidly through the front door of the bank.
The clock on the wall showed exactly ten minutes to eleven.
Albert Pratt walked back into his private office, chuckling to himself, rubbing his bony hands together.
“Forget the telephone number, indeed!” muttered Albert Pratt to himself, then banged the private door which closed him in his palatially furnished office.
V
The clock shifted to ten minutes past eleven.
Robert Dundley entered the bank, his face pale, his mouth taut with determination. In his hand was a package of letters tied with a pink ribbon. From the package there came the faint odor of perfume.
“Mr. Pratt?” he asked of a clerk.
“Right this way,” soothed the deferential clerk, and led the way to Albert Pratt’s private office.
“I’ve got some letters to be delivered. I get ten thousand dollars for ’em,” said Dundley, using the toneless voice of one who recites a well rehearsed speech.