Erle Stanley Gardner

Muscle Man

Chapter One

Mugs Magoo’s Warning

It was not often that Paul Pry gave himself the luxury of dining with “Mugs” Magoo, the one-armed pessimist whom he had raised from the gutter.

For much of Paul Pry’s efficiency depended upon keeping the underworld in the dark as to the source of his information. Mugs Magoo had earned his nickname because of his uncanny ability to remember faces and connections. At one time he had been camera-eye man for the metropolitan police. A political shake-up put him out, accident robbed him of an arm, and whiskey had done the rest.

Paul Pry, genial opportunist, who made his living from his wits, and a very good living at that, had recognized the value of Magoo’s camera eyes and had taken him in. Tonight was one of the rare occasions when they dined together.

But they were not seen.

A private dining room in a restaurant and cabaret which catered to privacy gave them an opportunity to see and hear, but not to be seen or heard. Through the latticed side of their private booth, Mugs Magoo let his glassy eyes wander over the lower floor. From time to time he disclosed choice bits of underworld gossip. The cabaret was one where gangsters came to forget the constant strain of their existence by strutting before admiring satellites. Which was, of course, the main reason Paul Pry had picked the place for his surreptitious dinner party.

It had been three weeks since Paul Pry had turned one of those baffling swift deals by which he preyed upon the underworld. And Paul Pry craved action.

They made a strange pair. Paul Pry debonaire, alert, attired in faultless evening clothes. Mugs Magoo in an unkempt business suit, the right sleeve dangling, empty, his glassy eyes flickering through the interstices of the lattice work, sizing up the diners, commenting upon the dancers.

“Who is the woman, Mugs?”

“What woman?”

“The one you were just looking at.”

“You mean the jane with the mole on her left shoulder, the black hair, and the dress that begins where the table-cloth leaves off?”

“That’s the one. Who is she?”

Mugs Magoo filled his whiskey glass from a pocket flask, tossed off the liquor, smacked his lips, and grinned.

“It ain’t the jane that’s so important. It’s the guy that’s with her. You’d oughta know him, both of ’em. They’re workin’ the same racket that you are.”

Paul Pry’s eyes gleamed with swift attention.

“How do you mean, Mugs?”

“There ain’t one guy in a thousand that knows it, but it’s the God’s truth. They’re shakin’ down the rackets. But they’re doin’ it so slick they never get caught. That is, they always have somebody that gets caught. But it ain’t them.”

Paul Pry pressed his eyes close to the openings and looked down upon the table. The gleaming shoulders of the woman, the glossy black of her tresses, the sweep of her bare back, the lines of her shapely arms, all spoke of beauty and talent.

The man was conventionally garbed in evening clothes. His eyes were furtive but strangely alert. He was slender, wiry, and, when he moved, his motions were made with a nervous quickness which was almost feline.

Paul Pry’s eyes squinted in thought.

“So they always have a fall guy, eh?”

“And how! The fall guy takes the rap, or gets rubbed out, and ‘Slick Sarah’ and ‘Four Flush’ Finney go merrily on their way.”

“And the gangs don’t tumble?”

“They haven’t — yet. The couple are s’posed to be workin’ a badger game of some sort. Sarah used to have an apartment and a telephone. Four Flush Finney used to be the guy that copped the take. Now they’ve graduated.”

Paul Pry pursed his lips.

“She’s looking at her watch, Mugs, saying something to the man. He’s leaving the table, going over there to the corner. Looks as though she might be expecting somebody.”

“Uh-huh. Sometimes they fill in with a badger. Maybe she’s got a fall guy coming.”

Paul Pry continued to watch the girl, watched while a deft waiter set a service for two, watched while the girl looked impatiently at her watch from time to time.

Fifteen minutes passed and a broad-shouldered man lumbered awkwardly to the table where the girl sat.

“Take a look, Mugs. See if you know this chap.”

Mugs blinked his glassy gaze in swift appraisal.

“Never saw him in my life. He’s a hick. Must be grooming him for a badger game. Maybe he’s a fall guy at that, though. Looks kinda goofy.”

Paul Pry grunted, ceased to eat while he watched the drama which unfolded at the table below. The heavy, stolid man was obviously ill at ease; he stared at the girl with his heart in his eyes. The girl, bearing the badge of her calling evident enough to the sophisticated eye, lowered her long lashes demurely as she made the motions of mock modesty, deferring to the judgment of the shambling awkward youth who had “country” stamped all over him.

Paul Pry reached a sudden decision.

“Mugs,” he said, “I’m going to be a fall guy.”

Mugs paused with a fork halfway to his mouth.

“You’re gonna be a what?”

“A fall guy.”

Mugs Magoo sighed.

“Listen, guy, you’ve done some dangerous things in your time, and I ain’t sayin’ but what you’ve got away with ’em by the Grace of God and a fool’s luck. But you tie into that combination of Slick Sarah and Four Flush Finney, and you have a tombstone parked on your chest and roses growing all around the edges.”

Paul Pry chuckled. He got up from the table and walked swiftly to the telephone. He called a well-known private detective agency which sometimes did work for him, and had an operative rushed to the private dining room.

Despite the remonstrances of Mugs Magoo, Paul Pry went ahead with his plans.

“I want to find out everything there is to know concerning the man who is sitting there at the table,” Paul Pry said pointing out the dining couple. “Never mind the woman. I want to plant someone who can get the confidence of the man. It shouldn’t be hard to do.”

The private detective peered through the lattice work, watched the motions of the broad-shouldered man for a few minutes, then chuckled.

“You’re sure right about that,” he said. “It won’t be hard to do.”

The report of the detective showed that Louie Cramm was very typical of a certain class. He had been born and raised in Sommerville, had saved some two thousand dollars and had come to the city “to make his fortune.”

The family were respected, middle-class citizens of the country town. Louie was the oldest boy. He had one brother and one sister. The father had died. The mother was taking in housework until Louie’s earnings should place the family upon an easier financial footing.

There was a cousin, Charles LeMare, who was reputed to have amassed some little money. He resided in Chicago and had drifted out of touch with the family.

The boy talked rapidly to the detective, who had managed to secure a room at the boarding house where Louie Cramm resided. The detective made a complete report, replete with details. Paul Pry studied that report, and chuckled. He went to a clothing house and purchased a cheap ready-made suit. He donned this, took a taxicab, a suitcase and an umbrella, and was driven to the boarding house where Louie Cramm lived.

Louie Cramm came to him in the parlor.

“You the man that wanted to see me?” he asked.

Paul Pry extended a cordial hand. “You’re Louie Cramm?”

“Yes.”

“Put her there! I’m Sid Fowler, from Chicago. Your cousin, Charley LeMare, told me to look you up.”

A slow flush came over the face of the country youth.

“I didn’t know Cousin Charley knew where I was. He don’t never write.”

Paul Pry’s explanation was glib.

“He ain’t much of a letter writer for a fact, but he keeps track of you. The last thing he says to me when I left was: ‘Sid, my boy, when you get on to the city, stop off and hunt up Louie Cramm. He’s a cousin of mine, and I think he’s got the makin’s of a great business man. If you find we can use him, put him on.’

“Those are Charley’s exact words. A mighty nice chap your cousin is, Cramm.”

Louise Cramm was doubtful.

“Yeah. I guess so. He ain’t never done anything to keep ma from takin’ in washing, though.”

Paul Pry clapped a cordial hand down upon one of the broad shoulders.

“There, there, Cramm, don’t feel that way. Cousin Charley was just waiting until you got into the city and learned something about business. Then he was going to give you a break. He intended to all along. He told me so.”

The boy’s face lit up.

“Gee, that’s great. I’m glad to hear that about Cousin Charley. I was a little mite afraid that the money had gone to his head. You can get a room here, if you’re goin’ to stop over. I’ll introduce you to the landlady.”

Paul Pry allowed himself to be introduced, paid a month’s rent in advance, and was accepted as one of the boarding house family.

The second night after his arrival, Louie Cramm broached the subject of a date.

“I gotta date with a swell wren,” he said. “I told her you was along and asked her did she have a friend. She said to bring you along and she’d see what she could do.”

Paul Pry registered visible appreciation. “Gee, Louie, that’s great.”

“We go uptown in a street car,” said Louie, speaking with the canny sophistication of one who has but recently been initiated into the ways of a big city. “Then we get a taxicab for the last half mile. Makes it look like we drove up in style. She’s that sort of a girl. She appreciates those little touches.”

Paul Pry took a deep breath.

“She’s your girl,” he said, “so I’ll pay for the cab.”

Louie Cramm beamed.

They had supper at the boarding house, finished with a dish of stewed prunes and watery cream, left the table as the booming tones of the “Colonel” began a lecture upon the economic aspects of prohibition.

They arrived at the cheap restaurant which Slick Sarah had rented as a trap for the occasion, and Paul Pry found himself bowing with synthetic awkwardness over the mumbled introduction of Louie Cramm.

“Miss Slade, I wanta present Mr. Sid Fowler, who works with my Cousin Charley in Chicago. He’s on here to help build up some branch businesses, and he’s goin’ to give me a chance. He’s the one I was tellin’ you about over the telephone.”

The girl extended a bare arm which terminated in cool fingers that gripped Paul Pry’s hand in swift appraisal.

“Pleasedt’meetcha,” said Paul Pry all in one breath.

“How do you dew, Mr. Fowler,” said the girl in tones that were artificially accented. “Won’t you have a chair?”

They sat down. After a while, Paul Pry proposed a picture show. Sarah Slade bemoaned the fact that her girl friend who was to come had had a heavy date arrive from out of town and was tied up for the evening.

Paul Pry, apparently just a shade more sophisticated than Louie Cramm, acted his part perfectly. After the picture show, they went to an ice cream parlor. Paul Pry saw a well-dressed man eyeing the trio with calculating appraisal. The man was Four Flush Finney.

Paul Pry used the fact that the girl’s friend hadn’t shown up as an excuse for “not wantin’ to butt in” and broke away early, despite the pleadings of Slick Sarah and Louie Cramm.

He returned to his room in the boarding house, and was gratified to note that Louie Cramm returned home within an hour. He knocked on Paul Pry’s door, but Paul Pry answered with a gentle snore.

The next morning Paul Pry sent himself a telegram under the name of Sid Fowler. The telegram purported to be signed by Charley LeMare at Chicago, and instructed him to employ Cousin Louie and send him to New Orleans to secure a report on certain business matters.

Paul Pry showed the telegram to Louie, whose simple soul filled with enthusiasm. Paul Pry gave him seven hundred and fifty dollars as an advance on salary and expenses, and waited for him at the afternoon train while Louie said good-by to Miss Sarah Slade.

Then Paul Pry shook hands, gave the new employee a bunch of instructions which would keep him out of mischief for a few days, and returned to his boarding house.

There was a message there for him to call Miss Slade at Prospect 6-7840. The telephone conveyed to him the synthetically sweet accents of Louie’s girl friend.

“Louie said you’d take me around a little while he was gone, big boy.”

“Aw, gee, I hate to butt in!”

“You ain’t buttin’ in. You’re just bein’ a friend. Come on out tonight.”

And Paul Pry promised.

Chapter Two

A Slick Dame

Slick Sarah was dressed with more dash and sophistication than she had been on the previous evening. Her remarks were more swiftly friendly, less conventional. Paul Pry took every conversational lead which was offered. By ten o’clock she was giving him gin fizzes and talking frankly about the absent boy friend.

“Gee, he’s a nice kid, but he gets shocked so easy,” said Slick Sarah, eyeing Paul Pry through narrowed lids. “I took him to a cabaret one night. I had on a low dress, and it shocked him to death. I like him, but I don’t like men that get shocked too easy.

“And when the girl came out and did a barefoot dance! Say, you’d oughta seen him! He nearly looped the loop! His cheeks was red like fire!”

Paul Pry nodded with alcoholic sophistication.

“He ain’t never been around none,” he said.

“You don’t get shocked easy?” asked the girl.

Paul Pry laughed, the laugh of a man who wishes to convey the extent of his manly sophistication.

“Say,” he proclaimed, “I’ve been around.”

Sarah Slick nodded.

“Gawd, I didn’t dare to tell Louie, but I used to work in one of them joints. I used to come out and do a barefoot kick. He’d have died if he’d known.”

Paul Pry nodded.

“You’re sure built for it, baby!”

“Think so?” she asked and smiled alluringly.

Paul Pry sighed and stared at the girl, gulped down the last of his gin fizz and stared again.

“I’ll say! Sell me a ticket for the front row!”

She laughed, got up and took his empty glass.

“Gee, I’m glad I met you,” she said. “I’ll mix up a little more giggle water.”

She started for the kitchen. On the way she raised and then lowered the window shade.

Paul Pry lit a cigarette.

There was a knock on the door of the apartment. Slick Sarah dried her hands on a towel. Her face wore a puzzled frown as she went to the door and flung it open.

The man who stood on the threshold was the man Mugs Magoo had pointed out as Four Flush Finney.

“My Gawd!” she yelled, “it’s my brother!”

And she staggered back, hand to her throat, eyes wide. She gulped twice, tried to talk, failed, motioned with her hands.

The man in the doorway glided into the room with a motion as swiftly furtive as a wet eel slipping through a crack in a fishing creel. He held his finger to his lips for silence, whirled, locked the door, bent, listened with his ear to the keyhole.

Finally he straightened, ignored Paul Pry who sat staring with open mouth and wide eyes, and went at once to the girl.

“Sarah,” he said, “I’m in trouble, a lot of trouble. You’ve got to help me!”

The girl patted his shoulder.

“You poor, poor dear, what’s the matter? Tell me all about it— Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Fowler. I wanta introduce my brother, Finney Slade. Finney, this is a boy friend.”

The man regarded Paul Pry with wide eyes, made no acknowledgment of the introduction whatever.

Paul Pry was on his feet, gawking about him awkwardly, uncertainly.

“Can you trust him?” asked Four Flush Finney.

The girl left the man’s side, glided over to Paul Pry and placed a soothing hand on his arm.

“Can I trust him? I’ll say! I ain’t known him but a little time, but him and me are regular pals already — ain’t we, honey?”

Paul Pry gripped the hand that held his arm.

“I’ll say!” he said. “Maybe I’d better go.”

She shook her head.

“No, no. I get so frightened whenever there’s trouble. You stay. Mr. Fowler’s a big business man from some place in Indiana, just outside of Chicago, Finney. Maybe he can help us.”

Finney nodded, sank into a chair, put his head in his hands.

“They’re framin’ me, sis,” he said.

“Who’s framin’ you, Finney?”

“One of the big gangsters, sis. A guy they call ‘Big Front’ Gilvray. He’s head of a big gang here, and he’s been pulling a lot of rough stuff. I’ve been workin’ for him, and never knew it.”

The girl’s eyes were narrow again.

“What d’yuh mean you’ve been workin’ for him, an’ never knew it? I thought you was chauffeur for a big business man here in the city!”

He laughed, and the laugh was bitter.

“That’s what I thought. Know who that big business man was? Well, it was Tommy Drake, and Tommy Drake’s Gilvray’s right-hand man, collector and all that. I thought he was in some sort of legitimate business. He ain’t. He’s a racketeer, booze runner and regular gangster.”

The girl sank down on the floor, one hand on Paul Pry’s knee. “Gee!” she said. “Ain’t that a sock in the eye!”

Her brother nodded, signifying that it was, indeed, a sock in the eye.

“You don’t know the half of it,” he groaned.

“What’s the other half?” asked the girl.

“Gilvray needed a fall guy, and he picked on me.”

“A fall guy? What’s a fall guy, Finney?”

“Somebody to take the rap.”

“What d’yuh mean, take the rap? Talk sense!”

And she flashed a significant glance toward Paul Pry, then frowned at her brother.

He nodded.

“I see,” he said, significantly, then launched into a story of hard luck.

“You see, sis, it was this way. When I got the job of running the big limousine for Tommy Drake, I sure thought it was on the up and up. We just went places all over the city, and Tommy had conferences, and sure made a bunch of jack. He dragged down the long green every time he had one of those conferences. I should have smelled a rat, but I didn’t.

“Then, a couple of nights ago, Tommy told me that he’d loaned the car to some friends, and I’d take them for a little ride around the city. He was going to be tied up on business, see?

“Well, the friends showed up all right, and they looked just like what they claimed to be, some out of town customers, that were in for a lark. Tommy told me to take them out and drive them where they wanted to go.

“Well, they went to a couple of speaks first off the bat, and then one of ’em said he wanted to get some money, and he thought he could get a check cashed at the All Night & Day Bank, and would I drive ’em over.

“I drove ’em over, all right, and they told me to park right in front of the fire plug that’s by the door of the bank. They all went in. I thought at the time they went in sorta businesslike, but I didn’t pay so awful much attention to that then.

“One of ’em said he had a date, and he wanted to be sure and get there on time and he only had a few minutes, so he told me to keep the motor running and be all ready for a snappy getaway when they came out of the bank.

“Well, I never thought nothing. I just sat there with the motor running. They came out of the bank and piled in, and one of ’em said ‘A hundred bucks, buddy, if you get to that date in five minutes.’

“Well it was a good break for me, and I made the car do its stuff. They were counting out a wad of money, and I was so green I asked ’em if they’d had any trouble getting the check cashed. They laughed and said they’d had a little trouble, but after they’d identified themselves with the head cashier there hadn’t been any more trouble.

“I found out afterward it was a stick-up, and that the way they’d identified themselves with the head cashier was by slamming him over the bean with a blackjack.

“Of course I read about it in the papers, and I went to Tommy Drake, and then was when Tommy told me that he was the collection man for Big Front Gilvray and that I was in too deep to back out. He raised my pay fifty a week, and gave me a thousand bonus for sitting in on the bank job, and I didn’t have no choice in the matter. None whatever!”

The girl interrupted.

“That was wrong, Finney. You should have come to me right then and there. That wasn’t the way us Slades were brought up. You should have gone to the police right then. I’m ashamed of you, taking gangster money!”

He gulped and looked embarrassed.

“I guess you’re right, sis. I was a fool. But the way Tommy Drake put it up to me it didn’t seem like there was any other — way out of it. He said I was in already, that he’d stand back of me if I played the game, and that I’d get on the spot if I didn’t.

“That’s why I didn’t get in touch with you for a while. I was ashamed, and I didn’t want to drag you into the thing.”

She nodded.

Paul Pry interrupted.

“But I read about that case in the paper. The cashier died, didn’t he?”

The man who posed as the brother of Slick Sarah regarded Paul Pry grimly.

“The man died,” he said.

There was silence in the room for the space of seconds.

Then Four Flush Finney again took up his narrative.

“When the man died, Big Front Gilvray wanted a fall guy to turn up if anything happened. Two nights later one of the men who was on the bank job held up a restaurant and the cops took after the car.

“There was some shooting. The gangsters got to safety all right, but the bullets had found a mark. One of the men was dying. He knew he was kicking off. Big Front knew he was cashing in. And he had the man sign a dying confession. In that confession the man took all responsibility for croaking the cashier. He claimed there was only one other man on the job with him, and that man was me!

“See what he done? He left himself an out. If it ever came to a showdown he could spring the confession and maybe clear the other men. But it would put me on the hot seat.

“That’s the kind of a double cross they gave me. And Big Front’s going to use that confession to make me do his dirty work. That’s the way he plays the game.

“He’s got another job planned for me now, sis, and he says if I don’t go through with it he’ll mail the confession to the bulls. That’s why I came here. You’ve got to keep me for a while until we decide what to do.”

The girl got up from her place beside Paul Pry and crossed to him. “That’s all right, Finney, dear. We’ll just stand together. They can’t pin a dirty frame-up like that on you. They simply can’t!”

He grunted. “Shows all you know about it. Those that are on the inside will tell you that two out of three who get the chair are railroaded to it as fall guys by higher ups who throw out victims to the crooked police.”

He put his head on her shoulder. She stroked his hair.

“Why don’t you go to the police and tell them the whole story?” asked Paul Pry.

The man laughed, and his laugh was metallic, harsh.

“Shows how little you know about gang stuff. If I went to the bulls and told them the story they’d throw me in. They want to turn up some one for the cashier’s murder, and they’d rather it’d be me than anyone else because I’d be easy. A real gangster would have a slush fund and a mouthpiece, and they’d have a hell of a time pinning it on him.

“No, there’s no way out through the police. They’d either fry me, or else they’d believe my story, take me before the grand jury, and then the gangs would put me on the spot.”

“How do you mean, ‘on the spot’?” asked Paul Pry.

“Stick me in the path of a machine gun!” snapped the man.

“I see,” said Paul.

The girl was sobbing quietly.

“Isn’t there any way out, Finney?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, shortly, curtly, and stopped.

She put her hands on his shoulders, pushed herself back at arm’s length until she could gaze into his eyes.

“Well,” she said, “what is it?”

“It’s almost as bad as the other,” he said.

“Well, anyhow, you can tell us.”

He took a deep breath.

“We could muscle Tommy Drake and make Big Front kick through with the confession.”

She frowned, puzzled.

“Talk English, Finney.”

He explained it to her patiently: “You see, sweet, these big gangsters have to be on the job every minute of the day. If they was to get laid up for any length of time the whole pack of cards would come tumbling down. Their time is worth untold money to them, every day.

“There’s rivalry in the gang stuff, and if a man was to lose touch with his trade it’d mean that some rival would come in and scoop the business.

“Every once in a while some fast worker will muscle one of the big gangsters. That is, he’ll strong-arm him and put him some place where he can’t get out. Then the man has to kick through with whatever the captors want in order to get out. And if he’s part of an organization, he has to be on the job for the organization. So the organization kicks through.

“Now, of course Tommy Drake, would deny it if it was put up to him, but he told me in confidence that he’s going to do some heavy collecting for Big Front on Friday night. He’s going to take in certified checks, payable to Tommy Drake. It’s for some big booze shipments, and the gangs won’t take anything except certified checks or money. Money ain’t so hot right now with some of the gangs hijacking each other, so Tommy Drake does his stuff with certified checks.

“Now if I was to muscle Tommy out for a while, and make him give me those certified checks, endorsed to bearer, and then tell Gilvray I was going to cash those checks and beat it unless he kicked through with the confession and gave me a clean bill of health, he’d do it.

“Tommy, himself, was the one that suggested it. He thinks I got a raw deal from Big Front. But, of course, Tommy has got to protect himself in the thing, and I’d have to put it on in style. That’d be to protect Tommy afterward.”

Kinney stopped, looked steadily at his sister.

She returned the glance, steadily, as though it were a signal, or an attempt to exchange thought without the use of words.

“But why can’t you do it, Finney?”

“I need a muscle man.”

“Why?”

“It’d have to be someone that would make the thing look O. K. Otherwise it’d just get Tommy put on the spot, as well as me. But if someone that nobody knew was to do the muscle stunt then we’d all be in the clear.”

The girl’s voice was rapid.

“But wouldn’t it be dangerous?”

“Naw. Where’d there be any danger? Tommy’d be willing, and so would I. A man would just have to go through the motions. Then Tommy would surrender the checks, and that’d be all there was to it.”

“Would Gilvray come through?”

“Would he! Listen, sis, there’ll be at least two checks. One of ’em will be drawn on the Farmers & Merchants National for twenty thousand dollars, signed by Arthur Manser, and certified. The other will be for ten grand, on the Seaboard Union National, signed by Carl Chadwick, certified. Both of ’em payable to Tommy Drake! Use your noodle, kid, and see what that’d mean! Why Gilvray would come through so quick there’d be nothing to it!”

“But,” protested the girl, after a moment of silence, “wouldn’t it be a crime?”

“Of course not. We’d give up the checks. All we want is to kill some false confessions. We’d really be on the side of the law, doing it a favor.”

There was a long silence. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the eyes of the man and the woman turned to Paul Pry.

That individual gulped twice.

“I’m a stranger in the city. Nobody knows me. If I could help—”

Finney shot from his chair, hand outstretched.

“Put her there!” he said. “A regular guy!”

The girl flung her arms around his neck, kissed him, at first impersonally, then, with a startled gasp, more affectionately. She clung to him, hot breath coming through parted lips, eyes starry.

“My hero!” she said.

Finney didn’t give the situation an opportunity to develop any further.

“You and this friend of ours would have to get a bungalow out on the outskirts and pretend you were newly wedded and had just moved in. That’d take care of the neighbors. Then, on Friday, when Tommy gets done with his collecting, I’d leave the car at a certain place while Tommy and me went in for a drink. The car’d be locked, but Sid Fowler here would have a duplicate key.

“There’d be a robe in back. He’d get in and crawl under the robe. Then Tommy would get in front with me. All Sid here would have to do would be to stand up and stick a gun in our necks, and tell us to drive where he said and look pleasant about it. It’d be that simple!”

The girl rubbed her cheek against Paul Pry’s.

“How delightfully simple!” she said.

And there was a subtle double meaning which was meant for the ears of the man who posed as her brother.

Chapter Three

Flirting With Death

Paul Pry, safely ensconced in his secret hideout, tapped rhythmically upon a Hopi ceremonial drum. It was made of deerskin rawhide fastened over the hollowed trunk of a cottonwood, the trunk burnt out until it had just the proper thickness, just the proper resonance.

The weird booming at regular intervals mingled with the blood, pulsed in the ears as a steady throbbing that stirred half forgotten memories.

Mugs Magoo, moodily drinking whiskey, stared at Paul Pry.

“Gosh, I wish you’d quit that damned drumming.”

Paul Pry smiled, musingly.

“I’m stirring primitive cells in my brain, Mugs, awakening old racial memories. Think of it, Mugs! Up to a thousand or so years ago, our ancestors prepared for battle with the drum, killed and were killed to the twang of a bowstring! Is it any wonder the throb of a drum makes us want to revert to savagery? I feel capable of knocking a woman over the head, dragging her off by her hair, putting a tomahawk through the skull of an enemy and scalping him.”

Mugs Magoo shook his head.

“Maybe it does that to you. It just churns my insides up. What are you gettin’ ready to do now?”

But Paul Pry, putting down his drum, answered the question by asking another.

“Mugs, what’s the muscle game?”

Mugs Magoo refilled the whiskey glass.

“It’s quite a racket. It means lots of things, like musclin’ in on another man’s territory. Mostly, though, it means taking a prominent gangster and holding him where he can’t communicate with his gang until he kicks through.

“Those babies have time that’s worth lots to ’em. And they’re sitting on the rim of a volcano all the time. They don’t dare to get out of touch with things.”

Paul Pry nodded.

“I take it that it’s a dangerous game?”

“Dangerous! I’ll say. A man only does that when he’s flirting with the undertaker. They last about once. There ain’t any case of a man who’s done a successful muscle act twice.”

Paul Pry nodded, thoughtfully.

“Why?” asked Mugs Magoo.

Paul Pry looked at his watch.

“Because in precisely forty-five minutes I am going to muscle Tommy Drake, the big shot of the Big Front Gilvray gang, and—”

He broke off as the whiskey glass slipped from Mugs Magoo’s nerveless fingers and crashed to the floor.

“You’re what!!”

“Just what I said, Mugs.”

Mugs Magoo sighed.

“Well, I’ve given you up for lost so long now that when I actually file past the coffin for a last glance at what the machine-gun bullets have left of your face, I’ll feel like it’s a habit, but that’s the first time you’ve ever done anything so damned hare-brained as to make me spill good drinkin’ whiskey.”

Paul Pry adjusted his tie, reached for his overcoat.

“You shaved?” asked Mugs Magoo, ruefully inspecting the pool of whiskey on the carpet.

“Yes, why?”

“Oh, nothin’, but undertakers Have a hell of a time shavin’ ’em after they get cold. It’s always considerate to give ’em a break.”

Paul Pry smiled.

“Good night, Mugs.”

The reply was unmistakable.

“Good-by! I’m goin’ to miss you.”

And Paul Pry, with that farewell knelling in his ears, closed the door, adjusted his hat, and went to keep his appointment.

Things clicked as by clockwork. The big limousine drew up to the appointed comer within twenty seconds of the time which had been agreed upon. The door opened. Tommy Drake, well-clothed, fleshy, important, ferreted the shadows with restless eyes. His well-manicured hand was concealed under his coat.

Finney, the chauffeur, kept his right hand thrust into the side pocket of an overcoat as he locked the car with a key held in his left hand.

They went into a certain speakeasy. It was within forty feet of where they had parked the car. They went in the businesslike manner of those who are about to make a collection or know why.

Paul Pry glided from the shadows. His duplicate key shot back the lock of the car door. He entered, slipped under the robe which was on the floor in the rear of the machine.

One minute and forty seconds later, Finney scraped the key against the lock of the car door and pretended to unlock it. He flung back the door.

“Sittin’ up front, Tommy?”

“Sure.”

The car lurched as the bodies swung up from the running board. Then a door slammed, and the motor purred into rhythmic power. A gear meshed smoothly, and the car glided out into traffic.

“Business pickin’ up any?” asked Finney.

“So, so,” said Tommy. “These big places are under regular contract. They take so much whether business is good or bad. It sometimes leaves ’em with a little carry-over stock, but they’ve got a soft graft, at that.”

“Uh-huh,” said Finney.

The car continued to purr smoothly and uneventfully through traffic.

Finney’s voice sounded, nervous, dry. “Well, we’re within two blocks of your house, Tommy.”

“Uh-huh,” said Tommy Drake.

Paul Pry slipped back the heavy robe. Such noise as he made was covered by the sound of the whining tires as they snarled at high speed along the pavement.

He slipped a gun in either hand. Promptly at the same moment, he pressed the cold muzzles of those guns against the necks of the men in front of him.

“Don’t look around, don’t make any squawk,” he said. “You, driver, take the first turn to the left and step on it. Remember one thing, I’m desperate. If you so much as make a move, or if you try to signal, I’ll blow your spines out through your neckties.”

Finney gave an audible gasp, a synthetic start, for the purpose of impressing Tommy Drake.

Tommy Drake froze into rigid immobility. After a second or two, he spoke, calmly, without turning his head.

“What is it, a shakedown or a croaking?”

“Just a shakedown,” reassured Paul Pry. “You won’t have any trouble if you act reasonable.”

Tommy Drake sighed.

“O. K. I thought maybe I was goin’ for a ride. If I had been, I’d as soon have taken it here as later.”

Paul Pry chuckled.

“Just be reasonable, and you’ll be on your way by ten o’clock tomorrow morning — sure.”

Tommy Drake grunted.

“After the banks open, eh?”

“After the banks open,” agreed Paul Pry. “Driver, you keep both hands on the wheel and your eyes straight ahead. Tommy, you stick your hands up. I’m going to put a little bandage over your eyes.”

The gangster elevated his hands.

“No funny stuff,” warned Paul Pry.

The gangster said nothing.

Paul Pry whipped a handkerchief about Tommy Drake’s eyes, then dove swiftly for the shoulder holsters and took away twin automatics.

“Now, driver, I’m doing the same by you as far as frisking is concerned. Keep your hands on the wheel.”

“O. K. by me,” said Finney. “I ain’t got a date with a tailor for a wooden nightie. It’s under the left armpit. Be careful, because the safety’s off.”

Paul Pry deftly extracted the gun.

“Keep moving,” he said. “Ready to turn to the right at the next street, and drive carefully, I’m nervous.”

And the cold steel rings again pressed into the necks of the men in front.

Guiding them to the turns, making a sufficient number of side excursions to be certain no one was following them Paul Pry directed the automobile to the bungalow where the girl with the starry eyes had established herself as a bride of a few days.

Finney swung the car to a stop in the driveway.

“Out and in,” said Paul Pry. “Driver, you can pilot Tommy Drake. Keep his blindfold on.”

They clumped up the three steps to the wooden floor of the porch. Slick Sarah flung the door open. Her eyes gleamed with delight.

“My hero!” she said, and flung herself with a little glad cry of abandon into the arms of the muscle man.

They piloted Tommy Drake to a bedchamber, handcuffed his wrists and ankles to the side rungs at the head and foot of the bed, left him like a sprawled calf ready for branding.

Then they held a celebration.

During that celebration much giggle water was consumed. Finney and the girl lavished praise upon Paul Pry. Finney showed his gratitude by frequent back slappings and handshakings. The girl accomplished the same result in a more feminine manner.

Some time after midnight it was suggested that Paul Pry had better make certain that Tommy would come to terms.

Pry nodded, arose to unsteady feet and vanished into the bedroom. Finney remained behind, since he insisted upon making it appear that the abduction was on the up and up and that Tommy should be told that the chauffeur was also held a prisoner in another room.

Paul Pry unlocked the handcuffs.

“Keep on the blindfold,” he said.

Tommy Drake sat up on the bed, his arms stiff and numb.

“Listen, guy, I’m going to be reasonable. There’s no use of you and me misunderstanding each other. You’ve got me where you want me, now. Personally, I don’t think you can get away with it, but that’s something that’s between you and Big Front Gilvray.

“In the meantime, there’s no use rubbing it in. I know when I’m licked, and I’m getting damned tired of these handcuffs.”

Paul Pry remained obdurate.

“You’re all right, Tommy, only you’re too slick. I’ve got to keep you where you won’t be able to out-slick me. Where are the checks?”

“In the wallet. You’ll find it in my inside coat pocket.”

Paul Pry took out the wallet.

Tommy Drake made a swift motion with his thumb, lifting the bandage slightly from his eyes.

Paul Pry snapped home a left hook to the jaw, not a hard hook, but a jarring blow that was a promise of what might follow.

“Naughty, naughty! Mamma spank!” he said.

Tommy Drake’s head snapped back. His right hand abruptly dropped.

“My mistake, guy,” he said.

Paul Pry fished out the checks.

There were some small ones, but there were two large ones, one for twenty thousand, one for ten thousand, made out just as Finney had said they would be, bearing the stamp of certification.

Paul Pry took out his fountain pen, arranged a board, put the board on the lap of Tommy Drake, then stepped behind him.

“All right, Tommy. Listen to this and get it straight. I’m taking off the blindfold long enough for you to sign your name four times. Write on the back of each check, ‘Pay to the order of bearer,’ and then sign your name. The bank will know your signature all right, but I’ll have to keep you here until the checks are cashed, to make certain that there isn’t any hitch.

“But don’t try to turn your head and look around when I take off the blindfold. Because, if you do, there’s going to be a slung-shot tap your bean, and when you wake up you’ll have a hell of a headache.”

Tommy Drake sighed.

“Geez, buddy, let’s get it over with. But you’d better have an airplane all ready for a getaway, because Big Front will remember this.”

“Yeah, I know,” drawled Paul Pry, casually.

He put the tinted oblongs of paper on the board, stepped back of the captive, and slipped up the blindfold.

Tommy Drake sighed, took the fountain pen, and started to write. Midway, he paused, puzzled.

“There are four checks here. But only two of the checks in the wallet had any size to ’em. You aren’t so damned picay-unish you’re going to monkey with the small stuff are you?”

Paul Pry tapped lightly upon the top of the captive’s head.

“Naughty, naughty, mamma Have to spank again!”

“Oh, all right,” said Tommy, and went ahead with the business of signing.

Paul Pry slipped the bandage down over his eyes.

“I’ll give you a break some day if you’ll leave off those damned handcuffs,” said Tommy Drake, “and I’ll promise I won’t try to make a getaway.”

Paul Pry snickered.

“Don’t be silly, Tommy. Stick your wrists out. But I have got a nice dose of sleepy-by medicine that’ll take effect pretty soon. When it does, I’ll come in and take off the handcuffs. You’ll sleep until tomorrow afternoon, but your friends will come for you before then.

“Nighty-by. Here, take this.”

Tommy Drake swallowed obediently.

“That,” he proclaimed, “marks you for a gentleman, even if you are a damned hijacker.”

Paul Pry took the endorsed checks, thrust them into his pocket, turned the light low.

“I’ll take off the handcuffs,” he promised, and went into the outer room.

The seductive hands of the girl pawed at him. The eager eyes of Finney looked unasked questions.

Paul Pry took a wallet from his inside pocket. He took out some bills, a neat assortment of them.

“Seems to me we should have getaway money, just in case anything should happen,” he said.

“Nothin’ ain’t goin’ to happen,” Finney grunted. “But we’ll split it three ways, anyhow. How about the checks?”

Paul Pry pulled out twin oblongs of tinted paper, one on a pink paper, one on a light green. Both were deckled against forgeries by alteration. One was a check on the Farmers & Merchants National Bank, payable to the order of Thomas Drake, signed by Arthur Manser, bearing a rubber stamp of certification, and duly endorsed on the back, “Pay to the order of bearer, Thomas Drake.”

The other was similar, except that it was signed by Carl Chadwick, was drawn on the Seaboard Union National and was for ten thousand dollars.

Finney clamped an eager hand upon the papers.

“Slick! Thirty thousand smacks. Guess that didn’t come easy!”

It was the girl who nudged his ribs.

“But you’re not going to cash them, Finney, dear. You’re just going to use them as a lever to make Gilvray give you the confessions.”

“Of course, of course, of course!” said Finney, speaking rapidly. “When I said it had come easy, I meant that it was a cinch to get the confessions, thanks to the work of your splendid friend here.”

“How can I ever thank him!” said the girl, and her eyes gleamed with an affection which was far too ardent to be real.

Paul Pry thrust out his chest.

“Glad to be of service,” he said. “You can go right out with those checks. You won’t need to wait until the bank opens. Then, when you get the confessions, you can turn Tommy loose.”

Finney exchanged swift glances with Slick Sarah.

“No-o-o-o-o, that wouldn’t hardly do. Gilvray might make a squawk. I’d better let him know I can cash the checks at once if he should refuse. I’d better wait until after the bank opens.”

Paul Pry nodded vacantly.

“Just as you say,” he said. “Funny thing, Tommy never even mentioned he knew this was a frame-up. He acted just like it wasn’t.”

“Good old Tommy,” said Finney. “He’s playing the game all right. He wanted me to promise I wouldn’t even tell you it was a plant. He’s so afraid the gang might think he was in on it.”

Paul Pry nodded.

“There’s one thing I’m wondering about—” he began, and the girl swayed to his arms.

“Forget the details, dear. You’ve done your share. Let Finney worry about them.”

“But—” began Paul Pry.

She drew his head down to hers, smothered the words. When she released him, Paul Pry was grinning sheepishly, and the red stain of lipstick was smeared over his lips.

Thereafter they drank giggle water until the dawn.

At eight-thirty Paul Pry got restless.

“Gee, I sort of hate to be sticking around here!”

Finney shrugged.

“Go get some sleep if you want.”

“I’ve done everything I can?”

“Sure, sure.”

“You can telephone Gilvray and tell him where to come for Tommy when you’ve got the confessions?”

“Sure, we don’t need you at all. Sis can go with you, as far as that’s concerned.”

Slick Sarah’s eyes ceased to be starry. They settled upon Finney with a hard gleam.

“No, Finney dear, I’ll stay with you. Sid is pretty well tired out. He should go and get sleep, and we haven’t the right to ask him to go into any further danger on our account. But my place is with you. And I’m going to stay with you!”

Finney nodded sullenly.

“O. K. by me,” he said.

Paul Pry tiptoed to the door of the bedroom.

“I’ll look in on Tommy and make certain he’s sleeping,” he said.

He opened the door, slipped into the room.

He was gone for several seconds. Then he returned, grinning vacuously.

“Just like a child,” he said.

They patted him on the back.

“Sid, you’re a wonder.”

“Where’ll I see you again?” he asked of the girl.

“At my apartment tonight, dear. Until then—”

And Paul Pry got another application of lipstick. This time he noticed that the flavor of raspberry was very, very strong.

Chapter Four

“Some Sap!”

When Paul Pry had gone, Finney grinned at Slick Sarah. “Just like taking candy from a baby,” he said.

She nodded.

“Fifteen grand apiece. Gosh, Finney, it was worth it. And I sure got a sap! Wasn’t he a dream! I hate to let anything that’s as green as that get away. We should keep in touch with him. We could find lots of use for him.”

Finney laughed shortly, sarcastically.

“Bah. We couldn’t use him for anything except ballast on a boat. By this time tomorrow he’ll have so much lead in him he won’t fit into a coffin.

“Now listen, sis, we gotta play this right. I go get the checks cashed, then I come back and you handcuff me to the other bed. Then you telephone Gilvray we’re both here, see?

“That’ll give me a good alibi, and Gilvray can find out all about this guy from where he rented the house. He left the name and address of his rooming house and gave the landlady for reference, the poor sap!”

The woman’s forehead furrowed.

“Any chance he’ll squeal?”

“He won’t get a chance. I’ll tip him to make a run for it, and then I’ll tip Gilvray that I’ve spotted the train he’s on. The poor sap won’t ever have a chance to squeal. He won’t even say nighty-by.”

The girl grinned.

“I hate to lose him. He was priceless.”

They grinned again, and the grin became a rasping, mutual chuckle.

“Well,” said Finney, “let’s go.”

They went.

Finney presented the check at the window of the Farmers & Merchants National.

“Cash,” he said.

The teller looked at him suspiciously.

“That’s a large sum.”

Finney yawned.

“Sure it is. It’s a big deal. You know Tommy Drake’s signature. The check’s certified. It’s payable to bearer. I’m the bearer. You can ring up Arthur Manser if you want to. He’ll verify that the check’s O.K. and that it’s to be cashed. But your own certification is on it. You can’t question that, and bearer means bearer don’t it?”

The teller nodded.

“I guess so. Just a minute.”

He stepped back in his cage, started counting out piles of money, but his right foot surreptitiously reached out and pressed a concealed button in the floor.

Finney heard the sound of the buzzer, frowned perplexedly.

Then he saw two uniformed figures, bank police, on special duty, bearing down upon him. Startled, he flipped a hand beneath his coat, only to remember that his fall-guy muscle-man hadn’t returned the automatic he had taken.

He felt his elbows grasped in an iron grip.

“Try anything and you’ll get your head smashed,” said one of the men. “Take it quietly. What is it, Fred?”

The teller slipped the check through the bars.

“Forgery,” he said, “and a clumsy one. The signature of Tommy Drake looks O.K., but the rest of it is awful. It’s a rank forgery, certification stamp and all.”

Finney heaved a great sigh, and managed a laugh.

“Hell, is that all you’re squawking about? I thought you really had me for a pinch! Just ring up Manser, and he’ll tell you He signed this check and had it certified himself.”

The teller shook his head.

“That’s true all right. But the genuine check was cashed ten minutes before you came here. It was passed through to the account of Paul Pry, a gentleman we happen to know.”

Finney’s mouth sagged. He gasped for air. Twice he tried to speak and each time words failed him. The third time he managed to get out sound, but the voice was strained, husky.

“Paul Pry— Good God! Did sis pick on that bird as a fall guy! Paul Pry—”

And Finney, known in the profession as Four Flusher Finney, slipped to the floor in a faint.

Outside of the bank, a very well-formed figure of a young woman, dressed in a mode that was calculated to disclose the lines of rounded beauty, had been staring through the window.

When Finney slumped to the floor in a faint she turned gloomily away and entered a taxicab. She moved with graceful haste.

The cab driver turned to regard her, and saw that she had raised the hem of her skirt, disclosing a long expanse of rounded limb, that she had taken a roll of large bills from the top of her stocking and was counting it carefully.

“Where to, ma’am?” he asked, his eyes flitting between the attraction of the green currency and the soft flesh of the rounded symmetry which was exposed between pink silk and black chiffon.

She spoke sadly.

“To the Union Depot. I’ve got nine hundred and fifty dollars here, and I’ve got a sucker in New Orleans that had ought to be good for a thousand more.”

She raised her eyes, encountered the gaze of the taxi driver, and unhurriedly returned the roll to the top of her stocking.

“Lovely morning, ain’t it!” she said.

Big Front Gilvray raced in person to the bungalow, the address of which had been given to him in the mysterious telephone call which terminated a night of frenzied activity.

When Tommy Drake had failed to report, Gilvray had had attorneys search the records of the precinct stations to see if Tommy had been picked up and buried for questioning. He had cruising cars making a grim round of places where rival gangs held headquarters, searching for some trace of the missing man.

With the coming of the telephone call, Gilvray knew that the worst had happened. A week’s pickings gone glimmering. He skidded the car to a stop, rushed up the steps. The door of the bungalow was open.

A table was littered with empty bottles, sticky glasses and cigarette stubs. In the bedroom he found Tommy Drake, sleeping peacefully. To his chest was pinned a brief note, scribbled upon the back of a tinted oblong of paper, one of the blank checks of the Farmers & Merchants National.

Big Front Gilvray stooped to stare at the paper which read—

“Dear Goosie, thanks for laying another golden egg. To the police you’re a tough gangster. To me you’re just a nice little goosie, laying golden eggs.”

The note was signed, simply, “Paul Pry, Muscle Man.”

Big Front Gilvray hopped about from one foot to the other. The air of the bedroom was sulphurous with profanity. Tommy Drake slumbered peacefully in drugged unconsciousness.

Content

Erle Stanley Gardner
Muscle Man

Chapter One Mugs Magoo’s Warning

Chapter Two A Slick Dame

Chapter Three Flirting With Death

Chapter Four “Some Sap!”