MURDER MASQUERADE

Mugs Magoo was seated in the apartment when Paul Pry latch-keyed the door and walked in. Magoo looked up in glassy-eyed appraisal. Then he reached for the half-filled whiskey bottle at this elbow, poured out a generous drink in a tumbler and drained it with a single motion.

“Well,” he said, “I never expected to see you again.”

“You always were a cheerful cuss,” said Paul Pry, depositing his coat and hat in the closet.

“Just a fool for luck,” said Mugs Magoo jovially. “You’ve had an appointment that’s six months overdue that I know of. There’s a marble slab all picked out for you and why you haven’t been on it for a long time is more than I know.”

“Mugs,” said Paul Pry laughing, “you’re a natural pessimist.”

“Pessimist nothing,” said Mugs. “You disregard signals, you walk into the damnedest traps and how you ever get out is more than I know.”

“How do you mean?” asked Paul Pry.

“The woman that was with you at the table,” Mugs Magoo said, “was ‘Slick’ Stella Molay, and she was covering Tom Meek. I saw you slip over and get the letter and she saw you, too. Frank Bostwick is just a lawyer. He’s all right to stand up in front of a jury and wave his arms and talk about the Constitution, but he isn’t fast on his feet. That’s why Tompkins had Slick Stella Molay follow Tom Meek to make sure that the letter got delivered.”

“I see,” said Paul Pry. “Then Slick Stella knew that I had the letter. Is that it?”

“Of course she did.”

“Why didn’t she accuse me of it, or try to steal it?”

“Because she knew it wouldn’t do any good. She knew that you were wise to the play and that you were going to read the letter.”

“What did she want with me then?” asked Paul Pry.

Mugs Magoo gave a snorting gesture of disgust. “Want with you!” he exclaimed. “She wanted to get you out of the way, of course. She wanted to put you where you’ll be pushing up daisies.”

Paul Pry grinned gleefully. “Well,” he said, “I’m still here.”

“Still here because of that providence which watches over fools and idiots,” Mugs Magoo told him. “With the chances you take and the way you walk into trouble, it’s a wonder you haven’t been killed months ago. Why, do you know that Slick Stella Molay is the one who got ‘Big’ Ben Desmond killed in Chicago?”

“Indeed,” said Paul Pry, raising polite eyebrows, “and how did Big Ben Desmond cash in? Did she shoot him or use poison?”

Mugs Magoo poured himself another drink of whiskey. “Not that baby,” he said. “She’s too slick for that.”

“All right,” said Paul Pry, “I confess to my interest, Mugs. Go ahead and quit keeping me in suspense.”

“Well,” said Mugs Magoo, “it was so slick there wasn’t a flaw in it. The grand jury looked it all over and couldn’t do anything about it.”

Paul Pry relaxed comfortably in a reclining chair, lit a cigarette and let his face show polite interest.

“Do you mean to say, Mugs, that a person could murder another, under such circumstances that a grand jury could look it over and couldn’t find anything wrong with it?”

“Slick Stella Molay could,” said Mugs Magoo.

“And just how did she do it?”

“She got Big Ben Desmond sold on the idea that he was to go to a masquerade ball dressed as a highwayman. Then she got him to go prowling around the house of the man that was giving the masquerade. That man was in his bedroom standing in front of a wall safe, putting some jewellery away, when he heard the sound of a door opening. He turned around and saw a man dressed like a crook, with gloves and a mask, a gun and all the rest of it.

“The guy who was giving the party was heeled, and he just snapped up his gun and plopped five shells into Big Ben Dawson’s guts before he found out that he was shooting a guest who had just been walking around the house in a masquerade costume.”

Paul Pry yawned and stifled the yawn with four polite fingers.

“Indeed, Mugs,” he said. “Rather crude. I had thought it might be sufficiently novel to be interesting.”

“Well,” said Mugs Magoo, “it was novel enough to get Big Ben Desmond out of the way; and the grand jury couldn’t do anything to the guy that killed him because they claimed the guy was entitled to shoot a burglar. And Slick Stella Molay was out in the clear. She put an onion in her handkerchief, went before the grand jury full of weeps and red-eyed grief. They say her eyes looked like hell when she was testifying, but she was damned careful her legs were all right. She wore the best pair of stockings in her wardrobe and when she crossed her knees the grand jury decided that, no matter what had happened, Slick Stella didn’t know anything about it.”

“And so,” asked Paul Pry, “you think she’d like to get me out of the way?”

“Sure she would. What was in the letter?”

“I don’t know.”

Mugs Magoo sat bolt upright in his chair and stared with protruding, glassy eyes at Paul Pry.

“You mean to say that you don’t know what’s in the letter?”

“No. I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“Well, what the devil did you take the letter for?”

“To read, of course.”

“Well, why didn’t you read it?”

“I put it down in my shoe and haven’t had a chance,” said Paul Pry.

Casually, as if the matter were of minor importance, he took the envelope from his shoe, opened his penknife with great deliberation, and slit the envelope along the side. He shook out a folded piece of paper.

“What’s it say?” asked Mugs Magoo eagerly.

Paul Pry frowned.

“Rather a puzzling message, I should say, Mugs.”

“Well, what is it?”

Paul Pry read the letter out loud – “Tell Stella there’s a screw loose, it’s Bunny’s nutcracker and to make the play but spring me before you flash the take.”

“Is that all of it?” asked Mugs Magoo.

“That’s all of it,” said Paul Pry.

“Well,” said Mugs, “we know now why Stella was sticking around that lawyer. Frank Bostwick would never have known what that meant.”

“Do you know?” asked Paul Pry.

“Well,” said Mugs Magoo, regarding the diminishing level of amber fluid in the whiskey bottle with a mournful expression, “there’s some things about it I don’t understand. Bunny must be Bunny Myers and when Tompkins says to spring him before flashing the take, it means that he’s to actually be out of jail before they exhibit the diamond or turn it over to the insurance company.”

“Do you suppose that means that there’s something phoney about the diamond?” asked Paul Pry.

Mugs said: “Tompkins wouldn’t dare to deliver a phoney gem to the insurance company. But he’s just playing cautious. Lots of times the insurance companies make promises about what they’ll do with the district attorney if the crook will come through and tell the hiding place of the gem. Then, when it comes to a showdown, and the insurance company is in the clear, they lose all interest in the matter and the crook gets about twice as stiff a jolt as he would otherwise have drawn.”

“Tell me some more about Bunny Myers,” said Paul Pry.

“He’s an undersized guy with mild eyes and a big nose and rabbit teeth. They stick out in front and make you feel like feeding him a carrot whenever you see him. I haven’t run across Bunny for four or five years; but I know that he used to run around with Tompkins on some of the gem stuff.

“Bunny is a good man to have along because he’s so harmless. He looks like a regular rabbit and damned if he don’t act like one.”

“Any great amount of ability?” asked Paul Pry.

“Yes, he’s pretty fast with his noodle,” Mugs Magoo admitted, “and he’s a pretty good actor. He’s cultivated that manner of meekness because nobody ever expects a stick-up artist to have such a meek appearance.”

“Well,” said Paul Pry, “there’s no use bothering my head about it. The message is in some sort of code and it doesn’t seem to help us very much. I’ve got to get my beauty sleep, because I’ve got a hard night ahead of me tomorrow night.”

“Pulling a job tomorrow night?” asked Mugs Magoo, showing interest.

“No,” said Paul Pry, “I’m going out to a ball tomorrow night.”

“What sort of a ball?” Mugs Magoo inquired.

“A ball that Slick Stella Molay wants me to go to with her,” said Paul Pry. “She’s going to arrange for an invitation. I’m going in rather a unique costume. She’s worked it all out for me, Mugs. It’s rather novel. I’m going as a conventional burglar, dressed in a mask and carrying a gun and kit of burglar tools.”

Mugs Magoo whirled around and the whiskey bottle, struck by his shoulder, toppled for a moment and crashed to the floor.

“You’re what?” he yelled.

“Don’t shout,” said Paul Pry. “I’m merely going to a masquerade ball with Slick Stella Molay, dressed as a burglar.”

Mugs Magoo shook his head dolefully. His hand went to his forehead, as though trying to hold his brain to some semblance of sanity by physical pressure.

“Oh, my God!” he groaned.

“And, by the way,” said Paul Pry, “undoubtedly, you’re correct in your assumption that Stella knows I picked up the letter Tom Meek left for the lawyer. They’ll try to get another one smuggled out of the jail. How long will it take them?”

Mugs Magoo shook his head lugubriously from side to side.

“As far as that’s concerned,” he said, “it’ll probably take them a couple of days. They’ve got to smuggle a message in to Tompkins and then Tompkins has got to get another letter to Meek and have it delivered. But you don’t need to worry about it, guy. You won’t be here when it happens. You’ll be lying flat on your back with a lily in your hand. You were a good pal while you lasted but you’re like the pitcher that went to the well too often.

“I don’t want to intrude on your private affairs, but if you’d let me know the songs that you like best, I’ll see that the undertaker gives you the breaks when it comes to the music.”