BUNNY’S NUTCRACKER

The cab driver swung in behind the line of cars that crawled along close to the kerb and Slick Stella Molay said: “This is the place.”

Within a few seconds Paul Pry was handing Stella out from the taxicab and receiving her gracious smile.

“Darling,” she said, “you look splendid. You make my heart go pitty-pat. You look exactly like a burglar.”

Paul Pry accepted the compliment and paid off the taxi driver.

“I’ll say he looks like a burglar,” said the taxi driver, pocketing the money. “It was all I could do to keep from shelling out instead of handing him the meter slip. You see, lady, I was stuck up a week ago and my stomach still feels cold where the gun was pointed.”

“And, so this,” said Paul Pry, “is the lair of the famous Silver Dawson?”

“Yes,” she said. “He’s the blackmail king of the underworld. He’s a fighter. I wish someone would kill him.”

“Will I meet him,” asked Paul Pry, “as we go in?”

“No,” she said. “Simply show your invitation to the man at the door and then we’ll go in and mingle with the crowd for a minute, have a drink of punch and perhaps a dance. After that you go upstairs. The study is the room on the front of the house on the second floor and the papers are there in the desk. I’ve given you the key.”

“Then what?” asked Paul Pry.

“Then,” she said, “we mingle around with the crowd a little longer and then go back to the apartment.”

“Without unmasking?” asked Paul Pry.

“Without unmasking,” she said. “I would have to unmask if you did, and if Silver Dawson saw me here he’d know right away something was wrong and that our invitations had been forged.”

“And if I should meet any of the servants?” asked Paul Pry.

“Then,” she said, “go ahead and stick a gun in their ribs. Tie them and gag them if you have to, or knock them out. You don’t need to worry, because if anybody should touch you, you could claim that you were looking for the restroom.”

She turned and flashed him a dazzling look from her wide blue eyes, a smile from her sensuous, parted lips.

“You see,” she said, “everybody would know that you had attended the masquerade in this costume so it would be all right.”

Paul Pry nodded. “All right,” he said, “let’s go.”

They walked into the house, surrendered their forged invitations to a doorman and mingled with the crowd. A dozen or more couples were already hilarious from the effects of a remarkably strong punch which was being dished out in quantities by an urbane individual in evening clothes, who had a napkin hanging over his left forearm.

Paul Pry escorted Stella to the punch bowl and, after the second drink of punch, she whirled him out to the floor as the orchestra struck up a dance.

She held herself close to him and whispered words of soft endearment in his ear as they moved lightly across the floor.

“Darling,” she said, “you’d be surprised at how grateful I’m going to be.”

“Yes?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “The prerogatives of a long friendship, you know.”

Paul Pry missed a step and suddenly tightened his arms about the willowy figure in order to let her understand his appreciation.

“I think,” she cooed, leaning toward him so that her lips were close to his, “we had better swing over toward this darkest corner by the door. That door leads to the hallway and you go up the stairs and into the front room. I think Silver Dawson is the man dressed in the red devil suit over there by the punch bowl. I’m quite certain there won’t be anyone on the upper floor. I’ve kept my eyes open, getting the servants spotted, and I’m sure they’re all downstairs.”

“You seem to know the house quite well,” said Paul Pry.

“Yes,” she said, “I have been here several times before. Sometimes as a guest and more recently as a suppliant, offering anything to get the letters back.”

“Anything?” asked Paul Pry.

“Almost anything,” she said softly.

The music stopped. Stella pressed her form close to Paul Pry’s for one tantalizing moment, then breathed softly: “Hurry, dear, and then we can leave.”

Paul Pry nodded and slipped unostentatiously through the doorway into the dark hall.

There were no servants in sight. A flight of stairs led to the upper corridor and Paul Pry took them on swiftly silent feet, moving with a light grace and catlike speed.

But Paul Pry did not turn to the left and go toward the front of the house. Instead he flattened himself against a door which opened upon the corridor near the head of the stairs, and listened carefully.

After a second or two he dropped to his hands and knees and tried the knob of the door.

The door swung inward and Paul Pry, lying prone on the floor, where he would be clear of the line of fire in the event anyone should have been standing in the doorway, peered into the dark interior of the room.

There was no sound or motion. The room was a bedroom and the light which filtered in from the hallway showed a walnut bed, a dressing table and bureau.

There was a ribbon of light which seeped through from the bottom of a door at the other end of the room.

Paul Pry got to his feet, moved swiftly and silently, stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. Then he walked purposefully toward the door where he could see the ribbon of light.

He was more confident as he tried the knob of this door, but equally careful to make no sound. He leaned his weight against the door so as to remove any tension from the latch, turned the knob very slowly to eliminate any possibility of noise. When the catch was free, he pulled the door toward him a bit at a time.

The door opened and Paul Pry, peering through, saw that he was looking into a bathroom, sumptuously appointed. At the other side of the bathroom was a door panelled with a full-length mirror.

Paul Pry stepped into the bathroom and turned out the light by the simple expedient of unscrewing the globe a half turn. Then he devoted his attention to the knob of the opposite doorway.

That knob slowly turned till the catch was free and Paul Pry opened the door an inch at a time.

The bathroom was now dark, so that there was no light behind him, to pour into the room as the door was opened.

This door opened into the study which Stella had pointed out to him as being at the front of the house, and the place where the desk was located that contained the precious letters.

A floor lamp was arranged with the shade tilted so that the rays of light were directed full against a door, which Paul Pry surmised must be the door into the corridor and through which he had been supposed to make his entrance.

Standing in the shadows, back of that light, his eyes cold and grim, a heavy automatic held in his right hand, was an undersized man with a sloping forehead, a large nose and rabbit teeth that showed through his half-parted lips.

Noiselessly Paul Pry swung the door open and stepped into the room upon catlike feet.

He had made three steps before some slight noise or perhaps some intuition warned the man with the gun. He whirled with an exclamation of surprise and raised the weapon.

Paul Pry swung swiftly with his right fist. At the same time he leaped forward.

There was the sound of the hissing exclamation of surprise which came from the man with the gun, the noise of swiftly shuffling feet, the impact of a fist on flesh and then a half groan as the man with the rabbit teeth sank to the carpeted floor.

Paul Pry pocketed the gun. “Make a sound,” he said, “and I’ll slit your throat.”

But the man on the floor was limp and unconscious.

Paul Pry moved swiftly. A handkerchief was thrust into the man’s mouth, a bit of strong cord from his pocket looped around the man’s wrist and bit into the flesh. Then Paul Pry’s hands darted swiftly and purposefully through the man’s clothing.

He found a roll of bills, a penknife, cigarette lighter, cigarette case, a handkerchief, fountain pen, some small change, a leather key container well filled with keys, and a blackjack.

The blackjack, hung from a light cord under the left armpit, was worn and shiny from much carrying. It had a conventional leather thong looped around the handle so that it could circle a man’s wrists in time of necessity.

Paul Pry jerked the slungshot free and put it in his pocket. He also pocketed the roll of currency. Then he arose, took the keys and moved swiftly about the room, opening locked drawers and the cover of a roll-top desk.

It was at the back of a drawer of the desk that Paul Pry found a packet of letters tied with ribbon. He unfastened the ribbon and glanced swiftly at some of the letters.

The cursory examination showed that they were letters in a feminine handwriting, addressed to “Dearest Bunny” and signed “your own, Stella” in some instances, and “your darling red-hot mamma, Stella” in others.

Paul Pry slipped the letters into his pocket, gave a last swift glance at the figure on the floor and stepped into the bathroom. He walked across the bathroom, through the darkened bedroom, out into the corridor and down the stairs.

Stella Molay was standing in the hallway at the foot of the stairs. Her head was cocked slightly to one side, after the manner of one who is listening, momentarily expecting some noise to crash out on the stillness of the night. A noise which can well be followed by a feminine scream.

As Paul Pry crept lithely down the stairs she stared at him with wide incredulous eyes.

“Good God!” she said. “What’s happened!”

Paul Pry walked across to her and made a low bow. “Congratulations, dear,” he said. “Your honour is safe.”

He straightened to stare into the incredulous dismay of the wide blue eyes.

“Where’s Bunny?” she asked.

“Bunny?” he said.

“I mean Silver. Silver Dawson,” she corrected herself hastily. “A short man with funny teeth and a big nose.”

“Oh,” said Paul Pry, “he’s in the ballroom. Don’t you remember? The man in the devil suit standing over by the punch bowl.”

She looked at him with a sudden glint of suspicion in the blue eyes, but Paul Pry returned her stare with a look of childlike candour.

“Well,” he said, “let’s get out of here and go to the apartment.”

“Look here,” she said suspiciously, “there’s something wrong. You must have got the wrong letters.”

“What makes you think so?”

She bit her lip and then said slowly: “Just a hunch, that’s all.”

Paul Pry gently took her arm. “I’m quite sure it’s all right,” he said. “I’ve got the letters.”

She paused for a moment as though trying to think up some excuse and then reluctantly accompanied him through the door, across the porch, and down to the line of cars where Paul Pry summoned a cab that was waiting on the off chance of picking up a bit of business.

Once within the taxicab, Paul Pry switched on the dome light and took the letters from his pocket.

“You must be sure you’ve got the right letters,” she said. “Otherwise, you’ll have to go back. The letters that I wrote were – quite indiscreet.”

“Well,” said Paul Pry, pulling one of the letters from the envelope, “let’s see if this is indiscreet enough.”

He unfolded the letter while she leaned toward him to stare over his shoulder.

As her eyes saw the writing, she gave a gasp. “The damn fool,” she said, “to have saved those!”

Paul Pry, apparently heedless of the remark, read a line aloud and then broke into a chuckle. “Certainly,” he said, “that’s indiscreet enough for you.”

She snatched the letter from his hand, stared at him with blazing eyes.

“Come, sweetheart,” he said, “and give me another of those prerogatives of friendship.”

Mugs Magoo stood up as Paul Pry entered the room and gave a dramatic imitation of one who is seeing a ghost.

He swung his arm across his eyes.

“Go away!” he shouted. “Go away! Don’t hurt me! I was good to him in his lifetime! His ghost can’t haunt me! Get away, I say!”

Paul Pry dropped into a chair without bothering to remove either his topcoat or his hat. He lit a cigarette and thrust it in his smiling lips at a jaunty angle.

“What’s the matter, Mugs?” he asked.

“My God,” said Mugs, “it talks! A ghost that talks! I know it can’t be you, because you’re dead! You were killed tonight, but how is it that your ghost doesn’t have any bullet holes in its body? And it’s the first time in my life I ever saw a ghost smoke a cigarette!”

Paul Pry laughed and his hand, dropping to his trouser pocket, brought out a roll of bills. Carelessly, he tossed them to the table.

Mugs stared at the roll. “How much?” he asked.

“Oh, five or six thousand,” said Paul Pry carelessly.

“What!” Mugs exclaimed.

Paul Pry nodded.

“Where did it come from?”

“Well,” said Paul Pry, “part of it was a donation that was made to me by Bunny Myers. It was an involuntary donation and Bunny will probably not recall it when he wakes up, but it was a donation, nevertheless.”

“And the rest?” asked Mugs Magoo.

Paul Pry settled himself more comfortably in his chair.

“Do you know, Mugs,” he said, “I got the idea that possibly Tompkins didn’t trust even his own gang. He had concealed the gem where no one knew where it was. That was a funny crack he made in the note about Bunny’s nutcracker. So when Bunny Myers was making his involuntary donation to me, I examined the slungshot that he carried under his arm.

“Sure enough, there was a screw loose in it. Rather the whole handle could be unscrewed, by exerting proper pressure. Evidently, it was a slungshot that Tompkins had given to Bunny and one he intended to use in a pinch as a receptacle for something that was too hot for him to handle.

“When I unscrewed it, I found the Legget diamond, and a very affable gentleman by the name of Mr Edgar Patten, an adjuster for the insurance company that handled the insurance on the gem, was good enough to insist that I take a slight reward for my services when I returned the stone to him.”

Mugs Magoo pursed his lips and gave a low whistle. “Just a fool for luck!” he exclaimed. “You sure picked two of the toughest nuts in the game, and you’re still alive! It ain’t right!”

Paul Pry chuckled softly. “Tough nuts to crack all right, Mugs,” he mused, “but, with the aid of Bunny’s nutcracker, I managed all right.”