At the north end of Nassau Street, where it opens out toward the Park, is a statue of Benjamin Franklin mounted on a high stone pedestal. It is not a matter of record that the green, weather-beaten face of this replica of the man who flew a kite has ever changed its expression. It does not change during those hours from eleven to two when a series of shifts sends thousands of men and women, boys and girls, milling about the feet of the figure, scurrying to their favourite restaurants, beaneries, or soda fountains. It does not change as they hurry back into the holes where they work, their digestions much the worse for wear.
If it ever did change, it must have been at the approach of a certain young man who passed that way every day at lunchtime. He was a tall, broad-shouldered young man, with a swinging, athletic walk. His clothes inevitably had a Bond Street look. His hats were always worn at a slightly rakish angle. His manner was amused, leisurely, tolerant as he surveyed the hectic noon-hour throng. And he always spoke to the stone figure of Mr. Franklin. His manner of speaking might have been considered frivolous, even impertinent, but it was definitely friendly.
On this particular Tuesday afternoon the young man wore a grey suit with a fine, white pin stripe running through it. He carried a camel’s-hair coat over his arm. His cordovan leather shoes bore a mirror-like polish. In the lapel of his suit was a small, bright blue flower, almost as bright and almost as blue as his eyes.
The young man looked up at Mr. Franklin and saluted with a wave of his hand. “Hi!” he said, pleasantly, and turned south into Nassau Street.
Outside a ladies’ hat shop the gentleman paused. A faint smile flickered at the corners of his mouth for an instant, and then he stepped into the hat shop. There were hats in the window, hats on the shelves, hats on the glass counter and under it. A sour-faced saleslady, her jaws working methodically on a wad of gum, was sitting by the counter. At sight of the gentleman she seemed to freeze. He took off his hat, exposing his blond hair to view, and gave the saleslady an exaggeratedly courtly bow.
“Good afternoon,” he said.
“Huh!” said the saleslady, squaring her shoulders.
“Any customers been enquiring for me?” asked the gentleman, in an innocent tone of voice.
“If there had been, I’d have told them nothing!” said the saleslady.
The young man shook his head. “You should really write to the Times about it, or Commissioner Moses, or Franklin P. Adams. In short, my dear Miss Fishbein, you should do something about it.”
“I am not Miss Fishbein,” said the saleslady. “Miss Fishbein owns the shop!”
“You will always be Miss Fishbein to me,” said the young man, with warmth. “But something should really be done. Here you are at 64½ Nassau. But the beer parlour next door is also 64½. And the main office building is also 64½. There ought to be a law, Miss Fishbein.”
“If you want to buy a hat,” said the saleslady, grimly, “buy one!”
The young man shuddered as he looked around him. “God forbid!” he said. He replaced his own hat on his head and gave the brim a little downward tug. “I look forward to these visits with you, Miss Fishbein. Somehow you always give the day a lift for me. Goodbye, and may your cash register play sweet music all the day long—to be poetic.”
He went out, leaving the saleslady who was not Miss Fishbein muttering angrily under her breath.
The young man sauntered past the beer parlour and came to the dingy entrance of an office building. Like the hat shop and the bar it bore the number 64½. To the right of the front door, attached to the brownstone upright, was a glass case. Inside the case, pasted on a white cardboard background, were a couple of dozen postage stamps. The glass front of the case had been so badly spotted by rain and dust that it was necessary to peer closely to see what the stamps were and to read the printed card at the bottom.
LAWRENCE STORM, INC.
STAMP BROKER, 7A
The young man frowned, and then walked into the lobby of the building. It was dark. An elevator shaft, one of those old-fashioned iron grill-work affairs, ran up from the centre of the lobby. The elevator stood now at the ground floor, its gate open, an unshaded electric-light bulb burning in the centre of its ceiling. A negro elevator operator leaned against the wall, a cigarette dangling between his lips.
“Good afternoon, George,” said the young man.
“’Aftahnoon, Mistuh Storm.” The operator, by a tremendous effort of will, pulled himself upright and followed Mr. Storm into the car. The cables rattled over their heads.
“’Tis a nice day, George,” said Mr. Storm.
“Ya’suh.”
“But methinks ’twill rain,” said Mr. Storm.
“Ya’suh.”
“On the other hand, methinks ’twill not rain,” said Mr. Storm.
“Ya’suh.” George sounded inexpressibly weary.
“Have you ever read Hamlet, George?” Mr. Storm asked.
“No, suh.”
“Then your opinion of the brilliance of my wit will not be dampened by any suspicion of plagiarism,” said Mr. Storm.
“No, suh, Mistuh Storm.”
“George,” said Mr. Storm, “I love you.”
As Mr. Storm got out of the elevator at the seventh floor and proceeded along the corridor, George shook his head. He was thinking that if he were to act and talk like Mr. Storm they would lock him up in the City Hospital.
Mr. Storm turned to the left and went down a dark little cul-de-sac. At the far end of it was a door, its top half of frosted plate glass. If an electric light had not been burning on the other side, Mr. Storm’s name on the glass would have been invisible. Mr. Storm opened the door and went in.
The main office of Lawrence Storm, Inc. was a long, narrow room with two windows at the far end. If the building boasted a window cleaner, he had neglected Mr. Storm’s office for a long time. Across the front end of the room stretched a wide counter, glass-covered. Under the glass were hundreds of postage stamps. A pair of bridge lamps with adjustable necks threw light on this exhibit. Beyond the counter was a large, old-fashioned safe, its door standing open. It seemed to contain nothing but a collection of unwieldy-looking books.
At the far end by the windows were two flat-topped, wooden desks. At one of these sat a girl. She was blond with naturally curly hair, clear hazel eyes, and a humorous little mouth painted bright red. She was dressed primly in black with a neat white collar at her throat and neat white cuffs at her wrists. As Mr. Storm came in she looked up quickly from her work. Mr. Storm’s blue eyes met hers.
“Hi!” said Mr. Storm.
“Hi, Teacher!” said Ellen Dixon.
Mr. Storm’s attention was then taken up by other matters. Standing behind the counter was a boy of about fifteen. He was tall for his age, and his clothes had not quite kept up with him. His coat sleeves left large bony wrists exposed. His trousers revealed a pair of brilliantly chequered socks. Wiry red hair had been generously doused with water and slicked down, but patches of it stuck out from his head. On the customer’s side of the counter, kneeling on one of the hard wooden chairs, a newsboy’s canvas bag slung over his shoulder, was another boy of about the same age. His face was a replica of the map of Ireland, pug nose, aggressive chin, and all. A little pile of stamps lay between the two boys on the counter. At the sight of Mr. Storm, the red-haired one hastily covered them with a sheet of paper.
“You’re back early, boss,” he said. He was at that unfortunate age when part of his words were spoken in a deep, resonant bass, and the other part in a high, cracked falsetto.
“Not so early,” said Mr. Storm. There was a look of suspicion in Mr. Storm’s blue eyes. He dropped a hand on the other boy’s shoulder. “How’s tricks, Mickey? Adding to your collection?”
“Gee, yes, Mr. Storm,” said Mickey Hogan, enthusiastically jumping to his feet. “Bones has got some ’specially rare items for me.”
“I see,” said Mr. Storm. His eyes were fixed
on Bones
Kelley, the office boy, and they were grim and forbidding. Bones’s
face began to turn a dark crimson. “Let’s have a look,” said Mr.
Storm.
Reluctantly Bones removed the paper from the little pile of stamps. Mickey picked one of them up, almost reverently. It was a copper-red two-cent stamp showing a picture of a four-horse team attached to some sort of farm machinery.
“This is one of the Trans-Mississippi issue,” said Mickey, eagerly. “But it’s a rare one, Mr. Storm. It’s so rare it isn’t even listed in Scott’s catalogue.”
“I see,” said Mr. Storm, ominously, his eyes on Bones’s scarlet face. “And what is so rare about it, Mickey?”
“Well, this was part of a regular, perforated issue,” said Mickey. “But there must have been a slip-up somewhere, because this stamp has no perforations at all.”
“Ah,” said Mr. Storm, dryly, “that does make it a rarity.”
“Yes, sir!” said Mickey, proudly.
“And how much is Bones asking you for this hitherto undiscovered specimen?” asked Mr. Storm.
Mickey looked uncomfortable. “Well, sir, it’s listed at forty cents in Scott’s—I mean the regular one. But Bones was goin’ to let me have this special one for only a buck. If you think that isn’t enough—”
“I think it’s a great plenty,” said Mr. Storm, grimly.
“Gee, that’s great!” said Mickey, with relief. “I guess I’m mighty lucky to get it for that.”
“You’re lucky,” said Mr. Storm, “to get out of here with the fillings in your teeth.” He picked up the hitherto unheard-of, unperforated Trans-Mississippi. “Look, Mickey. There never was any such freak. If there were, it would be worth hundreds, maybe thousands, of dollars. I think, if you’ll examine the wastebasket, you’ll discover evidence that our friend Bones has carefully cut the perforations off an ordinary stamp.”
Mickey stared at Mr. Storm for an instant. Then his eyes bulged. “So he was trying to sell me a phoney?”
“And how!” said Mr. Storm.
“Why, you dirty rat!” Mickey shouted. He made a dive across the counter toward a rapidly retreating Bones. Mr. Storm took him by the shoulder and pulled him back.
“We’ll have no homicide in here, Mickey,” he said. “You can wait for Bones when he leaves tonight! I hope this unfortunate affair won’t destroy your faith in Lawrence Storm, Inc. Any time you want to buy anything I’ll be glad to attend to you personally,” he added, gravely.
“Gee, thanks, Mr. Storm!” said Mickey. Then he turned to Bones. “God help you, Kelley, when I get you outside!”
Mr. Storm lifted a hinged section of the counter and let himself into the main office. He was frowning as he walked up to his secretary’s desk.
“I don’t understand you, Ellen,” he said. “You sit here and allow Bones to gyp a customer. Sixty cents is just as much to Mickey as six thousand might be to some other customer.”
Ellen Dixon looked up at her employer blandly. “Of course I knew what was going on,” she said. “But I was recalling that Mickey sold Bones a Leica camera the other day at the amazing bargain price of three dollars. It was really quite a buy until Bones discovered that, in some mysterious fashion, the manufacturer had neglected to put a lens in the camera. I thought Mickey had something coming to him.”
Mr. Storm turned to look at Bones. His effort to keep his face straight was not a complete success. Seeing the twitch at the corners of his mouth, Bones grinned.
“Gee, boss, he had it coming, like Ellen says.”
Larry rested a hand on Bones’s shoulder. “Okay, fella,” he said. “I don’t give a damn what kind of a deal you put over on Mickey as long as it isn’t stamps. Stamps are our business, and we play on the level—even with Mickey. Get it?”
“Gee, Larry, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
Larry smiled and handed his hat and coat to Bones. “Anything happen while I was out?” he asked Ellen.
“I’ve got a surprise for you,” Ellen said. “There’s a pretty girl waiting for you in your office.”
“She’s not pretty if you picked her out for me,” said Larry. “I don’t want to see her, whoever she is. I’ve got to finish pricing that Hoffenstein collection. Don’t I pay you to keep people out of my hair?”
“I decided you’d better see her,” said Ellen. “She’s the daughter of an old client of yours, Colonel Warren. She seems to be upset about something. I thought you could do a better job of soothing than I could.”
“How right you are, my sweet!” said Larry.
He walked across to the door of his private office and went in. This room was no more elaborate than the outer office. Its only furnishings were a battered desk, littered with papers and books, a swivel chair, a small safe open against the wall, also filled with books, and one worn, comfortable-looking leather armchair, in which his visitor sat.
Ellen had been right. Lucia Warren was pretty. She was tall and dark, and she wore a little black hat with a veil that came down to the bridge of her nose. A half-length mink coat had been thrown back against the chair.
“This is a great pleasure, Miss Warren,” Larry said. “Your father was a very old friend of mine.”
“I wonder,” said Lucia Warren. Her voice was low, throaty, attractive. But it was definitely hostile.
Larry gave her a surprised look, took his silver cigarette case from his pocket, and passed it to her. She accepted a cigarette. Their eyes met over the match he held for her.
“Father always spoke very highly of you,” she said. “He often said you were one of the few honest brokers in the stamp business. But quite recently, Mr. Storm, I’ve had reason to wonder if Father was right.”
Larry sat down in the chair at his desk and grinned at her. “Maybe you’d better tell me just what it’s all about,” he said, “before I start to protest.”
The grin did not thaw Miss Warren to any visible extent. “Did you know that my father’s collection was put up at auction last week?” she asked.
“I knew,” Larry admitted. “Unfortunately I couldn’t be on hand. I was at a convention of the Philatelic Society in New Orleans”
“Father invested about a quarter of a million dollars in his collection, mostly through you,” said Lucia Warren. “He looked on stamps as an investment, just as other men look on stocks and bonds.”
Larry shrugged. “A lot of people have that idea, Miss Warren. I’m afraid it’s usually a mistaken one. Stamps are primarily a hobby. The salvage value on a collection is rarely anything like its cost to the collector.”
“What,” asked Lucia Warren, “is a reasonable salvage value?”
Larry flicked the ash from his cigarette onto the floor. “On a shrewdly bought collection, perhaps seventy-five per cent. If the buyer hasn’t been smart, it could be anything—ten per cent, even less.”
“You mean if dealers had cheated the collector?” Lucia said, steadily.
“Exactly,” Larry said.
“Would you think fifty thousand dollars was a fair salvage value for my father’s collection?”
Larry sat up in his chair. “Good God, no!” he said, sharply. “I sold him stamps myself worth more than that in any market!”
“It’s about those stamps I came to see you,” Lucia said. She opened her handbag and took out a slip of paper. “You sold my father an 1873 Jackson double impression.” She looked up from the paper at Larry. “I don’t know exactly what these things mean, but Father catalogued each stamp; what he paid for it, Scott’s estimated value, and what he thought the stamp was actually worth.”
Larry nodded. “Of course, values in stamps vary just as values in property do. At a forced sale …”
“My father paid you eighteen hundred dollars for that double impression Jackson,” Lucia broke in. “It is listed in Scott’s catalogue at two thousand dollars. Father placed its value at twenty-five hundred dollars because he said it was in specially fine condition—mint condition, I believe you call it.”
“That’s right.”
“That stamp, Mr. Storm, brought four hundred and fifty dollars at the auction. Is that a fair salvage value? And that is only one of dozens of similar discrepancies.”
“It’s cockeyed!” said Larry. “Who auctioned the collection for you?”
“Max Adrian,” said Lucia.
“Oh, Lord!” Larry groaned. “Adrian is a crook!”
“That,” said Lucia, “is what he says about you. He says you passed off a lot of worthless items on my father.”
“He would!” said Larry. He smiled, but his eyes were hard. “You’ve been to his office? You’ve seen his set-up—modernistic furniture, receptionists, a special Inspection Room for the customer.”
“Yes.”
“This office must have surprised you then.”
“It did,” admitted Lucia. “Father said your business was worth at least half a million dollars.”
“The customers don’t pay for overhead here,” said Larry. “Adrian runs what we call a bucket shop. It’s a trap for suckers. All those trimmings are meant to give the impression that Adrian is a big shot. If Adrian auctioned your collection, I think I can explain just how you’ve been rooked.”
“You mean Adrian has cheated me? That’s impossible, Mr. Storm! We know what was in the collection—we know that every item was sold.”
“But do you?” asked Larry. He lit a fresh cigarette.
“I wish you would explain!” Lucia said. “Four per cent of two hundred thousand dollars is eight thousand dollars. It means the difference between comparative comfort and comparative poverty to me, Mr. Storm.”
“The louse!” Larry said, angrily. He leaned forward. “Your father’s executors turned over the collection to Adrian some time before the auction so that prospective buyers could examine it, didn’t they?”
“They did.”
“Your father’s executors know nothing about stamps. Right?”
“Yes.”
“All they had was a list of what the collection contained—a list which said, for example; ‘One U.S. #157d, double impression Jackson.’ Right?”
“Right.”
Larry smiled dryly. “Now watch closely. I have nothing up my sleeve. One uncancelled Jackson double impression in mint condition is worth two thousand dollars, maybe more. But a cancelled Jackson double impression in good shape is only worth about six hundred dollars. If it was slightly damaged, it might bring about four hundred and fifty dollars, which is what you got for it.”
“But …”
“Your father’s executors got the report from Adrian. A Jackson double impression had been sold for four hundred and fifty dollars. The executors were depressed, because your father valued it at twenty-five hundred dollars, but at an auction—well, that probably was too much to expect. What your father’s executors wouldn’t realize is that Adrian removed a fine, uncancelled specimen worth two thousand dollars from the collection, and replaced it with a slightly frayed cancelled item worth four hundred and fifty dollars.”
“But, Mr. Storm!”
“Thus,” said Larry, “Adrian gets the auction commission for the substituted stamp and probably still has the two-thousand-dollar one which he will sell in time to some one at full value.”
“But that’s downright swindling!” Lucia exclaimed.
“Exactly,” said Larry. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes squinted to keep out the smoke from his cigarette. “But the only way to prove it, though, is to go in for safebreaking and find the stolen items in Adrian’s possession.”
“But we’ve got to prove it, Mr. Storm! Can’t you swear to the fact that you sold genuine stamps to Father and that some one has substituted fakes for them?” Lucia asked.
“I can swear to what I sold him,” said Larry. “I can’t prove who did the substituting.”
“Can’t we get a search warrant? Surely …”
“No evidence,” Larry cut in, impatiently. “Adrian would simply say that all collectors overestimate the value of their collections and that your father was no exception.” He shook his head. “Adrian has been suspected for years of dealing in stolen property. But the stamps don’t turn up on the local market. We think he sells them abroad to European dealers. That would make it almost impossible to trace them, and it would be very profitable.”
“But, Mr. Storm, I’ve got to get evidence! I’ve got to get the real value of that collection from him! It means everything to me!”
“I’d like to help you,” Larry said. “I’ve been waiting a long time for a chance to nail Adrian.”
“Why? Has he done something to you?”
Larry’s face clouded. “Not directly. But he gave a friend of mine a pretty thorough going over. You wouldn’t be interested.”
“But I would!”
Larry shrugged. “It’s not a secret,” he said. “I have a friend named Lon Nicholas who was a stamp broker. He has been fascinated by stamps all his life, and about three years ago he amassed enough capital by the sweat of his brow to go into business. He was interested only in rare and expensive items.”
“So?”
“Brokers have numerous methods of dealing with clients,” said Larry. “When a client has a good credit standing we often send him stamps for inspection without any money changing hands. The client looks them over, and if he decides to buy, pays for them. If he doesn’t want them, he sends them back.”
“I see.”
“The best credit references in the world in such cases are other brokers. Well, a guy who called himself Oscar Rivero began buying stamps through the mail from reputable dealers. I was one of ’em. He always paid on the nose, and his transactions were large—ran into the thousands. One day Lon Nicholas called me and asked about Rivero’s credit. Rivero wanted to see some stamps on approval. I told Lon he had always been on the level with me and had been buying for six months or more. So Lon sent Mr. Rivero about forty thousand dollars’ worth of stuff on consignment, on my say so!” Larry’s lips tightened. “Then Mr. Rivero disappeared.”
“Disappeared!”
“There wasn’t any such guy,” Larry said grimly. “His mailing address had been in White Plains. It turned out to be a rooming house, but Mr. Rivero had never actually lived in the room he rented there. He had simply come to it for his mail. He disappeared into the blue with Lon’s stamps. It smashed Lon, broke him, tossed him out of business.”
“But what has that to do with Adrian?”
“I’ve never been able to get any evidence,” said Larry, “but I’ve always thought that Adrian was Oscar Rivero. Naturally, I’d like to get him.”
“Then you will help me?” Lucia asked eagerly.
“Yes, but I can’t hold out much hope. He’s a pretty slick customer.” He smoked in silence for a moment. “Go home, Miss Warren, and get your father’s catalogue. Meanwhile I’ll dig up my own records. Come back here about six and we’ll go over them and see just how badly you’ve been taken. Then I’ll buy you dinner. Fair enough?”
“Fair enough,” she agreed, as she got up from her chair. “And if we can’t get him any other way, I’m for playing his own game. I’ve got to have that money!”
Just then Ellen Dixon’s clear voice came through the interoffice communicator. “Mr. Julius! Duck!”
“Oh, my God!” Larry groaned. He took Lucia’s arm, turned her quickly around, and literally pushed her through a curtained doorway into a small pitch-black room, where he kept his violet-ray lamp and other equipment for the examination of doubtful stamps. “Please, if you love me, be quiet till this old screwball leaves!” he whispered.
Lucia, finding herself in complete darkness, with Larry’s arm around her shoulder, was too amazed to reply.
Meanwhile, in the outer office, an old gentleman had stepped just inside the front door. He stood there, his wrinkled face twisted into an expression of horrid suspicion. He wore an old-fashioned, high-crowned brown derby. His black overcoat hung down almost to his shoe tops. He was carrying a bone-handled umbrella which he tapped irritably on the floor. From the left-hand pocket of his overcoat a long, black metal ear trumpet protruded.
“Bones,” said Ellen Dixon quietly, “see what Mr. Julius wants.”
Surprisingly Mr. Julius answered that question himself, although the metal ear trumpet still remained in his pocket. “You know damned well what I want, Ellen Dixon! I want to know if Storm is here. Because if he is, I won’t set foot in the place!”
Bones crossed the office and raised the hinged section of the counter. “Come in, Mr. Julius. Larry isn’t here!”
“What?” Mr. Julius demanded. He wrenched the ear trumpet from his pocket and pointed the horn end at Bones. “For heaven’s sake, speak up, my boy!”
“I say it’s all right, Mr. Julius. Larry isn’t here!” The effect was startling because Bones’s voice broke like an exploding rocket on the last three words.
“Don’t shout!” commanded Mr. Julius. “I’ll see for myself!”
He stomped across the room to the door of Larry’s office and flung it open. He peered around the inner office suspiciously. Then he turned to Bones who had followed him.
“Your employer is a damned crook!” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s that?” shrieked Mr. Julius.
“I said, ‘Yes, sir, Larry is a crook,’” said Bones, meekly.
Mr. Julius pointed his umbrella at Bones. “You’d better be damned careful making statements like that in public,” he said, grimly. “That’s defamation of character. Storm could have you thrown into the Tombs, or wherever they throw people nowadays.”
“Yes, sir,” said Bones, grinning broadly.
“Things have come to a pretty pass,” fretted Mr. Julius, “when a man’s own employees are permitted to make loose remarks about his honesty!” He looked angrily at Ellen. “Well, do I have to stand here all day without getting any service?”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Julius?” Ellen asked calmly.
Mr. Julius banged his umbrella on the floor. “What can you, do for me? My good girl, have your brains addled since I last saw you? You still sell stamps, don’t you? Think I came to buy a musical instrument?”
“Sit down here at my desk,” said Ellen, soothingly, “and tell me what you want to see.” She held a chair for him and he sat down, placing hat, umbrella, and ear trumpet on the desk in front of him.
“Thing I can’t understand,” he said, shaking his head, “is how a decent well-mannered young woman like you can work for a crook like Storm.” His faded old eyes narrowed. “Not in love with him, are you?” he shouted. “Women lose all perspective when they’re in love!”
“If you’d tell me what you want to see?” asked Ellen again, serenely ignoring his question.
“She asks me what I want to see!” grumbled the old man. “Have I ever been interested in anything except South American issues?”
Ellen’s expression didn’t change. “Last year it was Lithuanian stamps. Before that it was Southern Rhodesia. Before that it was—”
“Stuff and nonsense!” said Mr. Julius. “I have never collected anything but South American stamps. Never!”
“Possibly I had you confused with some one else,” said Ellen.
“Possibly not!” said Mr. Julius, with satisfaction. Then as Ellen went over to the safe and took out a large, heavy volume, he continued, “Now none of your cripples! None of your repaired items! No stolen goods!”
Ellen brought the stock book back and put it down on the desk. He opened it and began turning the pages rapidly. “Humph!” he snorted. “Just as I thought! A lot of worthless junk!” But there was a bright glitter of excitement in his pale eyes.
The old man became completely absorbed in the stamps. The phone on Ellen’s desk rang and she answered it. Involuntarily she glanced toward the door of Larry’s office.
“No, he isn’t in just now,” she said. “Lon Nicholas! Yes … yes, I’ll tell him the moment he comes in. Yes, any minute now.” She hung up the receiver and stood looking at Larry’s door, frowning.
“Humph!” said Mr. Julius, without looking up. Then, after another moment, he said, decisively, “I’ll take these four. Don’t tell me how much! I saw the listings in the stock book! It’s an outrage but I don’t suppose I can get ’em without paying your price. But I shall complain to the American Philatelic Society. It’s highway robbery. Might as well deal with racketeers!”
He reached into his pocket and produced a huge, overstuffed wallet. “And may God forgive you for robbing an old man!”
Ellen put his purchases in an envelope and handed it to him. “It’s always nice to see you, Mr. Julius,” she said.
“Rubbish!” said Mr. Julius. He gathered up his belongings and stalked across the office to the outside door. There he turned and gave Ellen a beatific smile. “You can tell Storm to come out of that dark room where he’s been hiding, like the craven coward he is! Goodbye!” and he went out, slamming the door with dangerous force.
Ellen went directly to Larry’s office. Larry and Lucia were just emerging from the dark room, Lucia looking decidedly dazed.
“You two should be old friends by now,” Ellen said, dryly. “Also your confidence in Mr. Storm should have been increased, Miss Warren.”
“We have to humour the old devil or he won’t buy anything,” Larry said. “You’re a trooper to take it so nicely, Lucia.”
Ellen’s eyebrows went up, but her tone was worried. “Larry, Max Adrian’s office just phoned. Lon Nicholas is in a jam. They want you to go over there and get him.”
“Adrian!” Larry’s lips tightened and he glanced at Lucia. “I’ll have to hop over there.” He turned to Lucia. “But I’ll see you here at six?”
“I’ll be here,” she told him.
“Then you won’t want me to stay late tonight,” said Ellen, “to work on the Hoffenstein collection?”
“Miss Warren’s problem is more important,” Larry said. “We can finish that job any time.”
“Oh, quite!” said Ellen, a trifle crisply.
Larry walked out to get his coat and hat. He stared at the rack.
“Ellen! Where in God’s name is my hat! I wore it in here a few minutes ago.”
“I sent it to the cleaners. It had a large spot on the brim,” said Ellen, placidly.
“Why didn’t you ask me if I was going to need it?”
“Because you’d have said ‘Yes,’ ” Ellen told him.
“But what am I going to wear?” Larry demanded.
“I’ll get your rain hat from the closet.” Ellen disappeared and returned with a crumpled brown felt affair.
Larry put it on. “I can’t wear this!” he said.
“I think you look very nice in it,” said Ellen. “Don’t you, Miss Warren?”
“Very nice,” said Lucia.
“I think it has an air to it,” said Ellen, critically. “If you’d give it just a little tilt to the left …”
“Let’s get out of this mad house!” Larry said. He gave the hat a downward tug and glowered at Ellen. “I wish you wouldn’t always manage things!”
“Some one has to,” said Ellen, sweetly.