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JIM HANVEY
DETECTIVE





JIM HANVEY
DETECTIVE
BY
OCTAVUS ROY COHEN
Author of “The CRIMson ALIB1,”
“MIDNIGHT,” etc.
NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
I923


CopyRIGHT, 1922, 1923
By OCTAVUS ROY COHEN
PRINTED IN U. S. A.
WAIL. BALLou COMPANY
punakamron AND NEw York


P3
32,05.
02:43
...) 5
|^{23,
To
CECILE O. LOPEZ








JIM HANVEY
DETECTIVE





Jim Hanvey, Detective
FISH EYES
LIFFORD WALLACE was noticeably ill at
ease. He worked intensively yet mechan-
ically at his post in the Third National Bank,
within the narrow confines of a cage bearing the in-
scription Paying Teller Number One. Horizontal
lines of worry creased his forehead and a single lock
of white stood out with startling clarity against the
deep brown of his hair.
Beside him were piled great stacks of money divided
into neat packages. Behind his back the huge doors
of the cash vault gaped, disclosing more money. At
the right of his cage were the inclosures of the three
other—the junior—paying tellers. The marbled
lobby of the big bank was a welter of discordant ac-
tivity, of impatience—the clink of silver, the soft
shuffling of new bank notes, the slamming of ledgers,
the hum of banking during the rush hours.
To-day was the busiest of the month for Paying
Teller Number One. To-day came due the pay rolls.
of the three largest corporations in the industrial dis-
trict of which this city was the metropolis. More than
a million and a quarter dollars in cash occupied the
I


FISH EYES 3
window—the pay-roll check of the wholesale hardware
company for which she worked; $728.56. With it she
presented a leather satchel. Cliff Wallace unlocked
the barred window of his cage to take the satchel. He
placed it on the shelf at his right, the shelf containing
the mountains of bills. Again that look of under-
standing—of apprehension—passed between them.
They spoke with simulated casualness.
“Good morning, Phyllis.”
“Good morning, Cliff.”
That was all. Yet, save for those first glances, they
avoided each other's eyes. The oldish-young paying
teller sorted out the amount of her pay roll. And then,
working discreetly, swiftly and dexterously, he piled
beside it a small stack of new bills. In that stack of
bills was a hundred thousand dollars; one thousand
one-hundred-dollar bank notes. Once he permitted
his eyes to rove restlessly about the lobby. They
paused briefly on the gray-coated figure of the bank’s
special officer, who lounged indifferently near the Notes
and Discounts Window. Apparently the bank detec-
tive had neither thought nor care in the world. Re-
assured, yet with no diminution of his nervousness,
Cliff Wallace returned to the task in hand.
Into the girl’s brown leather satchel he put the
amount of her pay-roll check, and then he crammed
into it also the one hundred thousand dollars.
His face was ghastly pale as he faced her once more.
The hand that held the satchel trembled violently.
He conscripted a smile which he intended to be reassur-


4. JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
ing, and the smile with which she answered him was
so obviously an effort that it seemed to shriek her
guilt. For a second they remained rigid, staring into
each other's eyes, then the envoys of the Garrison
Coal, Iron and Steel Company coughed impatiently
and the girl moved away. The paying teller fingered
the $278,000 check nervously, his eyes remaining
focused on the blue coat suit which was moving with
horrid slowness toward the whirling doors that opened
onto the street. And finally she disappeared and Cliff
Wallace breathed a sigh of infinite relief. Thus far
nothing had been noticed. He gave his attention to
the task of assorting huge stacks of bills for the Garri-
Son Company.
Meanwhile the girl in the blue coat suit turned into
the swirl of traffic on the city's main thoroughfare.
She threaded her way through the crowd, walking with
unnecessary swiftness, with the single thought in her
mind of putting as much space as possible between
herself and the Third National Bank. Her fingers
were wrapped tightly about the handle of the brown
leather satchel, her face bore a fixed rigidity of ex-
pression, her heart was pounding beneath the plain
tailored waist she wore. It seemed incomprehensible
that the transaction in Cliff Wallace's cage had gone
unnoticed. It had been so simple—so absurdly
simple.
And now she was making all haste toward the office
where she worked. Cliff had warned her that she
must return promptly from the bank in order that the


FISH EYES 5
inevitable investigation should disclose no suspicious
lapse of time.
She turned up a side street and thence into a gaunt,
red-brick building labeled Sanford Jones & Co. Biting
her lips with a fierce effort at self-control, she entered
the building and turned immediately into the women's
washroom. Trembling fingers found the door key
and turned it. Then making certain that she was
alone in the room she took from the shelf a large piece
of brown wrapping paper which she had placed there
earlier in the morning—that and a bit of twine.
She dropped to her knees, opened the satchel and
took from it the one hundred thousand dollars. She
felt a vague amazement that so much money should
be of such small bulk. She arranged the bills neatly
in three stacks of equal height and wrapped them
carefully in the brown paper. Then with the pack-
age securely tied with twine she closed the satchel, un-
locked the washroom door and swung into the office.
No one had noticed her brief excursion into the wash-
room; that much was evident.
Straight toward the cashier’s desk she went, and in
his hand's placed the satchel. His eyes smiled briefly
into hers.
“Got back pretty quick this morning, Miss Robin-
Son.”
She forced a smile. “Yes. Not much crowd at
the bank. I did get back in a hurry.” -
The bit of dialogue pleased her. The cashier had
noticed specifically that her absence from the store


6 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
had been of briefer duration than usual. He would
remember that when the detectives made inquiry.
She seated herself at her typewriter. Beside her,
on the battered oak desk, she placed the innocuous-
appearing brown paper package, the package contain-
ing one hundred thousand dollars. She was horribly
nervous, but apparently no one noticed anything un-
usual in her manner. The wall clock indicated the
hour of 10:30. From then until noon she must
work.
It was difficult. Her thoughts were focused upon
the money before her. Once a clerk stopped by her
desk to chat and his hand rested idly upon the pack-
age of money. She felt as though she must scream.
But he moved away eventually. She breathed more
easily.
At five minutes after noon she left the office for her
lunch. With her went the package of money. She
made her way to the City Trust and Savings Com-
pany, an imposing edifice of white marble nearly
opposite the Third National. She entered the build-
ing and descended the broad stairway to the safety-
deposit vaults, noticing with relief that there was an
unusually large crowd there. She extended her key
to the ancient man in charge.
“Two-thirty-five, please. Mrs. Harriet Dare.”
Mrs. Dare, now dead, had been Phyllis' sister.
Phyllis had access to the box. Too, she maintained
in this bank a box in her own name, so that should
official investigation progress to the point of examin-


FISH EYES 7
ing the safety-deposit box of Phyllis Robinson, nothing
to excite suspicion would be found. That was one
of the strongest links in the safety chain that Cliff
Wallace had welded.
The man in charge ran through his index and handed
her a card to sign. Her hand trembled as she wrote
her name: Phyllis Robinson. The old man took her
key and his, unlocked the box and left her. There
were a number of persons in the vault: One pompous
gentleman ostentatiously clipping coupons from Liberty
Bonds of fifty-dollar denomination; an old lady who
had already locked her box and was struggling vainly
to assure herself that it was thoroughly locked; a fair-
haired clerk from a broker's office assuming the busi-
nesslike airs of his employer; a half dozen others, each
reassuringly absorbed in his own business. Phyllis
took her box—it was a large one—and carried it into
one of the private booths which stood just outside the
vault door.
She placed the tin box and her package side by side
on the mahogany shelf. A quick survey of the place
assured her that she was not observed. She wondered
vaguely why she was not. It seemed as though some-
one must know. But apparently no one did. Swiftly
she transferred the hundred thousand dollars to the
strong box. She was amazed to find herself comput-
ing financial possibilities when all the while she was
frightened. It was an amount to yield seven thousand
dollars a year carefully invested. Two persons could
live comfortably on seven thousand dollars a year.


FISH EYES 9
the deftness and accuracy that had won him this post.
There was in his manner no slightest indication that
he had just engineered the theft of one hundred thou-
sand dollars in currency. Never friendly at best, he
was perhaps this day a trifle more reserved than usual;
but even had his fellow workers noticed the fact they
would have ascribed it to the abnormal pressure of
work. It was seldom that three big pay rolls became
due at one time And the handling of such huge
sums of money is likely to cause temporary irascibil-
ity in even the most genial of men.
The hour hand of the big clock on the marble wall
crept to the figure two. A gong sounded. Immedi-
ately work was suspended at the long rows of windows.
Then the little barred doors were dropped, the patrons
of the bank drifted out gradually, and the bedlam of
a busy day was succeeded by the drone of after-hours
work—the clackety-clack of adding machines, the
rustle of checks, the slamming of books, the clink of
silver and gold.
Pencil in hand, Cliff Wallace checked over the money
in his vault. Paying Tellers Numbers Two, Three
and Four made their reports first. Then Wallace gave
his attention to his own cash. The door of his cage
was open, so that the cages of the four paying tellers
were temporarily en suité. Behind Wallace's back
the door of the cash vault gaped. The vault itself
was part of his cage, its contents Wallace's responsi-
bility. He worked swiftly and expertly. And then, a


10 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
few minutes before 4:30 o'clock, he presented himself
before Robert Warren, president of the Third
National. He was nervous and ill at ease. In his
left hand he held a paper covered with figures. His
face was expressionless, unless one was sufficiently
keen to observe the hunted, haunted look in his cold
blue eyes. Here was the crisis. He pulled up a chair
and seated himself, after having first closed the door
of the president's office. -
“Mr. Warren”—his voice was steady and incisive,
giving no hint of the emotional strain under which he
labored—“I have just checked over the cash. I am
precisely one hundred thousand dollars short.”
The president's swivel chair creaked. The gentle-
man Strangled on a puff of cigar smoke. His big,
spatulate hands came down on the polished mahogany
desk surface with a thump. His eyes widened.
“You—you are what?”
“My cash is one hundred thousand dollars short.”
The statement appeared to have difficulty in pene-
trating. -
“My dear Mr. Wallace—that is impossible! An
exact amount?”
Cliff was more at ease. It was a scene he had re-
hearsed a hundred times, and it was developing just
as anticipated.
“I realize the impossibility, sir. But it is neverthe-
less a fact.”
Robert Warren's face hardened slightly. He re-
garded his chief paying teller with a critical, specula-


FISH EYES 11
tive glance. Wallace returned look for look. The
president spoke:
“Please explain yourself, Mr. Wallace. Am I listen-
ing to a statement or a confession?”
“A statement, sir.”
“H’m!” Warren was himself again. Only super-
ficially was the man genial. He had cultivated geni-
ality as a business asset. Basically he was utterly
emotionless. He realized that the thing to which he
gave ear was of vital import, and as that realization
hammered home, his demeanor became intransigently
frigid. “H'm! A statement?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your cash is—er—an even one hundred thousand
dollars short?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How does that happen?”
“I’m trying to find out myself.”
“You are quite sure?”
“Certainly, sir. I would not have come to you had
I not been sure.”
Silence. Again that clash of eyes. “This puts you
in an exceedingly awkward position, Mr. Wallace.
Personally.”
“I understand that, sir.”
“One hundred thousand dollars is a great deal of
money.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The responsibility is absolutely and exclusively
yours.”


12 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
“I realize that.”
“Its loss cannot but be due to carelessness on your
part.”
“That is probably true.”
“Probably?”
“Yes, sir. I am not certain about any phase of this
—this—unfortunate situation.”
Warren lighted another cigar. “Of course the bank
will not lose. You are bonded. I must notify the
bonding company immediately.”
“Of course.”
The younger man's poise seemed to get on the nerves
of the bank president. For once in his life he had
come into contact with a man more unemotional than
himself. His fist pounded the desk suddenly.
“Damn it! Wallace, what does it all mean?”
“That that amount of money has disappeared,
sir.”
“One hundred thousand even?”
“To the dollar.”
“When did you notice the loss?”
“Just a few minutes ago, sir—when I checked over
the cash.”
“You rechecked?”
“Twice.”
“Have you been alone in your cage all day?”
“I believe so, sir.”
“You only believe?”
“I can’t make a too positive statement. The cages
of the other paying tellers open into mine. Almost


FISH EYES 13
every day the door between my cage and theirs is open
for a little while. It is possible that that was the
case at certain times to-day.”
“You are not positive?”
“No, sir.”
“But you believe that the door was open—in the
regular course of the day's work?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you believe that one of your assistants took
that money?”
Wallace's face twitched, ever so slightly. “No, sir.”
“No P”
“Even if my door had been open, Mr. Warren, I
don’t believe they would have had a chance to take
that much money.”
“But—but, Wallace—there are only four men in
this bank who could have taken it—provided it was
taken; yourself and your three assistant paying
tellers.” a
“I realize that.”
“And you say that you don't believe they could?”
“Yes, sir.”
“H’m! Do you realize the inevitable conclusion?”
“That if they didn't, I did?”
“Exactly.”
“Yes, sir, I realize that.”
“Yet you say that you did not.”
“Of course.”
Robert Warren showed a flash of irritation. “You
seem damned unexcited.”


14 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
“I don’t believe this is any time for me to become
excited, sir.”
Robert Warren rose. “Come with me, young man.
We'll lock the doors of the bank and check every cent
of cash we have. There must be some mistake.”
“I sincerely hope so, sir.”
A careful check-up showed plainly that there
was no mistake. One hundred thousand dollars had
disappeared from the bank during the course of the
day’s business. It was gone. The three assistant
paying tellers were nervous and excited. The cashier,
a nervous, wiry little man, rushed around the bank
like a chicken suddenly bereft of its head. The bank’s
private detective, a portly, unimaginative individual,
strutted around the empty lobby trying to look im-
portant and succeeding not at all. He believed it in-
cumbent upon him to detect something or somebody,
felt that the weight of the world suddenly had de-
scended upon his shoulders. But his brain worked in
a single unfortunate channel. His attempts at de-
duction led invariably into the cul-de-sac of “It just
couldn’t happen.”
That was the reaction expressed by every bank
employe who knew what had occurred. The thing
was impossible. The paying tellers, who had worked
in team preparing for the rush of the day, were all
reasonably certain that the cash had been correct at
the beginning of the day—as certain as they were that
it was not now correct. Through it all Clifford Wal-
lace worked with them. Tiny lines of worry cor-


FISH EYES 15
rugated his forehead. And when, at seven o'clock, it
became evident that the money was positively gone and
had disappeared probably during the course of the
day’s business, the president, the cashier and Clifford
Wallace retired to Warren's office. The president and
cashier were smoking. Cliff declined their proffered
cigar.
“I never smoke, you know.”
“The point now is,” spoke Warren, checking off that
particular point on his thumb, “that the money has
disappeared and we must do something. The question
is, what?” He turned his gaze upon Wallace. Cliff
met the stare steadily and answered in a matter-of-
fact voice:
“The obvious thing is to place me under arrest, Mr.
Warren.”
“Obvious, of course.”
“But Mr. Warren”—it was the nervous little cashier
—“you don’t believe Cliff stole that money, do you?”
“Certainly not, Mr. Jenkins. Of course I don’t.
And equally of course I am not going to have Mr.
Wallace placed under arrest.”
A flicker of triumph crossed Clifford Wallace's face,
to be followed instantly by his habitual stoniness of
expression.
“I am perfectly willing, Mr. Warren 33
“It isn’t a case of willingness, Wallace. If I thought
for a moment you were guilty—or even could be
guilty—I wouldn’t hesitate. Not if you were my
brother. But the thing is impossible. You've been


I6 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
negligent—probably; I’m not even sure of that. I
understand banks well enough to know that a certain
laxity of routine is naturally and excusably developed.
It is my personal opinion that the money did not dis-
appear from the bank. It either never was here or it
is still here.”
“Yes, sir.” Cliff was calmly attentive.
“I am going to search every employe as he or she
leaves the bank. That will insure its remaining here
to-night. By to-morrow morning the bonding-com-
pany detectives and the representatives of the Bankers’
Protective ASSociation will be here. Whatever action
they care to take, Wallace, will be strictly up to them.
Personally, I wish to take occasion to assure you of
my confidence in your integrity and to express the be-
lief that this is an explainable mistake of some sort,
which will be set right to-morrow.”
“And you are not even going to keep me under sur-
veillance to-night?”
“No.”
“Pardon me, sir, but I believe you are making a
mistake. You will be criticized—”
“They can criticize and be damned to them.”
Wallace returned to his cage, where he busied him-
self arranging the shelves for the following morning.
Then quite as usual he closed his vault doors, set the
time lock, visited the washroom, and left the build-
ing after undergoing a thorough search. Once out-
side, his shoulders went back unconsciously. He knew


FISH EYES 17
that he had won. The very simplicity of his crime had
caused it to be crowned with success.
But he did not allow his elation to strangle caution.
Every move in the game had been thought out meticu-
lously in advance. He did not deviate a hair's breath
from his regular evening routine. He went to a cafe-
teria and ate a hearty meal, although the food almost
choked him. At the desk he telephoned Phyllis Robin-
SOIl.
“May I come to see you this evening, Phyllis?” He
did that four or five evenings a week; they were se-
cretly engaged.
“Yes.”
There was a distinct nuance of tremulous inquiry in
her voice. It annoyed Clifford. They had threshed
out every detail of this sort. She must keep a stiff
upper lip, had promised not to betray any untoward
interest in his comings and goings immediately follow-
ing the robbery. But that was just like a woman,
making plain in the tone of her voice the vast relief
she felt at knowing that he was free. Wallace didn't
like that. It was an indication of weakness, and weak-
ness had no place in his elaborate scheme. Besides,
he knew well that Robert Warren was no fool, realized
that for all Warren's protestations of belief in his in-
tegrity, the bank president already had a detective
shadowing him. He had anticipated that and a good
deal more. He had expected to spend this night in
jail, and perhaps several others. Certainly under ob-


18 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
servation. This freedom caused elation, but brought
about no lessening of caution.
At 7:45 he presented himself at the garage where he
kept his modest little roadster, filled the tank with gas
and drove down the street. This was a nightly ritual.
Straight to the home of Phyllis Robinson he went; it
was a rambling two-story structure set well back of a
high-terraced front yard, its wide veranda blanketed
cozily with honeysuckle—a modest place, one which
had seen decidely better days. Phyllis, an orphan,
lived there with an aunt. The place was a boarding
house. All very discreet and proper.
She greeted him in the hallway. He was irritated
by the patent effort of her casualness. He directed
their conversation, they chatted about innocuous
nothings until they were safely out of the house and
in his little car, headed into the country. This, too,
was a not uncommon procedure. Cliff was well satis-
fied with himself. The most suspicious watcher could
have found no food for speculation this night. His
actions had been the normal actions of an innocent
man. He was acting just as he would have acted had
he been innocent of the theft of one hundred thousand
dollars.
They mounted a gentle acclivity. The broad
smooth highway dipped from the crest through a small
woods. Overhead the full moon shone benignly over
the valley, behind them the city, ringed about by fur-
naces and steel mills, gems of fire in the setting of
silvered night. A red glow in the sky. The man at


FISH EYES 19
the steering wheel, calm and self-possessed, eyes
focused on the ribbon of road ahead, thoughts busy
with the epochal events of the day. Nor did he men-
tion the subject uppermost in his mind until the girl
spoke, spoke with a quaver in her voice as her hand
closed tremulously about his.
“You—you're free, Cliff?”
“Obviously.” The man was a poser; this was too
perfect an opportunity to miss. He wished the girl at
his side to be impressed with his own granite imper-
viousness to emotion. Phyllis shook her head; she
loved him despite the fact that she knew his weakness.
“They don’t suspect you?”
“Certainly not. They couldn't. I went in to the
old man and told him the money was gone. I didn’t
protect myself a bit. Suggested that he had better
lock me up. And of course he didn't.” He smiled
grimly, pridefully. “The only danger point in the
whole scheme has been passed, Phyllis. We're safe.”
“And I’m frightened.”
“Of course. That’s natural.”
“Aren't you?”
“Not at all.” He stopped the car as if to light a
cigarette. “You put the money in the vault at the
City Trust?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Immediately after I left the office for lunch.”
“You went straight from the Third National to your
office?”


20 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
“Yes. And the cashier commented on how quickly
I got back.”
“Fine! Great! Sooner or later they're bound to
connect us in this matter, and when they do they'll
investigate your actions. It’ll disarm them to learn
that you got back to the office in record time; that you
couldn’t possibly have gone anywhere between the
bank and your place of business. And now about the
vault—you didn't attract any particular attention there,
did you?”
“No-o. I’m sure I didn’t. There was a crowd
there, and I am sure the old man didn't notice
me at all. I put the money in Harriet's box, not
mine.”
He patted her hand reassuringly. “You were a
trump, dear. And you're not sorry?”
“No-o-and yes. I know that it is wrong, yet—oh,
well, we need the money. It means so much more to
us than it ever could to that bank. If we're only not
caught.”
“We won’t be.” His narrow, rather hard face was
set. He argued as though to reassure himself. “The
weakness in anything of this sort is preliminary plan-
ning. The average man who sets out to steal one
hundred thousand dollars”—the girl winced—“makes
plans so enormously elaborate that he cuts his own
throat, minimizes his chances of getting away with
it. For every detail that such a man plants he sows
a possibility of detection. He isn't content with the
easy, the safe, the normal. In striving for perfection,


FISH EYES 21
for absolute safety, he lays traps for himself. Re-
member this, Phyllis: a detective can make a thou-
sand mistakes and, by doing one single thing correctly,
land his man. The criminal cannot afford a single
mistake. Understand?” -
“Yes.” And then the feminine side of the girl
flooded to the surface. “Cliff dear, you're so—so
hard!”
That pleased him. He wanted to be hard, culti-
vated a gelid philosophy.
“Sentiment serves no man well, Phyllis. My hard-
ness has made possible financial ease for us—and con-
sequent contentment. I have no conscience. Neither
has the average man. Conscience is the fear of being
caught. We are all inherently immoral. It was not
wrong for the primitive man to steal. He took what
he could get away with. Right and wrong are prod-
ucts of legislation, of artificial ethical culture. They
are not part of us; we are inoculated with them. They
are utterly foreign to us. In taking this money I
have committed no natural crime. By statute only am
I a criminal. I am not ashamed of what I have done.
I would be ashamed of detection.”
Silence fell between them. The girl shivered as
though with a chill.
“You are very convincing, dear. But I'm afraid
that I’m terribly a victim to the morality of education.
Of course you’ve convinced my intellect. But—since
this afternoon—I'm afraid you can never convince my
conscience.” -


24 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
unsolved mystery. Above everything, the bank was
not desirous of a Scandal. In the absence of suffi-
cient evidence to convict they'd permit him his free-
dom. And the perfect normalcy of his life would con-
vince them speedily that he was free from guilt.
He reached the bank the following morning at pre-
cisely his regular time, not a minute early or a minute
late. He held a brief conference with the three assist-
ant paying tellers and apportioned to each his quota
of cash from the vault, which was a part of his individ-
ual cage. Then quite phlegmatically he answered a
summons to the office of the president. And as he
entered the door he recognized in the three strangers
who faced him the detectives.
Cliff was somewhat amused. He knew that the
glances they bestowed upon him were surcharged with
deep and dark suspicion. Money had disappeared
from the cage of the chief paying teller; ergo, the
chief paying teller had stolen it. They’d start out on
that theory—and butt their heads against a stone wall.
He realized that Robert Warren was talking, that he
was being introduced.
“The detectives; this is Mr. Peter Jamieson, repre-
senting the Bonding company. And Mr. Carl Bur-
ton, of the Banker's Protective Association.” He hesi-
tated a moment as he turned toward the third stranger.
Then: “This other gentleman is also here to repre-
sent the Bankers' Protective Association. Mr. Wal-
lace, Mr. Hanvey—Mr. James Hanvey.”
Cliff started visibly. Jim Hanvey! He'd heard of


26 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
son was, there in the rôle of a friend. It was most
decidedly to the interest of the bonding company to
establish his innocence. Burton, too, radiated effi-
ciency. He was tall and broad and had deep-set brown
eyes which looked out keenly from under heavy lashes.
He was there to convict, but Cliff did not fear him.
Burton, like Jamieson, was too normal a man to inspire
apprehension. But Hanvey, Hanvey of the slow-
blinking, fishy eyes—Hanvey was a disturbing quan-
tity. Cliff didn’t like Hanvey.
Hanvey was speaking. Cliff noted that the others
deferred to the ponderous, uninspired-looking indi-
vidual.
“H'm! You're the paying teller, Mr. Wallace?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Kind of funny—the hundred thousand gettin' lost
thataway, wasn't it?”
Cliff was annoyed. The man wasn’t even gram-
matical.
“Rather peculiar—yes.”
“Ain’t got any idea how it happened, have you?”
“No.”
“No chance of any one sort of slippin’ an arm
through the cage window and grabbin’ it, huh?”
Bah! the man was an idiot.
“Hardly that.”
“Kinder makes us believe that it must have been
done by somebody inside the cage. Ain't that so?”
“That is the obvious conclusion.” -
“Well, now—so it is. So it is.” Hanvey produced


FISH EYES 27
a golden toothpick, which he regarded fondly. “Awful
funny thing how money gits to go thisaway. Awful
funny. Ain't it, Jamieson?”
“Yes—yes indeed.” Cliff glanced curiously at the
competent Jamieson. He fancied that Jamieson would
appear annoyed by Hanvey's cumbersomeness. But
instead he saw the two other detectives hanging wor-
shipfully upon Hanvey's words.
Peculiar—it was impossible that Hanvey possessed
keen intelligence. And yet—
Hanvey nodded heavily. “That's all, Mr. Wallace.
I reckon that’s about all I need from you.”
All? It was nothing—less than nothing. One or
two absurd, meaningless questions; a ridiculous voic-
ing of the thought that some one might have stolen a
hundred thousand dollars in currency from under his
very eyes. And Jim Hanvey was reputed to be a
great detective.
Cliff Wallace was bothered. The very somnolent
heaviness of Jim Hanvey begot apprehension. He had
no idea how to cope with it. The man was too utterly
guileless, too awkward of manner. His ponderous in-
difference must cloak a keen, perceptive brain. Jamie-
son and Burton—well, Cliff knew just what they were
thinking. He’d always know what they were think-
ing. But Hanvey—never. He didn’t even know that
Hanvey was thinking. He was an element which the
paying teller had not foreseen. Frank suspicion was
easy to combat. Through his head there flashed the
shibboleth of the Bankers’ Protective Association:


28 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
“We get a man if it takes a lifetime—even though he
has stolen only a dollar. It’s the principle of the
thing.”
He shook off the thought of Jim Hanvey, but
throughout the day watched the ponderous, big-jowled
man lumber about the lobby and through the cages,
those great fishy eyes blinking with a deliberation
which reminded him of a man making physical effort
to remain awake. Occasionally Cliff looked up to find
the glassy eyes staring at him through the bars of his
cage, the detective's unpressed tweed suit against the
marble shelf. His eyes would flash into those of the
detective, then would come that interminably slow
blinking, and Hanvey would move away apologetically.
Once Wallace Shivered.
That was the beginning. Hanvey during the days
that followed did absolutely nothing. Jamieson and
Burton, on the other hand, worked busily and
thoroughly. They pored over the list of customers for
whom checks had been cashed on the day of the
money's disappearance. And finally they came to the
pay-roll check of Sanford Jones & Co. They called
Cliff into conference with them, Burton doing the ques-
tioning.
“Who presented the Jones company check, Mr.
Wallace?”
Cliff steeled himself to impassivity. “Miss Phyllis
Robinson.”
“You are acquainted with her?”
“Yes. We happen to be secretly engaged.”


FISH EYES 29
“Ah-h!” Cliff saw a meaningful look pass between
the two detectives. “Your fiancée?”
“Yes.”
“Did you personally cash her check that day?”
“Yes.”
“You are positive about that?”
“Yes. I cash all of the pay-roll checks; and be-
sides, I remember talking to her while she was at the
window.”
The detectives nodded at each other and Cliff was
dismissed. Immediately Jamieson and Burton checked
up the movements of Phyllis Robinson on that particu-
lar day. They learned that she had cashed the com-
pany's pay-roll check as usual and that she had been
absent from the office only a short time. Yes, the
puzzled cashier was positive of that—he remembered
noticing particularly that she'd hardly left the office
before she was back with the money. In answer to
their query as to whether she had time to stop some-
where en route to the office from the bank, the little
man indignantly protested that he recalled every de-
tail of the morning and that she couldn’t possibly
have done so. “I never knew her to get back so quick
before, and she never was one to loiter.”
So much for that. The girl had undoubtedly gone
straight from the bank to her office. The Jones cash-
ier insisted that she delivered the satchel to him per-
sonally. Jamieson and Burton then visited the banks
of the city and its suburbs. The Third National was
the largest in the district and they went meticulously


30 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
down the line in the order of importance. At the City
Trust they were informed that Phyllis Robinson rented
a safety-deposit box. An inspection of her card dis-
closed the fact that she had not visited the box in
two months. Nor had she a box at any other bank.
Neither had Cliff Wallace.
News of the investigation, received from the puz-
zled cashier, via the frightened Phyllis, elated Cliff.
He was delighted to know that the two detectives were
at work, and supremely confident that they could dis-
cover nothing.
But Hanvey did nothing. All day long he lounged
about the lobby or sat in one of the cages with his
feet propped upon a shelf, surrounding himself with a
haze of rancid cigar smoke. And always those blank,
stupid eyes were turned upon the cage of the chief
paying teller—blinking, blinking.
Wallace did not vary a hair's breadth from the es-
tablished routine of his daily life. He breakfasted at
his usual place at the usual hour, Snatched a lunch as
he had always been in the habit of doing, dined at
his favorite cafeteria, called upon Phyllis Robinson
in the evenings and either walked with her or took
her riding in his little car.
On Thursday he drew his monthly pay check—
two hundred and fifty dollars. One hundred dollars of
it he immediately deposited to his own credit in a
savings account. He had done this for years.
On Friday he received a shock. It was a light pay-
roll day—not more than a quarter million dollars had


FISH EYES 31
been set aside for the pay rolls. In the line was
Phyllis, satchel in hand. He greeted her as usual,
counted the packages of bills and rolls of silver. And
then, as he unlocked the little window of his cage to
return to her the satchel, he visioned the ponderous
figure of Jim Hanvey lolling indifferently over the
shelf; round idiotic eyes fixed unseeingly upon him.
Fear flashed into Cliff's heart and the color receded
from his cheeks. What was the significance of that?
Was it possible— With an almost hysterical ges-
ture he slammed shut the window. Hanvey's eyes
blinked once, slowly; a second time, more slowly.
Then he moved heavily away, playing with his gold
toothpick.
That night as Cliff was driving with Phyllis in the
country—“That was Hanvey standing by the win-
dow to-day when I cashed your pay-roll check.”
The girl shuddered. “Ugh! He's horrid. Like a
jellyfish.”
“I wonder why he did that? He's never done it
before.”
“Did What?”
“Hung over the counter while I was cashing your
pay-roll check. I wonder if he suspects jy
“That man! He looks like an imbecile.”
“Looks like, yes. But he is supposed to be a great
detective.”
“It’s impossible.”
“He’s getting on my nerves, Phyllis. I can't help
but believe that he suspects something. At times I


32 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
feel a contempt for his obtuseness. Then I know that
I’m wrong. He couldn’t be what he is and be the foo!
he looks. And he doesn’t do anything. He's never
questioned me. He's never questioned any one. He
just sits there and watches and watches—like—like a
Buddha.”
Nor did the weeks which followed alter the situa-
tion. Jamieson reported to the bank officials that in
his opinion there had been no robbery. Burton con-
curred. They had arrived at the definite conclusion
that the money had never reached the bank. In an-
swer to Cliff’s statement that it had, they admitted that
Cliff believed so—but was in error. Cliff refused to
be convinced, and thus established more firmly than
ever in their minds the fact that he was innocent of
complicity in the crime. It was the theory of Jamie-
son and Burton that in securing the unusually large
amount of cash from the District Federal Reserve
Bank to meet the heavy pay rolls of that particular
day, a miscount had been made at the sending source
and the checking up at the Third National had been
faulty. True, the accounts of the Federal Reserve
Bank showed no surplus of one hundred thousand dol-
lars, but both Jamieson and Burton were optimistic
that it would eventually come to light.
Cliff Wallace knew that he had been successful.
No hint of suspicion had fallen upon him. The worst
that had been said against him was that he had been
careless in counting the money as it came into his
vaults. He was sorrowful about that—Ostentatiously


FISH EYES 33
so, just as he would normally have exhibited grief at
any suggestion of inefficiency. The bank officials did
not blame him. Most of them had climbed the lad-
der slowly and they were familiar with the nagging
routine of the paying teller's cage, the inevitable liabil-
ity to error. Undoubtedly, they thought, the money
would appear eventually. It was absurd to doubt
Clifford Wallace. Two detectives had shadowed him
meticulously. The orderly existence of the chief pay-
ing teller was unaltered. He went his way serenely.
To Wallace it seemed more than worth the trouble.
Lying in the vaults of the City Trust was one hun-
dred thousand dollars in cash, an amount sufficient to
yield seven thousand income invested with moderate
acumen. That meant leisure and ease for himself
and Phyllis through life. He did not want anything
more. He knew that he would never again be tempted
to crime; not that he was morally opposed to it, but
because it wasn’t worth the danger.
One hundred thousand dollars was adequate to their
needs. He had planned this thing for two years.
Now it had been worked successfully.
If it only wasn't for Jim Hanvey, those wide-staring
eyes. He couldn’t get away from those eyes, from the
insolent indolence of the man, his apparent indifference
to the mystery he was supposed to be solving. All
day he lounged around the bank; ignorant, bungle-
some, awkward, inactive. He inspected no books,
asked no questions, exhibited no suspicion of Cliff
Wallace. Yet Cliff felt those inhuman eyes focused


34 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
upon him at all times. And that incident of Hanvey's
presence at the cage when he cashed Phyllis' pay-roll
check—that was fraught with deep significance.
“He suspects me,” proclaimed the chief paying teller
to his accomplice. “He knows that I did it and is
just trying to find out how.”
She held his hand between both of hers. “I’m afraid,
Cliff. Horribly afraid.”
“If he'd only say something! I wish he'd arrest me.”
“Cliff!”
“I mean it. If he'd arrest me they’d prosecute, and
they couldn’t possibly convict. They haven’t a thing
on me. I’d be acquitted in jig time. Then he could
go to the devil—Hanvey and those fish eyes of his.
I’d be safe then—even if they found out later that
I had done it.”
“You mean that you couldn’t be tried twice for
the same offense?”
“That’s it.”
“Then why not induce them to–to prosecute?”
He shook his head. “I can’t. I’ve tried it, but
old Warren and Garet Jenkins are convinced that I’m
innocent. Jamieson and Burton both believe the
money never got to the bank. And Hanvey just sits
around like a hoot owl at noon and does nothing. It's
Hanvey I'm afraid of. He knows! The only thing
he doesn’t know is how!”
Two more weeks passed. Wallace's hope that Han-
vey would depart proved ill-founded. The big, awk-
ward man was there at eight o'clock every morning,


FISH EYES 35
and there he remained until the books were closed at
night. He spoke to nobody save in the most casual
way. Every other employe of the bank came to take
him for granted. They were interested in him at first,
but later accepted him as they accepted the mar-
ble pillars which stubbed the lobby. He was big and
lumbering and uncouth, and gradually they forgot his
reputation as a bank detective.
But Clifford Wallace did not forget. In his eyes
there had been born a hunted, haunted look. Han-
vey's flabby, rather coarse face had a hypnotic effect
upon him. He found himself wondering what obliqui-
tous course this man was pursuing, what method there
might be in his madness of inactivity. He felt like an
ill man who finds himself daily in the room with a
coffin. Hanvey's stolid demeanor generated an associ-
ation of ideas that was irresistibly horrible.
It was obvious that Hanvey suspected something,
Some one; equally plain that he did not suspect any one
else in that bank. It must be, then, that he did sus-
pect Cliff. And then he commenced visiting Cliff's
Cage.
He did it only a few times. His manner was
friendly, almost apologetic. But he had a mean in-
sinuating way of appearing at the cage door and rat-
tling the knob. Cliff would whirl and find those dull
inhuman eyes blinking slowly at him.
“Can I come in, Mr. Wallace?” And then once in-
side the cage: “Jest wanted to pass the time of day
with you.”


36 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
Invariably, then, the same formula. A browsing
around the tiny cage. A peeping into the money-
stocked vault of the paying teller. “Gosh! That's
a heap of money.”
“Yes.” Cliff found himself on edge when Hanvey
was in his cage.
“Never knew there was that much money in the
world.”
Damn the man! Always obvious in his speech.
“Didn't you?” -
“Nope. Sure didn't.”
Hanvey never mentioned the robbery. His indiffer-
tence must be studied; all part of a net-spreading proc-
ess. Cliff was frightened. He recalled the adage that
a detective can err a thousand times and yet win; the
criminal cannot afford to slip once. He regulated his
daily life scrupulously. At the end of another month
he again deposited his regular amount of savings. He
saw to it that Phyllis did the same. But the strain was
telling on him. His appetite had gone, dark circles ap-
peared under his eyes. He wished daily that he'd be
summoned into Warren's office to face the thing out
with Jim Hanvey. He knew they couldn’t convict, that
they didn’t have a thing against him. Even the box in
which reposed their hundred thousand dollars stood in
the name of Mrs. Harriet Dare, Phyllis' dead sister.
Before her death Phyllis had been authorized in writing
to be permitted to the box. Cliff had taken care that
the box remained in the name of the estimable and de-
funct lady.


38 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
eyes back to Cliff Wallace and blinked in that madden-
ing way of his.
“Durned pretty girl.”
“Yes.” He was short, nerves ajangle.
“Friend of yours?”
“Yes.”
“Awful pretty girl.”
Hanvey moved away. Cliff staring after his wad-
dling figure restrained with difficulty an impulse to
scream. And when he left the bank that day he did
something he had seldom done before in his life—he
took a drink of whisky. Then he went to see Phyllis.
He was but a nervous shell of himself when he took
her riding that night. He was a victim to nerves.
Insomnia had gripped him—insomnia interrupted by a
Succession of nightmares in which he was hounded by
a pair of glassy eyes which blinked slowly, inter-
minably.
“It's all off, Phyllis.”
“What do you mean?”
“Hanvey knows I did it. Sooner or later he'll
figure out how.”
“I thought—to-day—when he hung over the coun-
ter 22
“I’m afraid he's about worked it out. We’re near
the ragged edge.”
She commenced to cry. “Cli 22
“Don’t weep. It isn't going to do us a bit of good.
The man is driving me crazy. I tell you there's only
one thing to do.”


FISH EYES 39
“And that is—”
“Confess.”
“Oh-h-hl”
He laughed bitterly. “Don’t worry. They'll never
know you had anything to do with it. You get the
money out in the morning. Bring it to me just as it
stands—wrapped in brown paper. I’ll carry it to old
man Warren. I’ll offer to solve the mystery and see
that the money is returned in exchange for a promise
of immunity.”
“Will he keep his promise?”
“Absolutely. He's that sort. He’d not prosecute
anyway. It would injure the bank's reputation. A
bank always prefers to hush up this sort of thing.
They prosecute only when it’s been very flagrant or
when they have to secure a conviction so that the
bonding company will be responsible for their loss.
So, to-morrow jy
She rested her head briefly against his shoulder.
You're right, Cliff. And I’ll be glad when it's all over.
So very, very glad. I’ve been afraid, dear.”
She delivered the money to him at eleven o’clock the
following morning. It was Saturday; the bank closed
at twelve. He saw the eyes of Jim Hanvey blinking
accusingly at him through the morning, and found him-
self trembling. Suppose Hanvey should accuse him
at this moment, when he was on the verge of con-
fession?
Noon. The great doors of the bank were closed.
Cliff locked his cage, tucked the brown paper pack-


40 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
age under his arm and closeted himself with the presi-
dent. During the walk across the lobby he had felt
the horrible knowing eyes of the detective fastened
upon him, leechlike.
The scene with Robert Warren developed just as he
had anticipated. The president readily promised im-
munity, the cash was produced and counted. Warren
was shocked and genuinely grieved. He was consider-
ate enough to refrain from questioning as to the iden-
tity of the accomplice, although Cliff felt that the man
knew.
Of course, he said, Cliff could consider himself dis-
charged. The matter would never become known;
the bank sought no such notoriety. Mr. Warren
trusted that this would be a lesson to Cliff; he was sure
that conscience had wrung this confession from the
young man. Cliff acted his part adequately.
But all the time his heart was singing. A load had
been removed. His fear of Jim Hanvey had turned
into a deep, passionate, personal hatred. He felt that
he'd like to fasten his fingers in that fat, flabby throat.
He swung out of the president's office. The loss of
the hundred thousand dollars meant little as against
the relief he experienced in the freedom from fear of
those mesmeric, expressionless eyes. As he stepped
into the lobby he felt them fastened upon him.
Cliff couldn't resist the impulse. Pent-up emotion
demanded expression in words. Cliff knew that he
must tell this heavy-set, slow-moving man that he had


42 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
harm in me explainin’. 'Bout three years ago Spade
Gormon, cleverest forger in the country, pulled an
awful neat job in Des Moines. Then he dropped outa
sight. We ain't heard nothin' of him till Head-
quarters got the tip he was operatin’ in this district.
We knew good and well if he was he’d sooner or later
try to slip a bum check over on this bank, it bein’ the
biggest one hereabouts. So as I know Spade pretty
well an’ personal, they sent me down here to loaf
around until he showed up.”
Cliff Wallaces' hands dropped limply to his sides.
It was hard to understand. “Then you weren't even
working on my case?”
“No, I wasn’t workin' on your case. An’ if you
went an’ confessed anything, you probably done your-
self an awful dirty trick. Far as I’m concerned, son,
I ain’t even been interested in your case since I got
an inside tip it had been dropped.”


44 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
vastness of his contempt. “How much I owe you,
Son?”
The meter was consulted—a mere matter of form.
“Dollar forty.”
Jim Hanvey whistled in protest as he counted out
one wrinkled dollar bill, a quarter, a dime and a nickel.
Then as he waddled into the Hanover he shook his
head slowly. “Dollar forty! Holy smokes! An' I
thought I knew every professional crook in America.”
He walked uncertainly through the cheaply magnifi-
cent lobby. The ebony lad at the switchboard eyed
him insolently. Jim paused, toying with a gold tooth-
pick which hung suspended from a watchchain of
hauserlike proportions.
“Mr. Arthur Sherwood in?”
“Yeh. Who wants to see him?”
Hanvey's bushy eyebrows arched in surprise. “Why,
me, of course.”
“Who you is?”
“Hanvey is my name. Mr. James Hanvey.”
“Huh!” The boy plugged in viciously, and then,
into the transmitter: “That you, Mistuh Sherwood?
. . . There's a guy down here wants to see you. . . .
Says his name is James Hanvey. . . . Yehl Hanvey.
. . . All right, suh.” He turned back and vouch-
safed his information grudgingly. “Mistuh Sherwood
says come right up. Apahtment Fo’-twelve.”
Hanvey moved a couple of steps toward the eleva-
tor, then turned for a moment. “Son!”
“What?”


HOMESPUN SILK 45
“Next time I come remember I ain't no guy. I'm a
feller.”
Sherwood answered Hanvey's ring in person; a
slender man of medium height, distinguished in ap-
pearance, exquisitely groomed, very much at ease.
He ushered his visitor into a richly comfortable
library, where he motioned toward a chair, into which
Hanvey thumped gratefully. He stared about the
room in frank approval.
“Awful soft, eh, Arthur?”
The host smiled, exhibiting twin rows of even white
teeth. “Rather comfortable.”
“Business must be good.”
“It is. Very.”
“H’mph!”
Hanvey yawned with his eyes, inspecting the rich
furnishings, which gave testimony to the unerringly
fastidious taste of the owner. Still gazing Jim pro-
duced from a tarnished almost-silver cigar case two
projectiles of profound blackness. He handed one to
Sherwood, who accepted it gingerly, smelled of it sus-
piciously, and then emitted a single exclamation of
protest.
“It ain’t the worst in the world,” remarked Hanvey.
Sherwood produced a bottle and glasses. Hanvey
joined him with gusto. “Here's to you, Arthur. May
the judge give you a light sentence.”
Sherwood smiled with his lips, but in his eyes lay a
faint light of apprehension. He made no comment
upon the detective's toast. For a few minutes silence


46 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
maintained between them, Hanvey draining his liquor
at a gulp, Sherwood sipping his with the relish of a
connoisseur. It was the visitor who broke the silence.
“It’s gonna be pretty tough, Arthur—givin' up all
of this.”
“Is it?”
“Uh-huh. But you shouldn’t have done it.”
It was patent that Sherwood was very much on
guard. “Done what?”
“Steal them jools off Mrs. Haley.”
“I?”
“Yeh—you. It was a pretty slick piece of work,
Arthur. But it wasn’t quite slick enough.”
Sherwood seated himself opposite the detective and
crossed one leg over the other. He lighted a cigar of
his own, a rich, fragrant, expensive thing.
His tone was quietly argumentative as he replied:
“I think it was slick enough, Jim.”
“Aw, Arthur! I’m sprised at you.”
“I was a bit surprised at myself, Jim. As a matter
of fact, I don't believe you're going to arrest me for
that little affair.”
“Why not?”
“You can’t prove a thing. And if you arrest me
without sufficient evidence to convict, you’ll have the
double disappointment of seeing yourself made ridicu-
lous while I go free. And safe.”
Hanvey nodded agreement. “You’re an awful
plausible talker, Arthur.” He leaned forward in his


HOMESPUN SILK 47
chair. “Just between friends—you did steal them
jools, didn't you?”
“Between friends?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Yes, I stole them. But you can’t prove it, Jim.”
“M’m! I could arrest you now an’ say that you
confessed you stole 'em.”
“It wouldn't help you. Any flatfoot can do that any
time he wishes—but it doesn’t secure a conviction.
What you need, Jim, is evidence—and evidence is the
one thing you can’t get. If you arrest me and say
that I confessed I’ll simply deny it, and where will you
be? You need proof, my boy; proof.” -
Hanvey reflected heavily.
“Reckon you’re right, Arthur. I was hoping you
wouldn’t put me to all the trouble of gettin' it. I was
hopin’ to get away on a little fishin' trip.”
Sherwood was more at ease. “What makes you
think I got that stuff?”
“I don’t think it, Arthur; I know it. I suspected
it, and then I checked up. I’ll hand you one thing,
son—you sure are—what-you-call-it?—an opportu-
nist.” -
& 4Am I?”
“You are. I’m handlin' this affair for the company
that Mrs. Haley's jools was insured in, and I’ve been
down to N’Yawlins checkin' up. I reckon I know
more about this affair than you do.”
“That's interesting.”


48 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
“Ain’t it? An’ seein’ that you’ve been so frank as
to admit that you done it, p’r'aps you’d like to know
what I know about it myself, eh?”
“Yes.”
Jim's voice, flat and expressionless, seemed to fill
the expensively furnished room.
“Startin' at the beginnin', Arthur, there was Mrs.
Grover Haley, wife of the president of the L. R. & C.
Railroad. Hubby traveled the usual route to sudden
wealth—engine wiper, fireman, engineer, superintend-
ent. Then he made a killing in oil. They elected
him president of the road. Worth close onto twenty
millions now. Lives in Chicago. His wife—she ain’t
exactly one of these here sylphs. He married her
when he was a fireman. He's president of the road
now, but she's still a fireman's wife. Fightin’ all the
time to rise up, but not succeedin' specially well.
“This here Mrs. Haley ain't strong on polish, but
she's got the old ambish by the tail on a downhill pull.
Far as her appearance is concerned—she ain’t got any.
She's sort of the same upholstery style that I am. An’
the only thing she craves in this world is society; none
of your pikin' Society, either, but the genuine stuff;
the kind that even twenty millions can’t buy. For
seven years she's been trying to jimmy into the real
crowd, an’ meetin’ with about as much success as an
oyster in a hurdle race.” He paused briefly. “I’ve got
it pretty straight so far, haven't I, Arthur?”
The other man smiled. “That much is fairly com-
mon knowledge.”


HOMESPUN SILK 49
“Reckon it is. Well, to go on, this here Mrs. Haley
starts out from Chicago about a month ago in her
private car, headed for Palm Beach by way of Mem-
phis an’ N'Yawlins. She carries with her a maid an’
a chef an’ a butler. Also she carries with her about
one hundred and fifty thousand dollars’ worth of
joolry which she plans to wear all at one time, just to
prove that she's a lady. An’ about the time she makes
her plans a certain Mr. Arthur Sherwood, who is
playin' the races down in N'Yawlins, gets wind of it
and decides to make a play for them stones.
“Far as I can see, Arthur, you started out without
any definite plan. Opportunist—ain’t that the word I
used before? You figured that all you needed was to
get close enough to them jools for a long enough time
an’ they were yours. An’so, as society is your fad,
you went an' had some cards engraved which an-
nounced that you was Mr. Albert Grinnell Stoneham,
said Mr. Stoneham bein’ the son of one of the most
exclusive families socially in New York, where they
have society as is society.
“You meet the train at Memphis and just after
leaving there your card goes back to Mrs. Haley, an’
that dame nearly drops dead with joy. To make it
brief, she lassoes the son of the great Stoneham family
and makes him her guest. It looks like the first real
break-in she's made in seven years, as it gives her an
elegant excuse to drop in on Pa and Ma Stoneham
when she gets to New York next time. And so Mr.
Sherwood, alias Mr. Stoneham, gets an awful warm


50 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
welcome on the private car, an’ Mrs. Haley wears a
hundred and fifty thousand dollars’ worth of joolry
every time she comes within range of his eyes.” Jim
lighted another cigar. “Wasn't your fingers itching
to grab them stones an’ run, Arthur?”
“I’m very fond of jewelry, Jim.”
“Sure! Or you wouldn’t have taken all them
chances. I’ve checked up, you see. To get ahead:
You reached N'Yawlins at eight o'clock. You had
been down there at the races, an’ you had gone to
Memphis to meet that train. The car was going out
on a Jacksonville train at six the next morning. An’
you asked Mrs. Haley wouldn’t she like to go for a
sightseeing drive. You went out an' hired a big tour-
ing car an' you went for the drive. You gave her an
awful good feed at Emil’s—they say you know how
to order a swell dinner, Arthur—an’ about ten o'clock
that night you showed up at the Spanish Fort Inn.
“Out there you had a swell time. Bein’ known to
the head waiter, not to mention the proprietor, the sky
was the limit. You had cocktails an’ champagne an’
maybe even a liqueur or six. Poor Mrs Haley, thinkin’
she was in Rome, done as the Romans did, an’, to put
it mild an’ polite, got sweetly spifflicated. Not drunk,
but terribly happy. She found herself sittin' on top of
the world an’ didn't care who saw her. You left the
inn about two in the A.M. an’ Mrs. Haley insisted on
sittin’ in front with you so’s she could drive the car.
You wasn’t particularly keen about it, but you didn’t


HOMESPUN SILK 51
kick hard enough, because same is what she done, the
shoffer reclinin’ in the back.
“The old dame had started out to prove she could
drive—an’ she proved it. I reckon she must have
busted sixty sev’ral times comin’ into the city. Ol' gal
was just naturally havin' a helluva time. That is, she
was until you got 'most home. It was there that some-
thin’ happened—because it was there, Arthur, that a
cop seen the speed you was goin' at an’ tried to stop
you. An' poor Mrs. Haley, not carin’ nothin’ for no
cops, with a bunch of drinks inside her, ran into him!
“What happened then, Arthur”—and Jim Hanvey
shook his enormous head reprovingly—“was downright
unfortunate. The cop was stunned. You stopped
your car, an’ just when you did the cop moved, in-
dicating that he wasn’t so terribly hurt. With
which the missus slipped into gear, stepped on the
gas an’ let 'er rip. Cop fired one time in the air an’
you were free. Mrs. Haley drove that car to some-
where in the French quarter, you got out an’ slipped
the scared shoffer a nice piece of change to keep mum,
and back you beat it to the private car. -
“That's where good luck played into your hands,
Arthur; right plumb into 'em. Bein’ an opportu-
nist Say! That’s a swell word, ain't it? I got it
out of the dictionary before I come here. Bein’ an
opportunist like I was sayin', you’d just stuck around
with the fat dame, knowin’ that sooner or later you'd
get a chance at them jools. An’ kerflooie, her cop-


52 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
knockin’ experience puts everything in your paws.
How? Because you knew darned good an’ well that
shoffer was goin’ to lay pretty low on account of what
they’d give him if they ever found out it was his car.
The farther away he keeps from the spotlight in con-
nection with that case the more comfortable he's
gonna be.
“An’ of course Mrs. Haley is now a fugitive from
justice down in N'Yawlins.
“You took her back to the private car. She had
sobered up more than a little, but the strong stuff was
still there inside of her. Her nerves was doin' a
shimmy, an’ you gave her plenty more to drink. Fi-
nally she went to sleep. When that happened you
grabbed the jools an’ hopped the car. Mrs. Haley
didn’t wake up until she was on her way to Jackson-
ville. It was a couple hours later that she found out
the jools was gone—an' you too. The old gal nearly
went nuts until she remembered her insurance, then
she figured she was sittin' on Easy Street. An’ it
may interest you to know that the insurance money
has already been paid to her; one hundred thousand
dollars.”
Sherwood sat motionless, staring admiringly at the
portly detective. By no slightest physical sign did he
give indication of his genuine enthusiasm for Hanvey's
deductive powers, although he marveled at them with
the frank appreciation of one brainy man for the ac-
complishments of another.
Hanvey's story was correct to a detail. Sherwood


HOMESPUN SILK 53
knew the exhaustive search that the detective must
have made, the painstaking probing.
And now—“You’re working for the insurance
company aren't you, Jim?”
“Yeh.” Hanvey was very open about it. “We’ve
already paid the money, but we're interested now in
gettin' the jools back an' puttin' you in stir. That's
why I come to see you.”
Sherwood smiled. “You’re not going to arrest me,
Jim.”
“Why not?”
“Because you can’t prove a thing.”
Jim grinned. “Maybe not just yet. I’ve talked
to Mrs. Haley. Bein’ a social climber she ain't any
too keen to let it be known publicly that she was im-
posed on by a faker. That'd make folks laugh at her.
An’ if, in addition to that, it was ever known that she
was the woman who flattened the N'Yawlins cop at
the end of a wild party it’d sort of queer her about as
queer as could be. An' since she ain't sufferin' only a
fifty-thousand-dollar loss anyway—she most certainly
wouldn't identify you.
“Y’see, Arthur, it's thisaway: I spotted you easy
enough. You are known out at the inn. But nobody
knew the dame who was with you. An’ it was her that
hit the cop. Also, I’m confessin' frankly that the maid
an’ the chef an’ the butler ain’t gonna identify you
neither. Mrs. Haley has fixed them a-plenty. So
she's in the clear, you’ve got the jools, an' we're stung.
That makes us plumb angry, Arthur; bein’ rode for a


54 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
hundred thousand thataway. It just naturally puts it
up to me to get you an’ the jools both.”
“I hope you enjoy yourself trying, Jim.”
“I been havin' a good enough time a'ready. But
I ain’t particularly keen about the job. You're too
good a crook to be in jail. But, by gosh, Arthur, you
never should of fooled with no woman!”
Sherwood was unimpressed. “You can’t find the
jewels, Jim.” -
“Reckon I can. Reckon I can land you too.”
“How P”
“Because a crook can’t get away with it if the tecs
are really after him. You’ve slipped somewhere. It's
just up to me to find out where.”
“I’m surprised at you—thinking I’ve slipped.”
“You ain't no different from other crooks, Arthur,
except you’ve got more sense.”
“Well”—Arthur rose ostentatiously—“I reckon you
want to trot me down to headquarters.”
“No. Certainly not. Ain't no use of my arresting
you unless you're going to plead guilty.”
“Sometimes you’re a real humorist, Jim.”
“Ain't I? I’m awful cute occasionally. What I
really come up for, Arthur, was to tell you how much
I know. I want you to see just where you stand. I
figured you’d be willin’ to help me all you could.”
“Certainly, Jim, certainly. Just drop around any
old time and talk things over. I’ll do all in my power
to hinder you.”
“Thanks, Arthur. I counted on you for that.”


HOMESPUN SILK 55
They shook hands; slender, immaculate, polished
man-about-town and the mammoth expressionless de-
tective. The contrast was striking. Sherwood
ushered Hanvey to the door and bade him a cordial
farewell. Then alone, the criminal dropped into a
chair and mopped his forehead with a silken handker-
chief. -
Hanvey had startled him—just as Hanvey had in-
tended. With uncanny intuition Hanvey had pieced
together a story so nearly approximating the facts that
Sherwood was amazed. And he was now very much
on guard. The one hundred and fifty thousand
dollars’ worth of jewelry nestled in a safety-deposit
box at one of the Manhattan banks. It was a box Sher-
wood had possessed for several years, holding it against
just such an opportunity as this. It was rented under
an assumed name.
Immediately after the jewel robbery he had boarded
a train for New York, but not before he carefully had
unset the gems and pitched the elaborate platinum set-
tings into the depths of Lake Pontchartrain. The
jewels in their little chamois sack were safe.
From the outset Sherwood had realized that he
would have difficulty in disposing of the gems. He was
content. A stake of that size was worth waiting
for—two years, three, five. But he had not antici-
pated that suspicion would so readily attach to himself.
Now that Jim knew the story, he felt that he must re-
double his precautions. -
The Mrs. Haley end of the situation was safe. He


HOMESPUN SILK 57
the plan the more assured he became. He felt sorry
for Jim Hanvey. “Nice fellow too. I hate to see him
fall down on the case.”
As for the detective, he apparently did not share
Sherwood's fear for his non-success. If he had a
worry he concealed it exceedingly well behind the
pudgy face. Too, he fell into the habit of calling cas-
ually on Sherwood at odd hours, and discussing the
CaSe. -
“Hello, Jim. How’s old Sherlock Holmes getting
On?” -
“So-so, Arthur; just so-so.”
“Haven’t gathered any definite information, have
you?”
“You know durn well I haven’t, Arthur.”
“You’d better get them to shift you to something
else. You'll never get the dope on me.”
“Maybe not. An' maybe so. There ain't no
tellin’.”
Sherwood leaned forward and rested a friendly hand
on Jim Hanvey’s knee. “On the level, Jim, you're
wasting your time. You know me; you know I’m not
a fool.”
“Sure, I know that.”
“And you know that I’ve taken every possible pre-
caution. I was careful enough before; I’m doubly
careful now. With you on the case, Jim, I wouldn't
take a chance for anything in the world.”
“You’re terrible complimentary.”
“I know you, Jim. You ain’t half the fool you look.


58 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
You couldn't be. Now, frankly, I don't expect to cash
in on this little deal for four or five years, and 3y
“You ain't ever going to cash in on it, Arthur.”
The narrow, rather ascetic face of the criminal
broke into a broad grin. “Trying to make me appre-
hensive?” -
“No; just talkin' sense. You know the gang I’m
working for. It ain’t so much the hundred thou’ in-
surance money they’ve shelled out as it is the principle
of the thing. They’re just butt-headed enough to be
willin' to spend money an’ time to get you.”
“It’s impossible.”
“Nothin's impossible. No matter how clever you
are, you’ve slipped somewhere.”
“I haven't slipped.”
“You think you haven’t. An’ as for you cashing in,
you never will. You're playing a lone hand, Arthur,
but I ain’t. Real detectives never do. I’ve got the
police of the country helpin' me on this thing, an’ every
stool pigeon we’ve got is watching for them jools.
They’re going to keep on watching. An’”—Jim Han-
vey leaned forward earnestly—“you ain’t gonna cash
in on this deal, Arthur, because there ain’t a livin'
human bein’ who'd buy them jools offen you. Not a
single living soul.” - -
Sherwood laughed shortly. He was impressed, and
tried not to show it.
“We know every fence who'd handle a deal of that
size, Arthur. Every one of them. An’ they're all
bein’ watched. The little jools don’t matter, but the


HOMESPUN SILK 59
minute one of them big ones shows up—we're on a
hot trail. An’ then Mr. Sherwood does a stretch—
worse luck.”
“I’ll Wait.”
“So will we. Waitin’ is the best thing we do. We're
just naturally bound to get you. I'd be doubtful if
there was any person in the world you could sell them
jools to, but there ain’t. Not a one. We’ve taken
care of that. An’ the comp’ny has told me the sky’s
the limit. Besides, Arthur, there ain’t so bloomin'
many places you could of hid them jools. All the
time you're waitin' we're workin'. You can’t get
away with it. The minute I was sure it was you I
knew it was just a question of time before I landed you
with the dope. Now if you was willin' to make a
clean breast of it—”
Sherwood threw back his head and laughed. “Jim
Hanvey! I thought better of you than that.”
“A'right.” The detective hoisted himself from the
depths of a leather rocker. “Have it your own way,
Arthur. But I sure do wish it was some other feller
than you. I’m awful strong for you.”
“I know it, Jim.” There was genuine feeling in
the other's voice. “It’s just a little game; you’re on
one side and I’m on the other. One of us has got to
lose—and I’m plumb sorry it’s you.”
Alone again Sherwood walked to the window, where
he stood looking down into Central park. Dusk was
merging gently into night. The shadowy walks un-
der the trees were dislimning in the softly gathering


60 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
gloom. There floated up to his ears the commanding
screech of automobilesirens, the clang of passing Eighth
Avenue cars, the voices of a group of children. Then
into the picture bulked the slouching figure of Jim
Hanvey.
Sherwood watched the ungainly hulk interestedly.
He saw Hanvey enter the park and pause to light a
cigar. There was something almost pathetic about the
big hulking man, a humbleness that was deceptive to
those who did not know him intimately. Too, there
was a fairness and squareness which made him popular
with the higher class of criminals. They knew he was
on the level. He took no unfair advantage of them.
He played the game clean. “If I’ve got to be caught
I’d rather Jim Hanvey made the pinch.” That
was the idea; they were proud of their friendship with
Jim Hanvey. They played clean with him and he with
them. He looked out for them after he arrested them;
saw they were given a square deal; didn't forget them
when they were doing time. A lonely man, Jim Han-
vey; big and ugly and ungainly—and eagerly friendly.
His best friends stood high in the criminal social regis-
ter. Outside the underworld he had no intimates.
Sherwood saw him walk on slowly, in the lumbering
gait of a man too bulky for his feet. And gradually
the big figure was lost in the gloom. He was there—
then gone. Sherwood turned away from the window,
“It’s a dirty shame. He would have made a wonder-
ful crook.”
He pondered over his recent conversation with the


HOMESPUN SILK 61
detective. Jim's utterances were worthy of serious
reflection; Jim was not given to trickery of speech.
Besides he knew Sherwood too well to bluff. He un-
derstood that Sherwood would play a waiting game.
Sherwood was willing, but a trifle disturbed. He
hadn’t anticipated having the robbery traced to his
door so promptly. There had been no opportunity to
dispose of even a few of the gems. And he wasn't
too well supplied with cash. Of course with Jim
watching every move it would be impossible to pull
another job; he'd have to lay low and take things
easy. Worse luck.
Jim was right of course. At present there was no
one to whom he could sell the jewels. No professional
fence would handle them, and if an amateur took over
the jewels he, Sherwood, would be lucky to get ten
thousand dollars. “And I’ll never let them go for that;
not if I have to wait ten years.”
He visited Jim Hanvey a couple of days later. “I’ve
been thinking over our little talk, Jim.”
“That's good.”
“Suppose I handed the jewels to you, would you
forget that you knew who took them?”
“Wish I could, Arthur, but it isn't possible. We
want you.”
Sherwood shrugged. “I’ll just have to wait then.”
“That’s foolish. I’ll get you sooner or later. You
might as well come clean and start serving your time
now. Every day you put it off is just that much time
wasted.”


62 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
“I’ve got plenty of time, Jim.”
“Yeh, reckon so. I hardly thought you'd 'fess up.”
“Not a chance.”
“I’m real sorry for you, Arthur. All that trouble,
all that risk—and you ain’t gonna get nothin’ out of it.”
“I’ll make out very well.”
“Nope. You can’t sell 'em, an’ there ain't no other
way of realizin’ on your investment of time and effort.”
Sherwood knew that he must hold on for a long,
long while. It was awkward, but necessary. He was
too clever a performer to worry about financial strin-
gency. Jim was after him now as keenly as he was
after the jewels, even more so. Of course he had never
intended turning the jewels over to Hanvey; had
quizzed him solely for the purpose of finding out
whether it was the man or the jewels they were seek-
ing. The fact that it was the former made greater
caution imperative.
Jim was using the police too. That was further em-
barrassment. The police system bothers criminals, it
is so extensive and comprehensive, a system of Sur-
veillance that eventually wears a man down. Playing
lone hands, Sherwood knew that the advantage would
always be with the criminal. But fighting against the
individual brilliance of a detective and the inexorable
patience and scope of the nation's police departments,
a man had to watch his step pretty carefully.
Sherwood was willing—but it was deucedly uncom-
fortable.
Jim had impressed him. There was no one to whom


HOMESPUN SILK 63
he could sell the jewels; not for several years, at any
rate, not a Soul. Unless, perhaps— Sherwood
nodded slowly. “It’s worth thinking over,” he told
himself.
Two days later Sherwood's telephone buzzed, and
Jim Hanvey's monotonous droning voice came to him
over the wire:
“That you, Arthur?”
“Yes.”
“This is Jim Hanvey.”
“Yes.”
“Busy?”
“Not particularly.”
“How 'bout droppin’ over to my rooms a minute.
I got somethin’ to show you; somethin’ real interestin’.”
“Coming.”
“Right away?”
“Pronto.”
A taxi, a swift journey uptown to West 110th Street;
Jim Hanvey's three-room apartment—a stuffy affair
grotesquely furnished and vilely kept; three rooms
which sagged under the heavy odor of Jim's cigars.
Sherwood swore fervently and threw up the windows
in the tiny parlor.
“Jim, you shouldn't.”
“What?”
“Smoke those cigars indoors.”
“Oh! Them? Gosh! I like 'em.”
“The other tenants don't kick?”
“Dunno. The janitor done time once in Joliet, an’


64 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
him an’ me is buddies. He was a awful rotten yegg,
but he's a Swell janitor. That just shows— Any-
way, you ain’t interested in him; n'r me neither for
that matter. I got somethin’ to show you.”
“So you said.”
“C’mere.”
Sherwood trailed his host into the dining room.
Jim motioned him to a chair. “Just got one thing to
ask, Arthur; that is that you use your eyes—not your
hands.”
“Whatever you say, Jim.”
“Good.” From the capacious hip pocket of his
voluminous trousers Hanvey extracted a little chamois
sack. Sherwood's eyes narrowed slightly. Chamois
sack! Jewelry! Hanvey, apparently unmindful of his
visitor, droned on:
“Just you watch, Arthur—but remember, hands off.”
With a quick deft motion he opened the sack and
spilled its contents on the imitation-mahogany table.
The fishlike eyes of the detective were focused va-
cantly upon Arthur Sherwood, who had started in-
voluntarily from his seat. Then Sherwood caught
himself, controlled his nerves with an effort and tried
to Smile. -
“What's the idea, Jim?”
Hanvey’s glassy eyes were turned to the table top,
upon which glowed and flamed a handful of magnifi-
cent gems—matched pearls, diamonds of rare cut and
brilliance, a huge blood ruby, twin emeralds of enor-
mous size and clarity, deep Oriental sapphires. The


HOMESPUN SILK 65
eyes of the detective closed slowly, sleepily, then
opened with maddening leisureliness.
“How you like 'em, Arthur?” -
Sherwood appeared'at ease, but his nerves were un-
der a terrific tension. “Very much.”
“Look familiar?”
Sherwood nodded frankly. “Yes.”
They were familiar; stone for stone they were the
jewels he had stolen from Mrs. Haley—stolen from
her, stripped from their mountings, and which at that
moment he could have sworn were safe in a box at one
of the city's largest banks. There was no mistaking
them—the ruby, the big diamond with the odd work-
manship.
“What are they, Jim?”
Hanvey grinned genially.
“Paste.”
“Paste?”
“Sure. Can't you tell?”
“Where did you get them?”
“Had 'em made from the descriptions the insur-
ance company has. I think they look grand—for
paste.”
Sherwood stared at the glittering gems as though
hypnotized. And while he gazed Hanvey's huge hand
went out and swept them back into the chamois sack.
“Awful good imitations, I think, Arthur.”
Sherwood laughed weakly. “They are. Mighty
clever.”
The sack was returned to Hanvey’s pocket. “I


66 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
got to be trottin' along downtown, Arthur. That’s all
I wanted of you—just to show you them imitation
jools.”
Sherwood was nervous. He more than half ex-
pected to be arrested, and he drew a deep breath of
relief as he stepped into the street. He walked
swiftly toward the corner, turned sharply, and saw
Hanvey emerge from the apartment house and follow
him. A slight frown corrugated the criminal's fore-
head.
He was frankly worried. Hanvey was too insist-
ent about the brummagem quality of the gems.
Doubt assailed him. Perhaps they were the genuine
stones. It was impossible—but if they were imita-
tions they were wonderful. Suppose Hanvey had dis-
covered the location of his safety-deposit box and the
name in which it was held? Šuppose he had actually
secured the gems?
Sherwood hailed a passing taxi and entered. As he
did so he saw another cab ease around the corner.
Jim Hanvey overflowed the back seat, cigar between
his pursy lips. Sherwood spoke swiftly to his driver.
“See that cab yonder?”
“Yeh.”
“Lose it and you get twenty dollars.”
“Cinch.”
At the same moment Hanvey was speaking with his
own driver. “See that cab up ahead—the one the
good-lookin’ feller is just gettin' into?”
“Uh-huh.”


HOMESPUN SILK 67
“Foller it an’ you get five dollars.”
“Cinch.”
The chase started. Both cabs swung into River-
side Drive at moderate speed, Sherwood's driver play-
ing a careful game until such time as he might find an
opportunity to elude pursuit in a traffic jam. Along
Riverside they went, turning eastward to Broadway
on Seventy-second Street, thence down that thorough-
fare to Park Circle. It was there that luck played into
Sherwood's hands. His cab crossed Park Circle just
as the traffic policeman raised his hand. It took Han-
vey fully a half minute to exhibit his credentials to the
policeman, and by that time Sherwood had sped east-
ward on Fifty-eighth Street, turning downtown on Sixth
Avenue and doubling back uptown via Fiftieth Street
and Ninth Avenue.
Sherwood was confident that he had eluded Hanvey,
but he was taking no chance. As a matter of fact,
additional precaution was unnecessary. Hanvey's
taxi reached Fifty-eighth, Jim glanced down the avenue
through an endless line of cabs, touring cars and busses,
and motioned his driver to a halt. “Needn’t go no
farther, son. They’ve got away. How much?”
“Dollar eighty.”
Hanvey handed him a two-dollar bill. “Keep the
change.” Then, as he started across toward the Sub-
way kiosk, he glanced at his watch. “Three-thirty—
hmph!”
He entered the Subway and rode uptown. When he
alighted it was to walk to Central Park West and seat


68 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
himself on the steps of Sherwood's apartment house.
He was smiling slightly and there appeared to be a
faint sign of life in his dead fishy eyes. Sherwood had
proceeded with meticulous care. He left his taxi on
West Sixty-fourth Street, took a surface car to the
Pennsylvania Hotel, entered the Subway via the lobby
of that hostelry, rode downtown and thence to his bank,
where he secured access to the safety-deposit box held
by himself under the alias of Roger Clarkson.
His examination took but a moment. The jewels
were there, every last one of them. He sighed re-
lievedly. Then as he left the bank he found himself
worrying. He realized that Jim Hanvey had some
deeply ulterior motive, that he had not gone to the
trouble and expense of securing the paste duplicates
without making them a part of an elaborate trap.
Hanvey's very frankness had been disquieting. Paste,
said Hanvey, made from the insurance-company de-
scriptions. Well, Hanvey had told the truth. But
why? Sherwood was apprehensive. Here had en-
tered the first element the criminal was unable to un-
derstand. Until this moment he had felt a bit sorry
for Jim Hanvey’s heavy blundering, his bovine indif-
ference and his lethargy. But now
Still seeking a solution Sherwood rode uptown on
the Elevated and then walked to his apartment. As
he turned in at the door the monster figure of Jim
Hanvey hoisted itself from the marble steps.
“Hello, Arthur.”
“Jim! You here?”


HOMESPUN SILK 69
“Naw! I’m over in Brooklyn huntin’ for the other
end of the bridge.”
Sherwood took his friend by the arm. “Come up-
stairs a minute, Jim. I want to chat with you.”
“Sure.”
Hanvey selected the most comfortable chair and
crashed into it. Sherwood walked to the window, put
up the shade and turned toward the Gargantuan figure
of his friend. Sherwood's face was in shadow, that of
the detective in the full glare of daylight—as expres-
sionful as putty.
“I’ve been trying to figure out your little play, Jim.”
“Have you?”
“Yes. And I don’t get the answer. About the only
idea I can see behind it was that you showed me those
imitations to make me go down to the vault where I
have the real stones to reassure myself.”
“You’re hittin' on all six so far, Arthur.”
“And that you'd trail me there and find out what
box 22
“Arthur Sherwood! I’m plumb disappointed in
you—knockin’ me thataway. You don’t honestly
think I thought I could trail you through the streets
of New York, do you?”
“It didn’t seem so, Jim—unless you were attaining
your second childhood. But I couldn’t figure out any
other reason—and you did try to follow me.”
Hanvey shook his head slowly. “Nope.”
“In that taxiP”
“That wasn't my idea, Arthur.” The detective's


70 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
big spatulate fingers drummed lightly on the table.
“All I was doin', Arthur, was to make sure that you
was tryin’ to shake me!”
“A-ah!” Sherwood's thin lips compressed. Han-
vey waved genially. “Think it over.”
Sherwood thought it over. Then: “Well, I was
trying to shake you. Where does that get you?”
“A heap of places, Arthur. 'Cause how? 'Cause
the minute you tried to shake me I knew good an’ well
you was doin’ it because you was headed for the vault
where you had the jools hid. Of course it is a vault—
no crook of your intelligence would hide 'em anywheres
else. So the minute you gave me the slip I come on
back here an’ waited for you.”
“Ye-e-es.” Sherwood was puzzled. But why?”
“Because, Arthur, I laid an awful clever trap for
you, an’ you fell into it. You don’t mind my callin'
myself clever, do you, Arthur? I really do think it
was an awful good stunt I pulled.”
“Just what was it, Jim.”
Hanvey glanced at his enormous watch. “Just this:
At some time between 3:45 and 4:30 this afternoon
you went to your bank box. You signed your card—
under an alias, of course. An’ tomorrow mornin' I
start out inspectin’ the vault cards of every bank in
New York. I’ll get help from headquarters, an' even-
tually we'll check up on every man, woman an' child
who entered a bank box in that three-quarters of an
hour.”
The detective grinned in boyish approval of his own


HOMESPUN SILK 71
acumen. “’Tain't gonna be such an easy job, Arthur,
but it ain't gonna be so hard neither—me not carin’
particularly about time in this case. Of course I
know the box is in a Manhattan bank, because you got
back too quick to have gone to Brooklyn or even
Jersey City. Jerry Naschbaum, chief of the head-
quarters identification force, will let me have a few
good men to help. In one week, two weeks mebbe
three, we'll check up on everybody who entered a bank
box between 3:45 and 4:30 today. An' when we’ve
done that, Arthur, we'll have you. See?”
Arthur saw. “I wish some one else was on this case,
Jim. You're too blamed painstaking.”
“Better 'fess up now.”
“No; I'll take my chances.”
“Ain’t gonna get you nowhere. You can't sell them
jools; there ain't a soul in the world would buy 'em
offen you.”
“Maybe not.” Sherwood opened the door invit-
ingly. “Sorry you have to be going, Jim.”
“I’m sorry myself, Arthur.” He turned at the door-
way. “I’m kinder cute yet, ain't I?”
“I hope not, Jim,” was the answer.
It did not take Sherwood long to realize that he was
nearing the end of his rope. He might have known
that Jim Hanvey was going to trap him. That had
been a clever trick of Jim's, and it promised definite
and fairly immediate results. Hanvey was right; the
task of checking up would be a slow and difficult un-
dertaking, but Sherwood knew the police system suffi-


72 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
ciently well to understand—and fear—its tirelessness.
Eventually they’d complete their check-up, and when
they di -
Sherwood admitted to himself that he must dispose
of the jewels. Thought of transferring them to an-
other box was out of the question. They’d discover
that eventually. The thing to do was to rid himself
of the gems. But Jim Hanvey had insisted that he
could not sell them because there was no market.
Jim had spoken truly. No market. “Oh, confound
Mrs. Haley and her jewelry!”
Sherwood caught his breath suddenly. Mrs. Haley!
Puffy, ponderous Mrs. Haley! The poor, bewildered,
self-sufficient Mrs. Haley, who had lost one hundred
and fifty thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry and been
partially reimbursed with one hundred thousand dollars
of the insurance company's money. Sherwood smashed
his right fist into the palm of his left hand.
“There's my market! I'll sell the jewels back to
Mrs. Haley!”
He paced the room, his brain running riot with the
sardonic daring of his scheme. He knew Jim Hanvey
was not infallible. Jim had been so confident that no
one would buy the jewels—so confident that he had
completely overlooked Mrs. Haley.
And Mrs. Haley would buy. He'd make her buy.
No one would think of looking to her for the gems.
She could have them set in new mountings and no one
would ever be the wiser. He’d sell them to her for
fifty thousand dollars, and she'd be fifty thousand


74 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
she could do. Petrified with terror, fearful of losing
the tiny bit of social recognition for which she had so
valiantly struggled, inordinately afraid of arrest in
connection with the New Orleans escapade which had
assumed Brobdingnagian proportions in her eyes—she
agreed to meet him in the private dining room of a
quiet hotel, bringing with her fifty thousand dollars in
cash, which was to be exchanged for the jewels. And
then, apprehensive and nervous, she left him.
Sherwood returned to the city, exultant. His plan
had worked. It was safe, supremely safe. For, even
should she be eventually discovered in possession of the
jewels, she would never dare tell the true story.
But Jim Hanvey had not been idle. He made care-
ful investigation and then spent the entire afternoon
chatting with the presidents of the four New York
banks where Mrs. Haley maintained personal checking
accounts. “She’ll cash a big check here in
the next few days,” explained the detective to each of
them. “A thunderin’ big check; an' she'll take the
money in legal tender. Minute she does, telephone
my apartment. Ask for a feller named Henry Jones.
He'll take the message an’-get in touch with me.”
And then Jim Hanvey personally took unto himself
the task of watching Mrs. Haley.
It was not difficult. Suspecting no surveillance
Mrs. Haley conducted herself so that a blind man could
have shadowed her. Mrs. Haley's single major sorrow
in life was the stubborn refusal of her husband to take
up his residence in New York. Her apartment was a


76 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
He allowed them ample time for conversation. And
when he opened the door with a master key furnished
by the hotel management it was to interrupt an in-
teresting tableau.
By the table stood Mrs. Haley, clutching in her two
hands the sack of jewels. Sherwood was busily en-
gaged in Counting the money she had paid over to him.
Neither moved.
Hanvey closed the door gently. His wide-open,
fishlike eyes blinked with amazing slowness. Mrs.
Haley choked, spluttered and collapsed into a chair.
Sherwood's eyes met Hanvey's levelly. The criminal
was apparently emotionless, a game loser. Very
quietly he took the sack of jewels from the nerveless
hands of Mrs. Haley, returned her money and ex-
tended the jewels to Hanvey.
“There has been no transaction here of the kind you
think, Jim. I am handing over the jewels of my own
accord, and confessing to the robbery. There is no
need to drag this lady's name in the mud.”
Hanvey bowed with ungainly grace. “Always a
gent, eh, Arthur? I’m proud of you.” He turned to
Mrs. Haley. “I reckon it wasn’t ever your fault,
ma'am. An’ me an’ my friend Mr. Sherwood here will
see that you don’t get no rotten publicity out of it.”
She was dazed, but volubly and tearfully grateful.
Sherwood, calm and dignified, questioned the detective.
“You’ve got me, Jim. I had a hunch that I
wouldn’t get away with it. But I have a professional


HOMESPUN SILK 77
and academic interest in the matter. There are one
or two things I don’t quite understand.”
“Always at your service, Arthur.”
“First and most important”—Sherwood's voice was
quietly conversational—“what made you think I
planned to sell the jewels back to Mrs. Haley?”
Hanvey shook his head reprovingly; “I’m s'prised
at you for not knowin’ such a simple thing as that,
Arthur. The reason I knew you was gonna sell them
jools back to Mrs. Haley was because I suggested it to
you.”
“You suggested ” Then Sherwood Smiled in
frank admiration. “You mean you suggested it when
you said—”
“Sure,” interrupted Hanvey pleasantly, “when I
kept repeatin’ that there wasn't nobody in the world
you could sell 'em to–I meant nobody except Mrs.
Haley.”


N
º
~
COMMON STOCK
gentleman, a person to whom aesthetics was all-impor-
tant, and he could not fail to consider Jim Hanvey
thoroughly obnoxious.
Jim was all right in his way, perhaps, but never
before had Corwin been forced into intimate associa-
tion with a professional detective. He was resentful,
not of the fact that Jim Hanvey was a detective, but
because the man was hopelessly uncouth. Jim was an
enormous individual and conspicuously unwieldy. He
wore cheap, ready-made clothes that no more than
approximately fitted his rotund figure. He smoked
vile cigars and wore shoes which rose to little peaks at
the toes. But Corwin felt he could have stood all that
were it not for Jim's gold toothpick.
That golden toothpick, suspended as a charm from a
hawserlike chain extending across Jim's vest, had fasci-
nated Corwin from the commencement of their journey
to Los Angeles. It was a fearsome, flagrant instru-
ment, and Jim Hanvey loved it. It had been pre-
sented to him years before by a criminal of inter-
national fame as a token of sincere regard. Other-
wise unemployed, Jim was in the habit of sitting by
the hour with his fat fingers toying with the toothpick.
Gerald had once hinted that the weapon might better
be concealed. His insinuation resulted merely in
debate.
“Stick it away? Why?”
“A toothpick 22
“Say, listen, Mr. Corwin; have you ever seen a hand-
somer toothpick?”
~


80 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
…~
“No, but 25
“Well, I haven't either. That's why I'm proud to
have folks see it. It’s absolutely the swellest tooth-
pick in captivity.”
No arguing against that, but from the first hour of
the acquaintanceship Corwin reviled the fates which
decreed that for two weeks he should be under Han-
vey’s eye.
The thing was absurd of course. Corwin, fearless
and no mean athlete, was well able to take care of
himself and fulfill the delicate mission with which he
had been intrusted—a mere matter of securing a proxy
from Col. Robert E. Warrington and returning with it
to New York in time for the annual meeting of the
stockholders. He was not a simpleton and there was
no doubting his integrity. Why, then, this grotesque
and goggle-eyed sleuth?
Matter of fact, Jim had appeared wholly disinter-
ested since their departure from New York. All the
way across country he had slouched in their drawing-
room, staring through the window with his great, fishy
eyes. Those eyes annoyed Corwin. They seemed in-
capable of vision. They were inhuman, stupid, glassy
eyes which reflected no intelligence. Corwin fancied
himself the victim of a stupendous hoax; it was un-
believable that this man could rightfully possess a repu-
tation to justify the present assignment.
The meal was torture to the fastidious younger man.
There was no denying that Jim enjoyed his dinner, but
the enjoyment was too obvious. Jim caught the dis-


COMMON STOCK 81
approving glance of his companion and interpreted it
rightly.
“’Sall right, Mr. Corwin. Eatin' ain't no art with
me. It’s a pleasure.”
Corwin flushed. Suddenly he discovered that Jim
was not listening. Hanvey had turned slightly and
was gazing into a mirror which reflected a section of
the huge dining room. Corwin followed the direction
of his gaze and saw that the object of his scrutiny was
a man of medium size but muscular figure who was
searching for a table.
Hanvey was interested, and as an indication of that
interest he blinked in his interminably deliberate man-
ner, lids closing heavily over the fishy eyes, remaining
shut for a second, then uncurtaining even more slowly.
And finally, when the newcomer had seated himself,
Jim nodded toward him and addressed Corwin.
“Yonder's the answer,” he said.
Corwin shook his head in puzzlement.
“To What?”
“Me.”
“I don’t quite understand.”
“See that feller who just come in?”
“Yes.”
“It’s him.”
Corwin inspected the newcomer with fresh interest.
The man was of a type, one of those optimistic individ-
uals who futilely struggle to acquire gentility and who
fondly believe they have succeeded. In every studied
move of the man one could discern mental effort.


82 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
Even the hypercorrect raiment was subtly suggestive
of a disguise. There was nothing flagrantly wrong
with the man, just as there was nothing quite as it
should be. Corwin, himself not an overly keen stu-
dent of human nature, could yet fancy the stranger's
manner of speech—careful, precise, stilted, rather
malapropian, with here and there a moment of forget-
fulness, with its reversion to downright bad grammar.
He turned back to Hanvey.
“Who?”
“Billy Scanlan, alias Gentleman William, alias
Flash Billy, alias Roger van Dorn, alias, a half dozen
other things. He's done time in Joliet and Sing Sing.
He's a good friend of mine.” The faintest sugges-
tion of a smile played about the corners of Jim's
mouth. “An’ he’s why your crowd hired me to trail
you out here.”
It was quite plain to Hanvey, but Corwin was
puzzled.
“I don’t yet understand.”
“You don’t? Gosh, son, there couldn't anything be
any plainer! We ain’t never discussed what brought
you out here, but I know all about it just the same; an'
since you prob'ly won't answer no questions, I'll tell
you what I know. The Quincy-Scott gang started a
drive recently to grab off the control of the K. R. & P.
Railroad from McIntosh and his crowd. Before Mc-
Intosh woke up the Quincy bunch had coralled every
loose vote, enough to give them a control in the forth-
comin' stockholders’ meetin’. When McIntosh got


COMMON STOCK 83
wise he knew that his only hope was Colonel Warring-
ton out here in Los Angeles, the colonel ownin’ about
ninety thousand shares of common stock. So he tele-
phoned the old bird and found out that he wasn’t inter-
ested in the fight one way or the other; that he'd al-
ready been approached by the Quincy-Scott combina-
tion an' had turned ’em down cold an’ final, which
seemed to indicate that with a little proper persuasion
he’d be willin’ to deliver a proxy to McIntosh. It
bein’’most time for the meetin', an’ things bein’ pretty
desperate, they sent you out to get the proxy from the
ol' gent, his proxy gettin’ there meanin' victory for
McIntosh, an its failure leavin’ the vote control with
Quincy an’ Scott. Ain't it so?”
Corwin was staring at Hanvey in amazement. The
pudgy detective had been speaking disinterestedly,
casually, but he had the most intimate facts at his
finger tips. Corwin nodded before he thought, then bit
his tongue.
“I’m not at liberty to say whether or not you're cor-
rect, Mr. Hanvey.”
“Sure you ain’t. You're dead right, son. Don't
you never spill no beans to nobody no time. I wasn’t
tryin’ to pump you. I got the dope straight from
headquarters. I was just tellin' you so you’d under-
stand that I know why I was sent out with you, an’so
you’d understand too.”
Hanvey paused, and as though that ended the mat-
ter he extracted from an elaborately engraved and
sadly tarnished silver-plated cigar case two huge black


84 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
invincibles, one of which he reluctantly extended to his
companion. Corwin declined, and Jim sighed re-
lievedly as he tenderly returned the cigar to its place.
He lighted the other, inhaled with gusto and blew a
cloud of the smoke into the air.
“I still don't understand, Mr. Hanvey.”
Jim jerked his head toward Scanlan. “Billy's been
sent out by the Quincy gang. His job is to keep that
proxy from getting to New York in time for the stock-
holders’ meeting.”
“O-O-Oh! 25
Corwin's jaw hardened, his sinewy frame tensed and
a fighting light blazed in his fine, level eyes.
Jim grinned.
“They ain't gonna try no rough stuff. That ain’t
Bill Scanlan's way of workin’. He's one of the
Smoothest con men in the known world, but he ain’t
rough—not Billy. He's smooth as butter.”
“Then how 22
“Easy enough, son. He'll be on the same train that
carries us back east, an’ before we get to Chicago he'll
swipe that proxy. At least that’s what he's figurin’
he's goin’ to do.” -
Matters were clarifying slightly in the brain of young
Corwin. But his curiosity was still unsatisfied.
“If I may ask, Mr. Hanvey, how do you know that
he is the Quincy-Scott agent?”
Jim shrugged his fat shoulders.
“Easy enough. Y'see, it’s this way: When the


COMMON STOCK 85
good Lord manufactured me he forgot to hand me out
any good looks an' he slipped me entirely too much
figger. But he didn’t find that out until too late, so
what he did to make up for it was to give me a mem'ry.
I’ve got a mem'ry like a cam'ra, son. I just naturally
don't forget things, an’ I’ve sort of built up the rep
of knowin' more professional crooks than any other
ten men put together. McIntosh knew that the other
crowd would engage a professional crook to get the
proxy away from you, it not bein’ no job for an
amachoor. He was sure to foller you out here, an’ the
way he was plannin’ to work was to scrape an acquaint-
ance with you, you never suspectin’ nothin', which
would have made things pretty easy for Billy. I just
trailed along to sort of point out to you the feller you
wasn’t safe with, an’ Billy Scanlan is him.”
Gerald Corwin felt a fresh respect for the fat man
with the bovine expression, and a bit of his resent-
ment vanished at the same time, for he now under-
stood one or two things which before had left him
wholly puzzled and more than a trifle resentful.
They finished their meal in silence. The check paid,
they rose and started from the dining room, but Han-
vey took Corwin's arm.
“C'mon over an’ lemme introduce you to Billy.
It'll sort of make things easier for him, bein’ introduced
formal-like, an’ the poor feller's got a tough-enough
job on his hands as it is.”
Startled but obedient, Corwin followed, and he saw


86 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
the expression of incredulous amazement, not untinged
with apprehension, which flashed into Scanlan's face
as they paused by his table.
“Hello, Billy!”
Scanlan rose slowly. His jaw was set and it was
plain that he was struggling to orient himself to this
bizarre situation. He strove to make his tone casual.
“Hello, Jim!”
Hanvey was exceedingly gracious.
“Lemme introduce my friend Mr. Corwin. Mr.
Corwin is the feller you was sent out here to watch,
Billy. Mr. Corwin, shake hands with Mr. Scanlan.”
Awkwardly the two men—one an innate gentleman
and the other a student at the school of gentility—
shook hands. Corwin was a trifle sorry for Scanlan.
The man seemed afraid of Jim Hanvey.
“I’m pleased to meet Mr. Corwin.”
“Sure you are.” The voice of Hanvey chimed in
genially. “Didn't you come all the way from New
York just for that? An’ wasn’t you wonderin’ how
you was gonna work it? That's me—always ready
to help out a friend, Billy—so I up an’ introduces you
fellers.”
“It’s real kind of you, Jim”—Scanlan was choosing
his words with scrupulous care—“but I don’t quite—
er—comprehend what you're driving at.”
“No?” Hanvey's bushy eyebrows arched in sur-
prise. “I’d sure hate to think that you wasn’t tellin’
me the truth, Billy.”
“I really don’t understand your—a-innuendoes.


COMMON STOCK 87
I'm in Los Angeles on a vacation and without no
definite objective.”
“Sure, Billy, sure! I know that. You're a gent of
leisure, you are. But if you could grab off that fat
wad the Quincy-Scott people hung under your nose,
you wouldn’t have no objections, would you?”
Scanlan's hand dropped on Hanvey’s shoulder and he
gazed earnestly into the eyes of the detective, Corwin
for the moment forgotten.
“Honest, Jim, I’m runnin' straight. I ain’t plannin'
a thing. So leave me be, won't you?”
“I ain’t aimin’ to bother you none, Billy. Good-
ness knows, you’re too much of a gent to be in jail.
Only it just struck me that I was doin' you a favor
by introducin' you to Mr. Corwin, him an' you both
bein’ genuine swells an’ li’ble to have a heap in com-
mon.”
Suddenly reawakened to consciousness of Corwin's
presence, Scanlan pulled himself together.
“Mr. Hanvey is bound to have his little joke, Mr.
Corwin. A very interesting chap, isn’t he?”
Corwin inclined his head gravely.
“Very.”
Hanvey regarded them amusedly.
“You fellers like each other?”
They nodded.
“That's fine! I'm sure glad!” He turned away,
then swung back suddenly. “By the way, Billy, we're
leaving on the California Limited Friday morning, ten
o'clock. We've got Drawin'-room A in Car S-17.


88 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
I’m tellin' you so you can get your reservations early
on that train. Eastern travel is awful thick these
days.”
They parted from the bewildered Scanlan. In the
sanctuary of Hanvey's room Gerald Corwin voiced
his displeasure.
“You are probably a very great detective, Mr. Han-
vey 22
“Naw! Not me! I’m just a fat, lucky bum.”
“But it strikes me that you volunteered some valu-
able information unnecessarily.”
“To Billy?”
“Yes.”
“HOW SO?”
“About our reservations east. Why did you tell him
the correct day?”
“I never lie to a crook,” said Jim gravely. “It ain’t
fair. Besides, if they’re good enough crooks to be
worth lyin' to a feller ain't gonna get away with it.
Billy will check up, an’ once he found I’d lied to him
he'd lose all confidence in me.”
“But I don’t see what difference it makes.”
“That's 'cause you're a business man, son. Detec-
tives an’ crooks know the value of tellin' the truth.”
“You didn’t have to tell him who I was.”
“No-o, that's true. But it saved him a heap of
trouble.”
“I don’t understand your desire to save him trouble.”
“It's this way, Mr. Corwin: The less trouble Billy
has to take the more time he'll have for thinkin', an'


90 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
tective. So he waited patiently in the lobby, watching
the elevator bank, and eventually he was rewarded
when Gerald Corwin descended, walked swiftly to the
street and hailed a taxi.
As he drove off, Scanlan stepped into another cab.
“Follow that cab ahead. Keep about a block in the
rear. When he stops you stop.”
As Scanlan drove off, he glanced over his shoulder
in time to see the ungainly figure of Jim Hanvey climb
laboriously into yet a third taxi. He did not quite
fathom Jim's motive in following, but he didn't care
particularly. He knew that Jim knew he'd trail Cor-
win. So much for that.
Corwin's taxi driver, evidently aware that his fare
was unfamiliar with the vastness of Los Angeles, Se-
lected a circuitous route to the Wilshire Boulevard
address of Colonel Warrington. He drove through the
traffic to Pico and via that important thoroughfare to
Western Avenue, swinging across then to the fashion-
able Wilshire section, a tremendous area of spotlessly
white homes, immaculate lawns, stiff and artificial gar-
dening and aggressive affluence. Before the gates of a
huge home, the grounds of which occupied an entire
block, Corwin's taxi stopped. Gerald retained his man
and entered the Warrington mansion. A block farther
down Wilshire Boulevard Scanlan's taxi halted, and a
half block behind that Jim Hanvey left his taxi.
Jim, alone of the three, dismissed his driver. And
then, slowly and purposefully, puffing on a cigar, Jim
waddled up the street toward Scanlan's automobile.


92 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
ond young man returned with the first and in his hand
was a small notarial seal. It was obvious to Scanlan
that if there was a notary in the law firm he was out
at the moment. Alone again, Scanlan ascertained the
name of the notary—Leopold Jones.
When Warrington and Corwin descended in an ele-
vator a few minutes later Scanlan did not follow. In-
stead he produced from his pocket an income-tax blank
and went with it to the office of Leopold Jones. Of
that young gentleman he requested an attestation of
his income-tax return. Mr. Jones found Mr. Scanlan
an engaging talker and they chatted for several min-
utes. When Mr. Scanlan eventually departed Mr.
Jones was happily unaware of the fact that in Mr.
Scanlan's coat pocket reposed his, Mr. Jones', nota-
rial seal.
From the office building Scanlan visited the city
ticket office of the Santa Fe Railroad. He learned
readily enough that Drawing-room A in Car S-17,
California Limited, for Friday morning had been sold
the day previous to a very fat gentleman. He bought
Compartment C in the same car. He returned to the
hotel.
Thus far things appeared propitious for Mr.
Scanlan.
Jim was a hindrance, of course, and a grave one;
but Scanlan operated on the theory that no vigilance
is so keen that it cannot be eluded. There remained
nothing now save the trip east. At some time between
the departure from Los Angeles and the arrival in


COMMON STOCK 93
Chicago it was incumbent upon Mr. Scanlan to se-
cure from Corwin the Warrington proxy.
That night—Wednesday—the three men dined to-
gether, Corwin's distaste swallowed up by his keening
interest in the peculiar friendship existing between
Hanvey and Scanlan. Corwin had always held the
idea that criminals and detectives clashed on sight;
that the former were habitually in flight and the latter
constantly in pursuit. To see them chatting amiably
about topics in general, reminiscing over past esca-
pades of Scanlan and exploits of other criminals and
swapping theories on unsolved crimes was astounding.
Corwin found it hard to reconcile himself to the fact
that at the moment the porty detective and the would-
be-gentleman crook were engaged in a battle of wits.
He later discussed the matter with Hanvey.
“Why don’t you arrest Scanlan?”
“Arrest him? He ain’t done nothin’.”
“He’s planning to.”
“You can’t arrest a man for what he's got in his
head. If you could the jails’d be overflowin’.”
“You could arrest him for that McCarthy affair I
heard him telling you about. He confesses he was in-
volved in the Swindle.”
“Aw, you know I wouldn't touch him for that!
He just passed that dope on as a friend.”
“But I didn't know that policemen and criminals
were friends.” -
Hanvey smiled wistfully.
“’Bout the only friends I got in this world, son, are


94. JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
crooks. Most of them are servin' time. Some of 'em
I put there. But we’re friends. This here solid-gold
watch charm—that was given me by one of the niftiest
con men in the world. I sure hated to send him up.”
They checked out of the hotel Friday morning.
Billy Scanlan was at the station when they arrived.
The heavy train rumbled under the shed and they
settled themselves for the three-day journey to Chicago.
At Hanvey’s invitation Scanlan joined them in the
drawing-room and they became absorbed in a game of
setback at half a cent a point.
Hanvey and Scanlan waxed violently enthusiastic
over the game— “King for high.” “Trey low?”
“Well, dog-gone your ornery hide—” “You’re a
rotten setback player, Mr. Corwin; y’oughta learn
somethin' 'bout the fine points of the game.”
Nothing to indicate that a crisis was approaching,
no outward manifestation of the drama which was im-
minent. Occasionally Corwin reassured himself by
touching his coat, in the lining of which was sewed the
envelope containing the proxy which controlled a rail-
road. Once Hanvey saw the gesture and he laughed.
“It’s safe all right, son. It’ll stay safe unless you
lose your coat.”
Corwin flushed angrily. Hanvey rightly interpreted
his anger and extended a fat and reassuring hand.
“I wasn't giving no dope away. Billy knew where
you had the proxy, didn't you, Billy?”
Scanlan nodded.
“Sure! It's the regular place.”


96 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
“Took your coat by accident, Mr. Corwin. Just dis-
covered my mistake.”
Corwin's face blanched. He grabbed the coat and
touched the spot were the proxy had been. For a
single wild instant Corwin contemplated bodily assault,
and only the hulking figure of Jim Hanvey and his
slow, drawling voice prevented.
“What's the matter, son? What's the matter?
You look all het up.”
“This thief—” -
“Whoa, son, whoal That ain't no kind of a name
to call a crook.”
Corwin whirled on Hanvey. -
“You don’t know what you're talking about! This
man has that proxy! He just stole it from me!”
Jim was unperturbed. He turned mildly reproving
eyes upon the amused countenance of his friend.
“You didn’t go an’ do that, did you, Billy?”
Scanlan grinned.
“Mr. Corwin seems to think so.”
“Well, I’ll be dog-goned! Let's git together an’
kinder talk things over.”
Back through the swaying, grinding cars went the
procession, Scanlan leading, Hanvey next and Corwin
bringing up the rear. Corwin was in a cold fury. He
felt that he was being made ridiculous—they were
laughing at him. He didn’t like the looks of the whole
business anyway. What assurance had he that Han-
vey and Scanlan were not confederates? They were
suspiciously intimate, and Hanvey must have seen


98 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
“I do. I mean just that exact thing, Son.”
“Well, I will!”
Scanlan meekly submitted to the search. Once as
Corwin's trembling, clumsy fingers probed into a
pocket he deliberately winked at Hanvey, and at the
conclusion of the personal search Scanlan led the way
to his compartment. Twenty minutes later Corwin,
dispirited and dully angry, returned to the drawing-
room, where he found Hanvey gazing stolidly out of
the window. The detective spoke without turning his
head.
“When you git peeved, son, you sure git peeved all
over.”
The younger man did not answer. He slouched
opposite and tried to think, to piece together the ends
of this tangled skein. He was distrustful of every
one, particularly of the slothful Hanvey. Jim's only
other remark did not add to his comfort.
“You sure was careless with that coat, Mr. Corwin
—awful careless.”
Hanvey was right. He had been careless, inexcus-
ably so. True, there had been a feeling of safety in
the knowledge that Hanvey was also in the barber
shop; but there was small solace in the thought that
it wasn’t entirely his fault that too great confidence
had been placed by his employer in Hanvey’s ability.
And now, should Hanvey fail to recover the proxy, he
—Corwin—was ruined, a brilliant career abruptly and
ignominiously terminated.
Meanwhile, in Compartment C, behind a locked


COMMON STOCK 99
door, Scanlan was busy. He obtained a table from the
porter and then proceeded to open his suitcase, to un-
pack it, to remove a false bottom and extract from the
space disclosed a sheaf of legal appearing documents.
Each of these was strikingly similar to the proxy which
lay beside them on the table.
Then slowly and painstakingly Scanlan prepared a
duplicate proxy, being very careful that his forging of
Colonel Warrington's name should be patently a for-
gery. The finished job was a masterpiece. No one
unfamiliar with Warrington's signature could guess that
this was not genuine, yet a comparison left no room
for doubt that Scanlan's work was a forgery. Care-
fully he inscribed the attestation, affixing thereto the
impress of the notarial seal he had stolen from the office
of Mr. Leopold Jones. That done, he viewed his
handiwork with pardonable pride. He next destroyed
the other blank proxies which had been prepared by
the Quincy-Scott crowd in New York, placed the
forged proxy in the false bottom of his suitcase and
put the genuine proxy in an outside pocket of his
COat. -
At lunch time Scanlan found Hanvey sitting alone at
one end of the diner while Corwin sulked at the other.
The crook paused by the detective's table and cheer-
fully accepted Hanvey’s invitation to join. Jim
nodded toward the tragic figure at the other end of
the car.
“You sure have played tarnation thunder with that
kid, Billy.”


I00 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
Scanlan shook his head. Naturally tender-hearted,
he was genuinely regretful.
“Business is business, Jim.”
“Yep, 'So it is. Kinda tough on the kid, though.
He feels bad, knowin’ he played right into your hands.
An' I ain’t feelin’ any too spry myself.” The detec-
tive's dull eyes turned toward his companion and
blinked slowly. “Where have you got that proxy,
Billy?”
Scanlan laughed.
“I haven’t admitted that I have it.”
“No-o. An' I didn’t ask you to admit nothin'.
The point bein’ that you can’t get away with it, kid.
I’ll have you held when we get to Chicago and search
you—a search that is a search.”
Scanlan registered apprehension.
“That ain’t fair, Jim. “You ain’t got a lick of
proof that I have the proxy.”
“Nope. But I intend to get it.”
From the diner Scanlan went back to the observa-
tion platform to think things over. He did not relish
the prospect of an additional thirty-six hours on the
same car with Hanvey. He contemplated dropping
off at Albuquerque, then thought better of it. Jim
would merely remain with him. And then an idea
‘Came.
At eight o'clock the train pulled into the handsome
station at the capital of New Mexico for a one-hour
layover. Scanlan walked swiftly up the street toward
the post office. There he prevailed upon a registry


COMMON STOCK 101
clerk to accept a letter. In a long envelope he in-
closed a note to Phares Scott and with it the proxy he
had that day stolen from Gerald Corwin. He sent the
document both special delivery and registered. It
would get to New York a day or two late, perhaps, but
still in ample time for the meeting. Besides, it was
not essential that it get there at all. It was only
necessary that the McIntosh forces be deprived of its
possession.
Scanlan would have destroyed the thing in prefer-
ence, but he knew that he would have difficulty in
collecting his fee unless the document itself was pro-
duced.
But even though Billy Scanlan had left the train
at Albuquerque, Hanvey and Corwin had not.
Hanvey, making quite sure that Scanlan had
gone, entered Scanlan's compartment in Corwin's
company. The manner of the big detective had
momentarily lost its sluggishness. He questioned
Corwin.
“Where'd you search?”
Corwin told him. Jim shook his massive head.
“How 'bout his Suitcase?”
“I looked in there, of course.”
“Sure—of course you did, son. Naturally. But
let's us try it again.”
Jim dumped the contents unceremoniously on the
seat. With deft fingers he went through every gar-
ment and even inspected the contents of the rolled
traveling case.


102 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
“You see,” commented Corwin resentfully. “I
told you nothing was there.”
Hanvey paid him no heed. He had closed the suit-
case and was inspecting it carefully. Then suddenly
he turned it over and thumped it with a heavy, spatu-
late finger. His pursy lips creased into a smile.
“Think we got somethin', son.”
“What?”
“We’ll See.”
The suitcase was reopened and Hanvey fumbled in-
side for a moment. Then a button unfastened here
and one there and he removed the false bottom. He
extended the envelope to Corwin.
“Better see that he don’t get another chance at it,
Son.”
With fingers that trembled the younger man spread
open the forged proxy, never questioning its genuine-
ness. There it was—Warrington's signature, Jones'
attestation, the notarial seal. Corwin seized Jim's
hand and wrung it gratefully. His voice was choky.
“I’ve been a rotter, Mr. Hanvey. I suspected you
of being a confederate—”
“’Sall right, Mr. Corwin. 'Sall right. Don't slop
over.”
“I can’t help it. I feel like a cur.”
“Gwan!” Hanvey was touched by the boyish
gratitude of his young friend. “Let’s get this stuff
back in here. Scanlan’ll spot that we have the thing,
but it wouldn’t be decent to leave his stuff all spread
out like this.”


COMMON STOCK 103
Ten minutes before leaving time Scanlan returned
to his compartment. He opened his suitcase,
discerned the disorder—and grinned. Then, pre-
tending disappointment and fury, he rapped on
the door of Drawing-room A. Inside he faced
Corwin. -
“You wanted to start something a little while ago,
Mr. Corwin,” he snapped, “when you thought I copped
a paper from your coat. Well, I’m here to say that
whenever you're ready you just wade right in, because,
no matter what I’ve done, I never robbed a gent's
suitcase.”
A hard, chill smile appeared on Corwin's lips. He
rose slowly. From the window seat Hanvey viewed
the tableau amusedly.
“Get out!” ordered Corwin.
“Put me out!”
“Get out or I shall!”
Scanlan's eyes met those of the other man, and Scan-
lan discreetly withdrew.
But that night Scanlan lay in his berth, Smoking and
smiling. Success had blessed his strategy. The War-
rington proxy was en route to New York by registered
mail, the envelope specifically marked “For Delivery
to Addressee Only.” Better still, Jim Hanvey thought
he had recovered the document. There was the
strongest point in Scanlan's favor—the fact that Jim
was smugly contented. Now all he had to do was to
assume the attitude of a man thwarted. He was a
trifle sorry for poor old Jim, yet it was no lack of


104 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
acumen on Jim's part, but rather a superlative cunning
on his own.
During the final twenty-four hours of the journey to
Chicago, Gerald Corwin clung to the supposed
proxy with a pitiful grimness. Alone with Hanvey in
their drawing-room, he sat with his hand against the
pocket of his coat. He shaved himself. He slept with
the coat for a pillow.
“He got it once,” he explained to Hanvey. “He
won't again.”
Jim Smiled.
“Once ought to be enough for any man.”
“What made you think of a false bottom to that
suitcase, Mr. Hanvey?”
“Same thing that made Billy think of the lining of
your coat. Plumb obvious. Gosh! I'll bet Billy's
ravin’.”
Corwin was frankly admiring.
“And I thought you were no good! I even thought
you might be double-crossing McIntosh!”
“That's right, son; that's right. Never trust nobody
an' you’ll never get a shock. That’s my motto. The
honester a person is supposed to be the easier he can
crook you.”
They reached Chicago at noon of the following day.
Hanvey and Corwin boarded the Pennsylvania for New
York. Scanlan secured a berth on the New York Cen-
tral. Freed from the Scanlan menace, Corwin thawed
slightly and attempted to make late amends to his bene-


COMMON STOCK 105
factor. He even summoned sufficient courage to re-
quest a closer inspection of Jim's gold toothpick and to
say complimentary things about the fearful weapon
which had been anathema to him. Jim bloomed un-
der the praise of his decoration.
“Feller that gave me that had sense,” he said ear-
nestly. “It ain't only beautiful—it's useful.”
Corwin repressed a shudder.
“I suppose it is.”
The gratitude of the younger man was pathetic.
He grimly determined to invite Jim to dinner some
night—the ultimate test of his fortitude.
They reached New York on time and repaired im-
mediately to the offices of the K. R. & P. There Gerald
Corwin delivered over to Garet McIntosh the Warring-
ton proxy. McIntosh congratulated the young man
and assured him of the directors' appreciation. But
before leaving the room Corwin made a straight-eyed
confession.
“You must thank Mr. Hanvey,” he said. “The proxy
was stolen from me on the train and Mr. Hanvey re-
Covered it.” - }
“Good!” McIntosh dismissed Corwin with a nod
and reached for his notebook. “How about it,
Hanvey?”
Jim grinned. “Don’t listen to nothin’ the kid says,
Mr. McIntosh. He's game all through, that lad. But
it was funny.”
At that moment Billy Scanlan faced Phares Scott


108 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
proxy off Corwin; I was there to see you did get it
so you wouldn’t bother me none, me bein’ the real
messenger.”
Headache forgotten, Billy Scanlan leaped for his
Suitcase and commenced a frenzy of packing.
“I might've known you were too easy, Jim! I
might've known it! Anyway, they paid me off yester-
da 22
“That's what tickles me,” replied Jim; ‘you gittin’
paid. for that proxy. It’s a swell joke on them fellers.
An' say, I got somethin’ to show you. You know
young Corwin was awful grateful for what I done.”
“He should have been.” -
“He was. He sent me a present this morning.
Ain't it swell?” -
And beaming with pride Hanvey exhibited the gift
of the fastidious Gerald Corwin.
It was a gold-handled toothbrush.


HELEN OF TRoy, N. Y.
y | WHE first summer blast of a Southern spring-
time failed to inspire Jim Hanvey to hallelu-
jahs. The mammoth detective lounged un-
comfortably in his tiny apartment, cursing the unkind
fates which had first been too liberal in their appor-
tionment of avoirdupois and then caused him to be
temporarily located in that section of the country
where the intense heat makes for healthy cotton and
lethargic humanity. -
Southern spring is a season of constant doubt and
surprise. One goes to bed innocent of sheets and
arises shiveringly at three in the morning to resurrect
blankets from a moth-ball depository. Overcoats
are one day in order, and on the next palm-beach suits
are inspected longingly. On Wednesday the fresh
young leaves will struggle against the near-frost of the
previous night, and on Thursday wilt before the rav-
ages of unseasonable heat. Winter does not merge
gently into summer. The thermometer fluctuates
uncertainly like a woman torn between the competitive
allure of two bargain counters.
Today it was hot, genuinely and unreservedly hot,
and Jim's physique had never been intended to with-
stand heat. He slumped miserably in a wicker chair,
puffing disconsolately upon a cigar and staring with
109


110 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
fixed distaste at the weather forecast: “Clear. Con-
tinued warm.”
A profound sigh escaped from the recesses of Jim
Hanvey. “O death, where is thy heat?”
Jim was capable of intense feeling, and this day
that capability was working overtime. He was utterly
and Supremely unhappy both as to the present and in
contemplation of the future. If this was April, what,
then, would July be?
He scarcely heard the clangor of his telephone, and
only when that instrument had sent its raucous sum-
mons dinning into his ears for the third time did he
conscript sufficient energy to hoist himself from the
wicker chair. His voice was not at all friendly.
{{ 'LO! »
“Hello!” A queer, interested expression flitted over
Jim's features. Woman's voice. Hmph! “Is that
Mr. Hanvey?”
“Almost.”
“This is a friend of yours, Jim.”
“Ain’t got any friends today. Too hot.”
“I’m coming up.”
“That’s fine. Apartment 4-B. Door's unlocked.
Walk right in.”
“Good!”
“And, say?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t expect me to get up. When the mercury
climbs this high I stay put.”
He recrossed the room and slumped down into his


HELEN OF TROY, N. Y. 111
chair again; but no longer did his face reflect the
misery of the flesh.
His florid countenance was wrinkled speculatively.
The voice of the woman had been vaguely familiar;
memory probed inquisitively into the past. Jim shook
his tremendous head from side to side.
“She called me Jim an' said she was a friend of
mine.”
Pudgy fingers toyed idly with the hawserlike watch
chain connecting his timepiece and himself.
The front door opened. Footsteps sounded from
the hallway. All outward indication of interest fled
from Jim's face leaving it as expressionful as the vis-
age of a cow at milking time. Then the woman ap-
peared in the doorway, and instantly Jim recognized
her. The heartiness of his greeting was thoroughly
sincere.
“Helen of Troy.” He smiled and added, “New
York.”
The woman swept across the room and pressed a
light kiss on the forehead of the detective.
“Dear old Jim! It's good to see you again.”
“Yeh, ain't it? Lord! I'm hot.” Jim's eyelids
drooped with exasperating slowness over his fishy orbs,
held shut for a moment, then opened again. “Step
over yonder, Helen. Lemme give you the once-over.”
The woman obeyed, and Jim nodded approvingly.
“Million dollars—plus, Helen. That’s you.”
She was far from unattractive as she stood by the
window. True, she was not of the general type which


112 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
inspires the plaudits of a connoisseur; but for all
practical purposes she was there seven ways from the
ace. In the first place she was blond—magnificently
and unyieldingly blond from the shrieking crown of
gold upon her head to the tips of her long, slender,
dead-white fingers. She was amply supplied with a
figure which had been apportioned liberally and with
an eye to ensemble rather than lissomeness. The
effect was not to be denied: Floppy white panama
with orchid trimmings; an elaborate street dress of
white and orchid crêpe de chine; orchid stockings of
chiffon, and white shoes. She pridefully submitted to
his inspection and thrilled to his comment.
Said he, “Once seen, never forgotten.”
“You think I'm looking well, Jim?”
“Terrible good. Terrible.” He mopped his fore-
head. “How do you stand this heat?”
She laughed.
“We’ve lived South ever since we were married.
That's six years.”
“And three months,” he amplified. “Ever since
Johnny finished that last stretch. Me, I’d just as lief
be in stir. Sit down. How's Johnny?”
The woman's face clouded slightly.
“It’s about him I came to see you, Jim.”
“Much obliged to Johnny.” He relighted his cigar.
“What's he doin’ now? Con?”
She shook her head.
“We’ve been straight ever since we hitched up. You
ought to know that, Jim.”


HELEN OF TROY, N. Y. 113
“Ought to. Just thought maybe he was keepin’
away from my line. I’m with the Bankers’ Protec-
tive now, you know.”
“I know it; that's why I came to you.”
He stretched out.
“Spill it, Helen. I’m all ears—all ears and per-
spiration, I mean.”
“You’ve always been a friend of ours, Jim. You
play Square. You sent Johnny up once, but he didn’t
hold that against you; it was all his fault for gettin’
caught. And he made a regular killin' that time,
Jim—you remember they never did get the stuff.
Well, when he got out we decided to get married and
go straight. Of course we didn't know how we'd like
it, but we did think it was worth trying—understand?”
“Sure! Novelty. Any time you didn’t like it you
could turn crooked again.”
“That's it. Well, I’ve liked it, an’ so has Johnny.
No dicks worryin' us, everything running smooth.
It's been a real nice experience, Jim. I never would
have believed there was so much fun in bein’ honest.
And after a while—well, it sort of gets to be a habit.
Now I’ve come to the point where I wouldn't change
for anything.”
She paused. He blinked with disconcerting slow-
IneSS.
“Well?”
She leaned forward tensely.
“Johnny's planning to pull a job!”
“Huh?”


114 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
“Johnny's planning to pull another job. He's got
a chance for a neat killing, and he's going to try it.”
Jim's head rolled sorrowfully upon his fat shoulders.
“That's too dog-goned bad! After runnin' straight
this long!”
“It is too bad, Jim. That's why I've come to you.”
“What's why?”
“I want you to keep him straight. I know I can
trust you, so I’m going to slip you the whole works,
and I want you to steer him off. There ain’t a bit of
sense to his going crooked again. We’ve got all the
money we need; but the thing looks so easy—you
know how it is.”
“Uh-huh. I know. What you expect me to do?”
“The job he’s planning, Jim, is a bank job. That
would bring you into it.”
Jim's lips drew into a protuberant circle and a low
whistle escaped.
“Bank job, eh? His old line. That's plumb silly.”
“I’ve told him so; told him a dozen times. But he
says it's a cinch. Sure thing. Bah!”—bitterly.
“It’s a sure thing he wouldn’t get away with it.”
“But he thinks he can.”
“That's it. I know just how he feels, Jim. I've
felt that way myself a dozen times when I’ve seen
some dame out at the race track wearing a million
dollars’ worth of sparklers. I’d remember how good I
used to be at that sort of thing and my fingers would
just naturally itch. It seemed a shame to pass it up.


HELEN OF TROY, N. Y. 115
But”—righteously —“I’ve given temptation the go-by,
Jim. I haven’t pulled a job since I got hitched up to
Johnny, though I’ve had chances enough. You always
have when you're running straight. Sometimes I’ve
felt like I’d give everything I had just for the sport of
reducing the weight of some fat dame to the extent of
a coupla carats. Well, the bug's got Johnny now.
Things have played into his hands and he's rarin’ to go.
I told him you was down in this part of the country,
but he only laughed. ‘Reckon I can get away with
this in spite of Jim Hanvey,’ he said. The poor fish!
You know good and well, Jim, there ain't any crook
can buck you and get away with it, is there?”
Jim grinned.
“What you tryin’ to do—vamp me?”
“Lord forbid! It would be too much trouble for
the result.”
“That sounds more like my frank friend. Now
please continue to go on.”
“I’m going to give you a straight steer on this job
of Johnny's. I want to leave it all in your hands.
You ought to be able to head him off. I know I’m
foolish to be so dead set on honesty and all that sort
of romantic stuff, but I can’t help it. Reckon I’ve
been seeing too many movies or something.” She
leaned forward tensely, giving off an aroma of heavy
and expensive perfumes, her fingers glittering with an
imposing array of rings. “I want to stay straight,
Jim—I sure do! And I want Johnny to do likewise.”


116 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
Jim reached for a fresh cigar and settled back com-
fortably in his chair. -
“You don't mind these, do you, Helen?”
“We-e-ll, I haven’t any right to kick when I'm ask-
ing you a favor.”
“Thanks.”
He snipped off the end of the cigar and lighted up
with gusto.
“Since Johnny turned straight he's been gambling,”
she explained. “No rough stuff, nor nothing like
that. Of course I’m not claiming that he hasn’t rung
in the works once in a while when he's hooked a
particularly easy mark or that maybe he hasn’t man-
aged to read the backs of a few cards; but that's all
part of the profession. The point is he hasn’t been
crooked—understand?”
“Sure! I get you.”
“Last two seasons he's been oralizing down in New
Orleans—both tracks there: Fair Grounds and Jeffer-
son Parish. Business has been pretty good, but noth-
ing extra. New Orleans is a wise town on horses.
They’re the very devil on backing the favorites and
that’s awful tough on the bookies. Anyway racing
has kinder got into Johnny's blood. He started off
last year by buying a few cheap platers—called him-
self owning a stable. And finally he come into a two-
year-old that is a colt. Lightning Bolt is the name.’
Y’oughter see that angel run!
“Major Torrance clocked that baby one time in a
workout and wanted him; wanted him bad. Johnny


HELEN OF TROY, N. Y. 117
didn’t hanker to let him go. They talked price,
but nothing come of it. Everybody knew the old gent
was nuts on Lightning Bolt and was gonna get him
sooner or later—everybody except him. And just
recently Johnny found out that the major had booked
passage for Europe on the Homeric, sailing out of New
York day after tomorrow—Thursday. Also that
Torrance's stable was bein’ shipped North for the
New York season. And that's where Johnny fell.”
She paused, one white-shod foot tapping the floor.
Jim sat in supine silence, apparently oblivious of her
presence.
“Yes,” she continued tensely, “that's where Johnny
took his tumble. He told the major he'd sell Light-
ning Bolt, provided the old geezer would buy all the
rest of his stable—four other horses. The price for
the bunch was eight thousand dollars. The deal went
through. Those horses went North with the Torrance
stable the other day when the season ended in New
Orleans. Old man Torrance sails from New York in a
couple of days. Of course you can prove up on all of
this; the real point being that Johnny holds the major's
check for eight thousand dollars.”
Her voice died away. Out of the silence which fol-
lowed came Jim's drawling voice:
“An’ one little teeny letter added onto an eight makes
an eighty.”
The luxurious blonde glanced sharply at the big man
in the wicker chair, her eyes narrowing slightly.
“What made you think yy


118 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
“Two an’ two always did make four, sister.”
Her fingers interlaced nervously.
“That’s the layout, Jim. He's planning to raise that
check and make a getaway ” Her voice trailed
off. “And that isn’t all.”
“No?”
Jim's query was a mere indication of interest rather
than an effort to extract further information.
“Not all, Jim. It's this way—” She hitched her
chair closer and laid one ringed hand on Jim's knee.
The ponderous man seemed unmindful of it—for a mo-
ment. Then he moved away. “Just before Johnny
turned straight and married me he pulled one last big
job. It was regular and all that. The poor sucker
they caught was hog-tied; he didn’t dare let out a
yap. Johnny made a clean-up on it and with that
amount added to what he had he retired with about a
quarter of a million bucks.” There was conscious
pride in her final declaration: “Johnny never was a
piker.”
“He sure wasn’t, Helen. Great chap, Johnny.”
“That quarter of a million has been salted away in
Liberty Bonds. Johnny bought 'em at about 84 and
they’re pretty near par now. He's dead stuck on 'em;
says when they jumped in value it was the first honest
money he ever made. He never would touch 'em.
Kind of superstitious. But, Jim, he's planning to dig
into 'em now.” -
“Yeh?”


HELEN OF TROY, N. Y. 119
“He’s got a chance of opening a big gambling place
down near Juarez. Things like that take cash—a wad
of it. So Johnny is fixing to borrow on his Liberties.”
“Borrow?”
“Yes. He's superstitious about them, like I told
you, and he don’t want to sell. He figures he can bor-
row two hundred thousand on the things. Then he's
going to raise that Torrance check from eight thousand
to eighty. That'll give him, $280,000 in cash—more
than enough for what he wants. He'll sink a heap of
that into the business, and at the first opportunity he
plans to come back, redeem his Liberties and salt 'em
away again. Understand?”
Hanvey was apparently not listening. He stared
moodily through the window, lower jaw drooping, the
ash on his cigar perilously lengthy. Finally he turned
his glassy eyes upon her.
“How c'n you look so cool when it's so durned hot?”
She bit her lip.
“Do you understand, Jim?”
“Ehf” He blinked with interminable slowness.
“Oh, about Johnny an' his gamblin’ house an' the
Liberty Bonds an’ all that? Sure, that's easy.
Johnny's just naturally plannin’ to get wicked again,
ain’t he?”
“And I don't want him to. There ain't anything in
the world like being honest, Jim; I’ve found that out.
It's the grandest feeling I’ve ever had. I wouldn't
turn crooked again for anything in the world—unless


120 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
we really needed the money. I don’t want Johnny to.
He's been out of the game so long he's liable to pull a
boner and lose what he's got.”
“You sure spoke a mouthful then, sister. That's a
downright crude stunt Johnny is figgerin’ on pullin’.
Of course, him plannin’ to beat it into Mexico, any-
way 25
“I’d hate to live there. Never did like Mexican
cooking—chili an’ hot tamales and all that sort of
thing. And the climate—”
“Hotter’n this, ain't it?”
She didn't answer. For a few moments silence held
between them, tense silence punctured only by the tick-
ing of the cheap alarm clock on the mantel and the
bellowing of a group of boys playing in the street
below.
“You’ve got to help me, Jim—got to help me keep
Johnny straight. He'll listen to you where he laughs
at me.”
“Awful glad to do a little job like that, Helen. I’m
real anxious Johnny shouldn't turn crooked again.
He's got brains enough to make an honest livin’.
Lemme see—when’s he plannin’ to pass this bum
check?”
“Two or three days. You see, Jim, he'll borrow the
two hundred thousand on his bonds—borrow it from a
local banking house—Starnes & Company. When he
deposits their check for that amount he'll deposit
along with it Major Torrance's check for eighty thou-
sand; and the eighty-thousand one being so much


HELEN OF TROY, N. Y. 121
smaller than the other, they won't pay a whole lot of
attention to it. Then he'll check against the total sum.
Ain't that clever?”
“Awful!” He inhaled deeply. “Awful clever! A
good check for two hundred thousand and a bum one
for eighty, passed right through the bank. Then he
checks against 'em. Johnny sure uses his head for
somethin’ more than a hatrack.”
She rose and threw a light scarf across her plump
shoulders.
“You promise to keep him straight, Jim? You
promise?”
“Sure! Sure I promise, Helen! Dog-gone this
weather!”
She made her adieus and swung down the street
toward the city's largest hotel. One or two traveling
men ogled her and she expanded to the pleased con-
sciousness of the effect she was creating. It had al-
ways been thus, ever since her girlhood in Troy, New
York. Blessed with voluptuous blondness, men had
always flocked about her. Adulation had been all in
all to her until the advent of Johnny Norton, and to
him she capitulated utterly.
Johnny had been an honest and efficient wooer.
They teamed up and knocked about the country until
he made his final big killing. Then they married and
turned straight; but the strain of the past five years
had been terrific.
Helen rapped on the door of her room and Johnny
opened it in person. He was a small man, slender and


122 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
wiry and very much of a dandy in his lavender silk
shirt, his white sport shoes and his aggressively
checkered suit. He kissed her dutifully, then stepped
back, twisting his near-mustache. -
Three other men lounged about the room. There
was Slim Bolton, a card sharper, whose practice had
been largely confined to transatlantic liners; Happy
Gorman, who had attained fame—and a jail sentence
—by means of an astoundingly clever oil-stock Swin-
dle; and Connie Hawes, one-time counterfeiter and
generally expert flimflam artist. Their eyes were
focused interestedly upon the Junoesque figure of the
woman who stood with her back against the door,en-
joying to the ultimate her calcium moment.
“Well,” she announced pridefully, “Jim Hanvey fell
for it!”
There was a moment of tense silence.
At last, Johnny Norton pulling nervously at his mus-
tache, voiced the question which was uppermost in
the minds of all of them:
“You Sure?”
“Positive! You know how it is, boys. Jim has
got only one weakness and that's his heart. It's softer
than mush. He fell for that going-straight stuff like
a tabby for a fresh box of catnip. Honest, it was a
shame to take the money.”
Johnny grinned.
“He promised to keep me straight?”
“Yeh. Reckon it was the first time poor old Jim
was ever asked to do anything like that.” Her face


124 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
vey is called in of course, and first thing he asks
is where did they get the Liberty Bonds. And
when they tell him that a gent named John Roden Nor-
ton borrowed the money he would be most likely to
smell a mice; even two or three mices.”
“But when this happens 23
“Pff! You fellows are gonna lay low. And Jim al-
ready knows all about my borrowing the two hundred
thou. He even knows about the Juarez proposition,
and at the very moment you fellows are grabbing off
the bonds I’ll be with Jim Hanvey. Get that? He
not only is gonna be set easy on borrowing the coin,
but he's also gonna be right with me when the fire-
works are being shot. What's the result? I’ve got
a clean slate with Jim. I even let him induce me not
to raise Torrance's check—swell chance I’d have
raisin’ that bird's paper—and so Jim will be lovin’ me
real sweet and you guys will be beatin’ it to the border
with them quarter million dollars in bonds. You fel-
lers will cash 'em in somewheres jy
“How about the numbers? They ain’t registered
bonds, I know, but the minute that many are stolen
the banking house will notify the B. P. A. to watch
out—”
Helen of Troy had been too long in the background.
She didn’t like it. All her life she had been accus-
tomed to having men stare at her and hang upon her
words, and so now she took the floor again and gave
explanation to Slim Bolton, who had but recently


HELEN OF TROY, N. Y. 125
been impressed into service as the necessary fifth mem-
ber of the party.
“I and Happy worked out that game,” she explained.
“Happy is awful keen on stocks and bonds and things
like that, so he knew that we’d have to watch out for
those numbers. So what we'll do is this: Johnny,
here, has already made arrangements for the loan—
told the banking house just what he wants the money
for—and on Thursday he's to swap the bonds and his
note for the cash. He's due to be on hand at eleven
o'clock in the morning, but he ain’t gonna be. He's
gonna get there about half-past one, the banks in this
burg closin' up at two o'clock. He'll hand over the
bonds to the president of the banking house and that
bird will check over the bond numbers with Johnny,
Johnny having them written down formal-like on a
piece of paper.
“And here's the point, Slim: The numbers that
Johnny reads out will be the numbers of the bonds all
right, but the numbers he reads won’t be the numbers
that are written down on this slip of paper.
“Minute he does that he's gonna ask the banker to
give him the check quick so he can deposit before the
bank closes, with the result that the banker will accept
that list and will give Johnny's slip to the bookkeeper
for entering in the journal. In other words, the num-
bers that they’ll enter up won’t be the numbers of
the bonds at all, and there won’t be any check when
you get away with 'em. Chances are the banking


126 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
house has already made arrangements to rediscount
at one of the big banks, and they’ll be anxious to shoot
the collateral right around there; so the whole thing
will slip through real pretty.”
“And if it don’t?” questioned the pessimistic Slim.
She stamped her foot irritably.
“Then it’ll simply be a harder matter to dispose of
the bonds. They’re in thousand-dollar denomina-
tions, and it would take time, but not be dangerous.
Anyway you boys are to cash in as soon as you can,
shoot the two hundred thousand back to Johnny and
then Johnny redeems his bonds and hikes down there
to join you. We can’t lose.”
“Us fellers do the rough work,” commented Connie
Hawes. “That ain’t ever been exactly in my line.”
“I’m putting up the kale, ain't I?” queried Johnny.
“That ought to count some.”
“It does. Bu »
“But nothing!” snapped Helen of Troy. “The way
you boys talk about flunking this thing you almost
make me ashamed of being a crook.”
Meanwhile, in the very limited confines of his room,
Jim Hanvey had been doing considerable thinking.
He sat as Helen had left him, overflowing the old
wicker chair, puffing solemnly upon the long-extin-
guished stump of his cigar, fat fingers fiddling with his
watch chain.
Jim was interested; so interested that for a few
moments he almost forgot the intense heat. He had
been asked to keep a crook on the straight and narrow.


HELEN OF TROY, N. Y. 127
“Gee! Johnny was a good workman in his day.
Funny what winnmin will do to a guy.”
He was surprised that Johnny had remained straight
for this length of time. He didn’t blame the lad, of
course—was sincerely glad that he had done so. Helen
was a woman in a million, just such a one as Jim Se-
cretly craved for a wife. She was comfortably large
and full-blooded and richly blond. “And wise. I’d
hate to be married to a boneheaded dame.” He lighted
his cigar stump absently. “Swell-lookin' frail like her
could almost make me turn crooked. No wonder she's
kept Johnny straight.”
More peculiar than that, however, Jim reflected,
was the fact that Helen herself had forsaken the rose
path. She had been a clever dip in her day—none
superior—and a smooth worker in other lines. He
recalled the Starkman blackmail scheme; they’d never
been able to hang a thing on Helen for that—or
Johnny either. Old Starkman's lips had been tightly
sealed, and not through indifference to money.
“That bimbo didn’t love a dollar no more than he
did his last pair of pants. Helen sure had him dead
to rights, someway.”
Here was Helen going straight and coming to him
for assistance that her husband might not step from
the road of rectitude. Jim's massive head rolled
heavily from side to side in wonderment.
He spent the evening at a movie, finding himself
aroused to spontaneous applause at that portion of the
picture which disclosed the husband returning home


128 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
just in time to prevent the elopement of his wife and the
chauffeur, the latter having turned out to be an old
lover in disguise. There was a saccharine scene which
resulted in a dramatic choice between the men, the
woman designating her preference by nearly strangling
her husband while that gentleman beamed happily
upon the discomfited lover as he slunk miserably away,
presumably to another household where, perchance, the
husband might not return home thus inopportunely.
Scenes of that sort were vastly impressive to Jim.
He hated bad sportsmanship, and the villain-chauffeur
in this picture had been a bad sport. Crookedness
Jim loved. He admired a clever crook and worshiped
a good woman. There was something massively piti-
ful about the man as he gazed raptly upon the silver
screen in the picture show; something inexpressibly
sad in his demeanor, his abject loneliness. Jim himself
would have been the last person in the world to realize
the void in his life. Keen as he was in analysis of
others, he was no master of introspection. When he
emerged from the picture theater it was in the grip
of a warm, sentimental glow. His simple, direct na-
ture had been stirred to the roots. At that moment he
desired nothing in life so much as to insure Helen the
retention of that happiness which a few brief years of
honest living had brought to her.
The following morning—Wednesday—he visited the
banking house of Starnes & Company, where Johnny's
loan was in the process of negotiation. He discovered
that Joseph P. Starnes, the president, was handling


HELEN OF TROY, N. Y. 129
the matter personally and that Johnny had explained
frankly to Mr. Starnes the use to which the money was
to be put.
“It is no concern of mine,” explained Mr. Starnes
crisply, “what Mr. Norton does with that money. As
a matter of fact, it has been my experience that a pro-
fessional gambler is highly trustworthy. In the second
place there is always the chance that his venture will
prove unprofitable, in which case I shall have recourse
to my collateral. It is excellent collateral, Mr. Han-
vey; as good as money. This house is safe—entirely
and thoroughly safe.”
“H’m! Guess you're about right, Mr. Starnes.
Just wanted to know if you was wise to what this bird
wanted the money for.”
“Of course I am.” Mr. Starnes’ manner was curt.
He had an instinctive antipathy to this hulking repre-
sentative of the Bankers' Protective Association; had
more than once seriously considered suggesting to that
organization that the man was mentally unfitted for
the responsibility of his position.
“And if I were not it would make no difference.
Liberty Bonds form security which we cannot ques-
tion.”
Jim rose.
“I ain't gonna argue about it.”
“There's nothing to argue.”
“Certainly not. Of course there ain’t. That's
why I ain’t gonna argue about it.”
That evening Jim dropped in at the hotel where


130 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
Johnny and Helen were registered. He telephoned
to their room and was bidden to come up. His call.
abruptly terminated a hectic pinochle game then in
progress, leaving Happy Gorman a heavy and dis-
gruntled loser. When Jim entered the room he dis-
covered Johnny playing solitaire and Helen seated by
the window, reading a fashion magazine. A signifi-
cant glance passed between the portly detective and
the lavishly blond woman. Johnny rose at sight and
posed for a moment with one hand gripping the card
table, a slight frown showing.
& 4 'Lo, Jim.”
Johnny was a most excellent actor. Apparently he
was enormously surprised at the presence of the Gar-
gantuan gentleman who bulked in the doorway. It
was Jim who punctured the silence:
“Ain’t you glad to see me, Johnny?”
“Why shouldn't I be?” -
“I’ll bite. Why?”
“If you think you’ve got anything on me—”
“Aw, g’wan, Johnny! You know durn well that I
know you’ve been goin' straight since you and Helen
got hitched up. Just heard you were in town an'
dropped in for a social chat.”
Norton appeared relieved. He heaved an impres-
sive sigh and motioned his visitor to a chair.
As though for the first time, Jim took notice of
Helen. He held her two hands in his and stared ap-
provingly.
“Helen of Troy! By gosh, Helen, you're prettier


HELEN OF TROY, N. Y. 131
than ever! You've put on flesh, but you’ve been care-
ful where you put it.”
“That's all that counts, isn’t it?”
“Yep. Some winmin are downright careless.
How're you an’ Johnny gettin' along?”
“Mighty well.”
“Who you doin’ for a livin’?”
“The public. Johnny's been makin' a book down
in New Orleans. It's a lot of work and a heap of
expense, but we’ve managed to make ends meet.”
Jim eyed the cards longingly.
“How 'bout a little three-handed game of setback?”
Chairs were drawn up. They played for a cent a
point. It was midnight when Jim paid his losses—
eighty-one cents—and rose to go.
“This is the life,” he commented heartily. Then his
face grew serious. “Keep it up, Johnny. There's
nothin’ to this crooked stuff.”
“I know that, Jim,” returned Norton fervently.
“I’m off it.”
The door closed behind the detective. Assured that
he had departed, Johnny crossed the room, took his
wife in his arms and implanted a smacking kiss upon
her willing lips.
“Hook, line and sinker!”
“It is a dirty shame to take him in that way.”
“Sure! But it's him or us, and there ain’t any use
of it being us. We'll be on Easy Street when this deal
is finished.”
They slept but lightly that night. The following


132 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
morning early there was an executive session in
Johnny's room. Slim Bolton was there, pessimistic
as ever; Happy Gorman, melancholy but game; Connie
Hawes, steely-eyed and emotionless.
“There's nothing to worry about,” reassured Johnny.
“Everything's chicken.”
“For you—yes.”
Helen of Troy whirled on the speaker.
“You can welch any time you want. It's Johnny's
idea and Johnny's jack. If you ain’t game to go
through with it »
“Aw, dry up, girlie! Who said anything about
welching? I just wanted you to know that we aren’t
going it blind. If we didn’t need the money so
bad yy
“If people didn’t need money there wouldn’t be any
crooks,” she said tartly. “Now let's check over the
plan.”
They put their heads together and for the next fif-
teen minutes their earnest voices hummed steadily; five
clever—if warped—brains planning the betterment of
themselves and the discomfiture of a single, lonely, un-
wieldy detective.
“It’s rough,” summarized Happy Gorman, “but it
looks like a cinch.”
They separated. Slim Bolton went to a downtown
garage, where he took out a car bought by him three
days before. Slim knew more than a thing or two
about automobiles, and for two days had been devot-


HELEN OF TROY, N. Y. 133
ing his energies to the task of tuning this car up to
the notch of perfect performance. He drove down-
town and parked opposite the office building which
housed the firm of Starnes & Company, bankers and
brokers.
Slim took his post in the automobile at about eleven
o'clock. At 11:30 he was joined by Happy Gorman,
strong of arm and melancholy of face.
At 11:45 Connie Hawes appeared. He was dressed
in a loose-fitting tweed suit, his coat tailored with a
vent back so as to afford a maximum of action liberty.
He nodded briefly to the two men in the car, then
strolled around the corner and stationed himself out-
side a barber shop where he controlled a view of the
building which held the Starnes offices. At 1:20 o'clock
the figure of Johnny Norton came into view. He was
walking up from the main business thoroughfare of the
city and carrying a package which the men knew con-
tained the Liberty Bonds. From the corner of his eye
he took note of the fact that his three confederates
were on duty. He turned into the office building and
five minutes later was ushered into the private office of
Joseph P. Starnes. That gentleman greeted him effu-
sively, but it was patent, too, that Mr. Starnes was very
much on guard.
“You’re late, Mr. Norton.”
“Sorry,” explained Johnny suavely. “I overslept,
and I’ve been busy checking over these bonds.” He
produced a knife and deftly cut the twine which


134 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
bound the bulky package. “I suppose you have the
note prepared.”
“Yes.”
Starnes reached for the bonds. His sharp eyes,
glittering from beneath bushy brows, inspected them
closely. There wasn't a doubt of their genuineness.
He counted them three times. Mr. Starnes was
thoroughly reassured. His firm was on the verge of
negotiating a very profitable loan. They were to re-
ceive 7 per cent interest from Johnny, rediscount the
bonds at five per cent and thus make a clear 2 per cent
profit, plus brokerage commission, without the em-
barrassment of tying up any of their cash reserve.
“Amount correct?” questioned Johnny crisply.
“Yes.”
Johnny glanced at his watch.
“It is almost time for the bank to close, Mr. Starnes.
If you'll make out my check for two hundred thousand
and let me sign the note— I want to make my de-
posit today.”
Starnes reached for a memorandum pad.
“I’ll have to take these numbers down.”
Johnny was frigid under the strain.
“I have a list here, Mr. Starnes. If you will just
check the bonds themselves.”
“Good!”
Unsuspiciously Joseph P. Starnes checked the num-
bers on the bonds as Johnny Norton read from the list.
It was considerable of a memory feat on Johnny's part,
and he would not have been equal to it save for the


HELEN OF TROY, N. Y. 135
fact that he worked with a key system. He read the
numbers swiftly, each number that he read being the
actual number on a bond which the banker checked
off. But the numbers which Johnny called out were
not the numbers which he had on his list.
The hour of two was approaching. Johnny again
suggested that he desired to make his deposit that day
in the First National. Starnes sounded the buzzer
for his bookkeeper.
“The Norton note, please, and the check.”
They were duly produced. Starnes innocently
reached for the list of bond numbers which Johnny had
unostentatiously laid atop the bonds and extended the
list to his bookkeeper.
“See that these are entered up, Mr. Mathews.
These are the thousand-dollar Liberties which we
have accepted as security for the loan to Mr. Norton
here.”
The bookkeeper departed with the incorrect list of
bonds. Johnny Norton was grinning inwardly. He
scribbled his name on the note and accepted the Starnes
check for two hundred thousand dollars. He shook
hands and departed. Slim Bolton and Happy Gorman
saw him swing down the street en route to the First
National. At two minutes before two o'clock Johnny
deposited to his credit the Starnes check. Then he
returned to the hotel—and Helen.
She was exultant at his report of success, and im-
mediately they set the stage for a new drama. From
the depths of his trunk he produced several dozen


136 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
blank checks of the Crescent National of New Orleans.
These he placed on the writing desk beside Major Tor-
rance's check for eight thousand dollars, which was
also on the Crescent National. A half dozen pens were
next laid out carefully and several bottles of ink, all
approximately of the color used originally by the un-
suspecting horse owner, who was at that moment a vic-
tim to mal de mer. Then, with brow furrowed, Johnny
went to work. The spell of it gained upon him; he
forgot for the moment that this was not seriously un-
dertaken. His fingers, clumsy through lack of prac-
tice, labored over 8's and 0's similar to those made by
the major.
“It’s a dog-goned shame,” commented Johnny,
“that I ain’t really trying something like this.”
Helen gazed pridefully upon his handiwork.
“Come off that, deariel Jim'd have you in less than
no time.”
“I know, I know; but I’m awfully tempted.” He
shoved his chair back from the writing desk, lighted
a Turkish cigarette and walked to the window, where
he posed for a moment, carelessly twirling his close-
clipped mustache. “Better telephone Jim, Helen.
We want this thing to be an alibi.”
She called the number of Jim's hotel apartment
house. The switchboard operator there answered.
“Mr. Hanvey’s apartment, please.”
There was a brief pause and then the operator's
voice: “If you'll hold the telephone for a moment


138 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
Came Jim's answer, heavy with sarcasm: “Too
durned expensive for an honest detective.”
His receiver clicked on the hook. Helen flung
herself across the room and into her husband's
armS.
“It worked, dearie. He just came in, which means
he ain’t hanging around Starnes & Company. He
probably followed you when you left there, to get an
idea if you were up to anything special. Saw you
return to the hotel, and he went home. You've got
an alibi. And now—now we'll let him save you
from going crooked! Oh, honey, we’re getting away
With it!”
He patted her shoulder fondly.
“You sure are a dandy wife, Helen! Great ol’
girl!”
She bustled into the dressing room.
“I’ll be on the watchout for Jim in the lobby. Re-
member, Johnny, if you act your part right he’ll never
suspect you of being in on this deal, even if something
should go wrong.”
As she arranged her hat Johnny Norton glanced
across the housetops in the general direction of the
downtown business district.
“Gee, I’d give something to know what happened
down yonder!”
It was worth knowing, for there had been action
a-plenty. All three of the waiting men had witnessed
Johnny's departure from the offices of Starnes & Com-
pany, and they saw Johnny walk to the bank via the


HELEN OF TROY, N. Y. 139
route which they knew the messenger would take.
The quintet had planned this affair to a detail. They
knew, for instance, that securities of unusual value
held by Starnes & Company were daily taken to the
First National Bank by a trustworthy messenger.
This messenger was little more than a glorified of-
fice boy despite his maturity. Too, he was a creature
of habit. He daily departed the Starnes & Company
suite about 2:30 o'clock, and being methodical took
the shortest possible route to the First National. It
was upon this habit of the messenger's that much of
their scheme was based.
There were two routes between the Starnes corner
and the First National, located two blocks away.
The obvious one was down Elm Street one block to .
Main, and thence along that cheap thoroughfare
to Pelham Street. The other was one block
north on Ashmore and thence across on Pelham to
Main. The latter route was several steps shorter, less
traveled, and therefore easier. It was this second
route which the Starnes messenger was in the habit of
taking.
Almost identical in distance, the two routes were
entirely dissimilar. Elm Street was a principal
thoroughfare, something which could not be said of
either Ashmore or Pelham. Those two blocks were
lined with shoddy secondhand stores, groceries, mar-
kets and third-rate cafeterias.
At thirty-three minutes after two o'clock the Starnes
messenger emerged from the big office building and


140 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
started northward on Ashmore. He walked with a pe-
culiar shuffling gait, and in his right hand he clutched a
brown-leather satchel. The moment he appeared Slim
Bolton slipped into reverse, backed his sedan into the
traffic, turned into Ashmore and followed. He saw
Connie Hawes detach himself from the doorway of a
barber shop and fall into step behind the decrepit and
unsuspecting messenger.
Slim was driving parallel to the slow-moving mes-
senger. His car veered toward the curb. A trifle
ahead of the man, Slim stopped his car and immedi-
ately slipped into second in preparation for a quick
get-away. Happy Gorman, every inch the gentleman
in appearance, opened the rear door of the sedan and
hailed the little old man.
“Pardon me, stranger,” he said politely, “but would
you mind telling me which way I go to reach the best
hotel?”
The messenger paused and quite innocently moved
toward the curb and the car. He recognized that this
man must be a tourist. Connie Hawes closed in on
him from the rear.
“The best hotel?” repeated the messenger, pleased at
having been questioned. “It’s two blocks down that
way, and then—”
The world went black before his eyes. Connie
Hawes struck as he leaped. The messenger pitched
forward into the opened door and Connie flung him out
of the way as he darted by and grabbed the satchel.
A spectator, rigid with terror, emitted a shriek of


HELEN OF TROY, N. Y. 141
horror. The messenger crumpled grotesquely in the
gutter—stunned. -
Slim clamped down on the accelerator and sped for-
ward. There was no traffic policeman on that little-
used corner. Another pedestrian shouted, but no one
knew what caused his excitement. The car whirled
eastward on Pelham Street, turned north at the next
corner and then rounded the block and sped south-
ward over the viaduct. A crowd had collected about
the figure of the stricken messenger, who was now
struggling back to consciousness. Excitement was in-
tense, but explanations given the belated policeman
were incoherent. The officer notified headquarters
that a messenger for the Starnes banking house had
been hit on the head and robbed, but he had no clue
as to the identity of the assailants and knew nothing
of the affair save that the escape had been made in
an automobile. And the three criminals, speeding
across country, little appreciated the measure of their
safety. They drove at reasonable speed for thirty
miles. At the first little town Connie Hawes alighted,
carrying the satchel. The car proceeded. Twelve
miles farther south Happy Gorman left the car. Slim
drove into the next town, parked his car at the curb,
strolled nonchalantly into a drug store, where he con-
sumed an ice-cream soda, and twenty minutes later
boarded a New Orleans-bound train. In the Second
Pullman he saw Connie Hawes and Happy Gorman, but
by no slightest gesture did these men indicate an ac-
quaintanceship with one another.


142 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
They knew that they were safe, but took no chances.
Time enough for that after their trip westward from
New Orleans, when they should have attained safety
on the far side of the Mexican border.
Events of some importance had been occurring con-
temporaneously in the city from which they had so
abruptly departed. Immediately on receiving the tele-
phone call from Helen of Troy, Jim Hanvey left his
diminutive apartment. The heat had become more in-
tense; the sun baked down from a sky unmarked by
clouds.
Walking, for Jim, was far from a pleasure. He
rolled uncomfortably down the street, his tiny, fish-
like eyes blinking with interminable slowness, fat
hands flapping awkwardly against his pants legs with
each lumbering step. He turned in at the hotel lobby
and there found Helen. She crossed eagerly toward
him, futilely searching his puttylike face for any in-
dication of suspicion.
“You understand what I wanted with you, Jim?”
“Yeh, sure I understand, Helen. But it does seem
to me Johnny might've been considerate enough to pick
a cooler day to go crooked on.”
“He’s working now. He's all excited, looking like
he's sorry he wasted all this time going straight. He's
a wizard with other folks' checks, Johnny is.”
“M’m-h’m! Clever boy. What you want me to
do?”
“Go up and talk to him.”
“Alone?”


HELEN OF TROY, N. Y. 143
“I’ll go with you.”
“He won’t get peeved at you for tipping me
Off?”
“I don’t care if he does,” she returned virtuously.
“I always have believed that honesty was the best
policy—when you don’t really need money.”
“Yeh—and when you get away with it.”
They entered Johnny's room without the formality
of knocking.
Johnny backed against the table, jaws working in
true movie-villain fashion. His hands, groping be-
hind his back, scraped the checks into a heap in a crude
attempt at concealment. Helen, too, gave evidence of
the fact that the art of the actor is not yet dead—or
even ill. She raised pitiful eyes to her busband's
face.
“I know you’ll hate me, Johnny; but I tipped Jim
off.”
He simulated great rage.
“Snitched on me, eh? Damn you—”
“Whoa, Johnny! Easy there, son! I hate to hear
ladies damn-you’d when I’m around.”
Johnny turned his offended attention to the detec-
tive.
“It’s none of your business—”
“I hope not, Johnny; but it most likely would have
been if Helen hadn't telephoned me.”
“I did it for your sake, Johnny,” she chimed in. “I
have been very happy during the last six years, un-
haunted by the fear of prison cells.”


144 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
Jim turned to her, a quizzical light in his glassy
eyes.
“Who wrote them words?”
She flushed.
“I don’t know; but they’re just what I feel.” She
threw her arms around Johnny's neck. “Please,
dearie, for my sake, for the sake of our happiness,
listen to Jim! We’ve been straight for so long. You
couldn’t get away with no forgery job now, dearie;
you're all out of practice.”
Jim waddled heavily across the room and took the
batch of half-written checks from Johnny's unresist-
ing hand.
“Lemme see how good you are now, kid. You used
to be real clever.” He inspected them closely.
“T'chk! T'chk! They just can't come back, Johnny.
That's awful rough work. I'd have got you in no
time at all. Yeh, tough luck, son; but I reckon you'd
be wise to run straight from now on. You’ve lost your
touch, Johnny.”
An expression of genuine sorrow crossed Johnny's
face.
“On the level?”
“Surest thing you know!”
“Well”—and Johnny sighed—“I s'pose I might as
well keep on like I’ve been going. Much obliged,
Jim.”
Helen's hysterical squeal of delight filled the room.
“You promise, dearie—promise to keep straight for-
ever and ever?”


HELEN OF TROY, N. Y. 145
“Amen!”
She turned her attention to Jim, clasped one of his
hands between both of hers.
“I don’t know how to thank you, Jim. You've been
wonderful, marvelous!”
Jim blushed boyishly.
“Gee, Helen, lay offen that stuff! When a good-
lookin’ dame begins sayin' sweet things to me I ain’t
got no more backbone than a nickel's worth of ice
cream.”
“But, Jim yy
The telephone jangled.
“That's for me,” Jim announced.
“You?”
“Uh-huh! I was expectin’ a call an’ I told the
apartment house operator she'd find me here.”
Helen and her husband were ill at ease. In a trice
they had ceased to be sorry for the ungainly detec-
tive. There was something so cumbersomely positive
in his manner; such a degree of assurance.
“Hello!”
It was Hanvey at the telephone. The two others
strained their ears, but without result. And Jim's face
told them no more than they could have learned by
watching the lee side of a cantaloupe.
“Yeh, Jim Hanvey speaking. . . . Uh-huh. . . .
You don’t say sol . . . When? . . . Clear? . . .
You done what I suggested? . . . Well, that proves
you ain’t the absolute ass I thought you was, Mr.
Starnes.”


146 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
He clicked the receiver on the hook and turned away.
He lighted a fresh cigar and jerked his head toward
the telephone. “Funny thing,” he commented disin-
terestedly.
“Yes?” They spoke eagerly in chorus.
“Messenger left the Starnes offices a few minutes
ago. Coupla roughnecks bumped him on the bean,
grabbed his satchel and made a get-away.” If he
discerned their mutual signs of relief he gave no in-
dication of the fact. His voice droned on monoto-
nously. “Old man Starnes is a stiff-necked idiot, but
this time he was wise. He took my advice for once.”
“Your advice?”
“Sure! Y’see, with you dumping a quarter million
dollars in unregistered Liberties with him, there was
always danger that some crooks might get wise to it
and try to make a haul. So I suggested to Fat-head
Starnes that he stick them securities in his own vault
for a while instead of sendin' 'em down to the First
National as he usually does. In view of what just hap-
pened, I think I was kinder clever—real awful clever.”
He paused apologetically. “You ain’t got no objec-
tions to me callin’ myself clever, have you?”
They did not answer, a premonition of disaster had
robbed them of speech.
“Y’see, Helen, them naughty crooks might of got
away with Johnny's Liberty Bonds. Might of, I said.
But they didn't. All that was in that satchel was a
few registered bonds which ain't worth duck soup
s'far's negotiatin' 'em is concerned.”


148 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
Helen of Troy stared at her huband and he returned
her gaze with one equally miserable. Jim Hanvey
posed heavily in the doorway, the fingers of his right
hand fiddling with his massive watch chain. He re-
garded them benignly. Then he blinked with madden-
ing slowness.
“Didn't you come to me, Helen, an’ ask me to keep
Johnny from goin’ crooked?”
She nodded.
“Well,” drawled the big man, “I only done what you
asked me, didn't I?”


CAVEAT EMPTOR
IM HANVEY lolled upon a park bench, his
ample and ungainly figure entirely surrounded
by landscape. The fingers of his right hand
clutched the stump of a cigar which for downright
meanness was in a class alone. His fat and florid face
was wreathed in contentment and his fishy eyes were
partially curtained by heavy lids from beneath
which Jim stared amusedly at a group of very small
children who romped in shrill disdain of a sign which
warned all and sundry that that particular grass was
not to be trod upon.
The sun of early September was dropping slowly
to rest behind the interminable line of apartment
houses on the farther side of Central Park West. It
sprinkled in golden radiance through the red leaves
above Jim's uncovered head and mottled the rich green
carpet beneath his enormous feet. Jim's eyes closed
slowly as he luxuriously stretched his Gargantuan
frame. Then the eyes opened to rest upon the trim
figure of a little girl of six who stood regarding him
with an expression of grave but frank interest.
“Hmm!” Jim pulled himself together. “Good
evening.”
The child made no answer. A spot near Jim's mid-
section held her undivided attention. The unwieldy de-
tective matched the child’s gravity with his own. She
149


150 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
was a pretty little thing whose raiment, even to Jim's
untutored eyes, bespoke extreme affluence. At length,
with absolute ease of manner, she moved forward and
touched with her fore-finger, the gold toothpick which
hung suspended from the heavy watch chain spanning
Jim's ill-fitting vest.
“That's pretty,” she commented abruptly.
Jim's face lighted with pleasure. It was seldom
indeed that his pet bit of personal ornamentation re-
ceived so genuine a compliment.
“Ain’t it?”
“Yup. Awful pretty.” Then, doubtfully. “What
is it?” -
Jim touched a button and a wicked and glistening
point appeared. “A toothpick,” he explained.
“What’s that?”
“It's—well, you see—” His face went blank.
“Just a toothpick, that's all. Solid gold.”
“Oh!” said the child. “I See.”
Jim felt relieved. He fancied it might be difficult
to explain a solid gold toothpick and he thanked good-
ness for the youngster's erudition. She continued to
finger the bauble approvingly but, so far as she was
concerned, the conversation was at an end.
The silence proved somewhat embarrassing to Jim.
It was entirely too impersonal for his friendly nature.
“What's your name?”
“Pauline.”
“Pauline what?”
“Pauline Lathrop.”


CAVEAT EMPTOR 153
“Why the disguise, Mary?”
She spoke in tones so low as to be scarcely audible.
“It isn’t a disguise, Jim.”
“No-op Last time I seen you—”
“Never mind that,” she said nervously. “I’m
runnin’ straight now. Lay off.”
“Goshamighty, Mary— I aint aiming to do nothin'
else. I’m just curious.”
“I tell you everything's all right.”
“Sure it is. But why the job? What you doin'
nursin' a kid?”
He could discern the struggle which she was under-
going. And finally she seated herself beside him.
“There aint a thing wrong, Jim. Honest there aint.
I’ve just been workin' since they sent Tim up.”
“He’s in Stir?”
“Didn't you know?”
“I heard somethin’ about it—but the case wasn't
exactly in my line as I remember. Gov'ment, wasn’t
it?”
She nodded. “Smuggling.”
“Shuh!”
“They caught him with the goods. He pleaded
guilty. He's doing a two-year stretch in Atlanta. He
left me flat-that's why I went to work. I got a
nursing job because I naturally like kids. I had to do
Somethin’.”
“Mm!” Jim's face betrayed no particular interest.
If there was doubt of her in his mind he did not show
it. “Funny—you workin’ as a nurse-girl while Tim


154 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
is doing a stretch. Well—I sure hope you stay on the
straight an’ narrow. It don’t pay awful good but it's
real safe.”
She sighed with relief. “I’m not pulling anything,
Jim. I'm on the level—anyway until Timmy gets
out.”
She summoned her youthful charge and they walked
off together toward the Seventy-second street gate.
Jim stared speculatively after them. He groped blindly
for a match and relighted his cigar. Then, as he in-
haled deeply, he gave vent to an expression of
doubt
“Wonder what she lied to me for?”
His somnolent eyes half closed and as he lay back
in his seat there came to him the faint limning of the
picture in which she had appeared at the occasion of
their last meeting—a bank job in Omaha, a successful
bank job in which he knew that she had been
the brains of the gang. Jim held a great admiration
for that little woman; she was courageous and she was
clever; she played her cards well and she played them
boldly. That last case had been one of his few unsuc-
cessful ones and he had been more than half glad of it.
He had been out to get them, but, failing, he felt noth-
ing of resentment—only a keen admiration for the
brains which had outwitted him.
But a few minutes since he had seen Mary Lannigan
flustered for the first time in the several years of their
acquaintanceship. That discomfiture bespoke guilt.


CAVEAT EMPTOR 155
Hanvey’s fat fingers groped for the gold toothpick so
lately admired by Pauline Lathrop. That golden
horror was of inestimable assistance to Hanvey in mo-
ments of mental stress. Mary working as a nursegirl.
Hmph! There was something behind that—bound to
be. Jim Hanvey was reputed to know intimately
every worthwhile crook in the country and he counted
Tim and Mary Lannigan as among his very best
friends. Jim knew, for instance, that Tim had a
young fortune salted away and that it was not at all
necessary for his wife to work as a menial while he
enjoyed the hospitality of the United States govern-
ment. That being the case, Mary's present occupa-
tion was the cloak for something. He was sorry—
darn shame Mary couldn't keep straight. Good kid.
“An' dog-gone her—she’s gone an’ got me all in-
terested.”
At first Jim determined to play hands off. He
wasn’t a policeman; it was no duty of his to make
trouble for crooks who were not engaged in work which
held his immediate attention. But there was some-
thing bizarre in the very thought of this excessively
clever little woman acting as nursemaid to a snippy
little girl who boasted of her father's trio of motor cars.
Two other facts paraded before him, demanding that
he adduce something from their proximity to one an-
other.
One of them was that the father of the girl whom
Mary nursed was a jewelry importer.


156 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
The second fact had to do with Tim Lannigan's
incarceration for smuggling. Smuggling was not in
Tim’s line.
That night Jim reluctantly omitted his regular pic-
ture show and did a little investigation. Information
came readily to hand principally because Jim knew just
where to turn. When he retired near midnight he
knew considerably more about Mary Lannigan's job,
but there were one or two blank spaces which had
aroused his curiosity beyond measure.
One vital thing he had learned—and that was that
the name of Noah Lathrop had been mentioned more
than casually in the case which resulted in Tim's jour-
ney to Atlanta. Just what Lathrop had to do with it
no one could adequately explain, but there was un-
deniably a sinister significance.
He was at the park again the following day but
Mary and the child did not appear. The next after-
noon Jim was on Riverside Drive at the hour he knew
a nurse would naturally go walking. Pauline recog-
nized him first, nor, in the eagerness with which
she greeted him, did he lose sight of the appre-
hension which blanched the pretty face of Mary
Lannigan.
“That,” proclaimed the tactful Pauline, designating
Jim's gold toothpick, “is vulgar.”
“G'wan. Why?”
“Gentlemen,” she explained, “do not use gold tooth-
picks.”
Jim turned quizzically to Mary. “Aint she the


CAVEAT EMPTOR 157
bright kid?” He grew serious then—“Come out of it,
Sister. I aint gonna eat you.”
He walked with them to Central Park. In response
to his unspoken command, Mary sent Pauline to play
with the other children and she and Jim sat together
on the bench. It was Jim who spoke first, after he
had lighted one of his offensively fragrant cigars.
“Get me straight, Mary—I don’t want to cause you
no trouble . . . but you’ve got my curiosity aroused
something terrible.”
For a moment she didn't answer. She sat staring at
the path where her toe was etching aimlessly in the
dust. And finally she faced him with a flash of her
old-time spirit. “I want you to lay off, Jim. I’m not
pulling anything crooked.”
“If you’re runnin' straight I aint got no choice,
have I?”
“Yes—you have.”
“How you make that?”
“You can queer things for me—and,” earnestly, “I
don’t want ’em queered, Jim—I don’t want 'em
queered.”
There was a little break in her voice which puzzled
him. She was deeply moved—that, in itself, was a
novelty. He took her hand gently between both of
his enormous ones and patted it as a father might have
done.
“I aint tryin’ to butt in on your affairs, Sister, but
I’d like to get the lowdown on this. I’ll say right off—
wait a minute, I'll come clean with you before you spill


158 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
anything. You got me curious night before last with
that straight stuff an’ all. I know—an' you know I
know—that Tim has a pile salted away which means
that I didn’t swallow your bunk about needin' the
twenty-per-an’-cakes you’re gettin' for nursin’ that
kid which has a father who owns three automobiles.
“As I say, that sort of started me off an’ I did a
little checking up on my own hook. I learned, among
other things, that Noah Lathrop's name sort of figured
in the smugglin’ case which sent Tim South—that in-
dicatin’ pretty clear that you ain’t workin’ in Lathrop's
house for no reason which ought to make Lathrop com-
fortable. So knowin’ what I know, if you want to
loosen up—why, go right to it Sister an’ I’ll be all ears,
like any other jackass.”
Her head was bowed and it was plain that she was
thinking intensively. On the grass nearby the children
romped, their shrillings cutting through the balminess
of the September evening. From Central Park West
came the clanging of Eighth avenue cars and the occa-
sional sirening of automobile traffic. A man and
woman on horseback rode down the bridle path near
them and a park policeman strolled by and ostenta-
tiously looked away as he, with considerable surprise,
recognized the obese Hanvey.
At length she commenced speaking, her voice coming
as though from a great distance. “It’s important, Jim,
first of all, that you understand I’m telling the
truth. If there's anything I say that aint true—it
aint because I think it aint. I’m giving you the works


CAVEAT EMPTOR 159
as I know 'em. I’m telling you—well, first of all, be-
cause I want to get it off my chest. And second, be-
cause you'd get wise anyway. And third, because—
Oh! just because.
“I’ll commence right at the beginnin', Jim. It
started six months ago when Tim went to Europe. You
know he's a real gent and every once in so often he
works the card graft on the big steamers—not often
enough for them to know him. Only when business is
dull.
“Well, he was over there loafing around waiting for
a certain party to sail for America again, this party
being the grandest sucker which ever stood a couple
of raises for the privilege of drawin’ to an in-between
straight. About that time Mr. Noah Lathrop was in
Paris doing some jewelry buying. He goes over there
once or twice every year. His firm is one of the biggest
on Maiden Lane. And in Paris at the same time
Lathrop and Tim were, was Walter Yeager.”
“Yeager?” Hanvey exhibited keen interest. “In
Paris?”
“Yeh. All set for a job. An’ get this, Jim—I aint
tryin' to get Walt in bad. He's had a tough enough
time already. But even if Walt does run foul of
trouble I can't help it. I’m out to do what I can for
Tim . . . that's all I’m thinking of.”
Again that little catch in her voice. Jim closed his.
glassy eyes sleepily and motioned for her to continue.
“To hold a long story down, Walt Yeager was onto
something soft in Paris. He pulled the job and got


160 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
away with it—about three hundred and fifty thousand
dollars worth of stones that are stones. It turned the
Paris police inside out and stood 'em on their ear. It
was as nifty a piece of work as you’ve ever heard of,
an’ Walt got away with it in a way you’d be proud of
if you knew the details. -
“Well, there was Walt with the jewels and nothin’ to
do with 'em. The European markets had nine eyes
peeled an’ Walt didn’t dare bring 'em to this country
because when he came through the customs there'd be
a stir and a talk—and flooie! So, Walt hearing that
Lathrop was doin’ his semi-annual buying, an’ knowing
that he wasn't more than ten miles above a shady
transaction, went to him, confessed that he had stolen
jewels and asked him what they’d be worth in cash,
delivered at Lathrop's New York office.
“Lathrop was interested, of course. It was a graft
for him. He'd run no risk buying the stuff in New
York and since his house has a first class rep he knew
he could slip 'em on the market one by one and the
trade would never be no wiser. They dickered around
for awhile and agreed on one hundred and forty thou-
sand dollars cash, F. O. B. Maiden Lane. And that's
where Tim was pulled into the deal.
“Walt Yeager wasn’t willing to declare those jewels
at the customs and he wasn’t game to try and smuggle
*em. So he told Lathrop that in order to carry the
deal through Lathrop must hire some one to do the
smuggling. Yeager and Lathrop both inquired around
and learned that Tim was over there—he bein’ at that


162 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
about how Tim tried to work it. It’s enough to say
that they nabbed him. Caught him dead to rights.
• Tim was sorry, but he wasn’t really worried. He knew
all he had to do was to get in touch with Lathrop on
the Q. T. and a heap of influence would be used to get
him a fine instead of a jail sentence and that Lathrop
would pay the fine. But—” her hand went out and
tightened grimly over Jim's flappy paw—“Lathrop
welched. Welched like a dirty yeller dog. He said he
didn’t know Tim, hadn't never seen him before, and
had nothing whatever to do with the case. Meanwhile
Tim, feeling secure, had pleaded guilty to the smug-
gling charge.
“And it wasn't until after he pleaded guilty to that,
Jim—and Walt Yeager had disappeared—that Tim
learned how bad he was in. Because the jewels he
had admitted smuggling were the ones which had been
stolen in Paris and they were recognized instanter.
That's where Tim was crossed up. It wasn’t that they
nabbed him for smuggling—he was guilty of that and
willing to take his medicine. But he wasn’t mixed up
in the robbery. . . .
“And here's the lay of the land now. Tim got two
years in the Federal prison for smuggling. He's been
there seven months. The jewels have been returned to
Paris. Yeager has disappeared. Noah Lathrop
swears he don’t know nothing about anything crooked.
And when Tim gets through serving his smuggling time,
Jim—they’re going to send him back to Paris to stand
trial for stealing them jewels.”


164 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
that crooked—it wasn’t the first time. He's a promi-
nent man and he's proud. He must have slipped before.
It's a certainty that some time in his life he's done
Something just as rotten as the trick he pulled on Tim.
Oh! I wouldn’t be kicking if he’d come clean with
Tim in the first place and told him it was stolen stuff.
It was the double-crossing and then the welching that
hurt. And the fact that Tim is innocent. A crook has
a hard enough life serving time for what he really does,
let alone what he don’t do. -
“That's why I worked around and got this job as
nursegirl in Lathrop's home. I’ve got a room on the
place, and I’m watching, Jim—I’m watching close.
I’m learning a heap about that bird. He's rotten all
the way through—a cheap, piking, safety-first crook.
Smug and self-satisfied and so stuck on himself I want
to kill him sometimes. Of course he don't dream I
know Tim Lannigan or that I’m anything except what
I seem.
“And some day, Jim, I’m gonna get something on
Noah Lathrop—something that he'd rather die than
see come out. And when I do I’m gonna make him
sing. I’m gonna make him come out in the clear and
save Tim from doing that stretch in France.” She
threw her arms wide in an unconsciously dramatic
gesture—“That’s why I'm working as a nursegirl in
his house, Jim—that’s why.”
Pauline Lathrop appeared and demanded two cents
with which to purchase an apple-on-a-stick. She ac-
cepted the money from Jim but again expressed her


CAVEAT EMPTOR 16S
disdain for the vulgar toothpick. “And your cigars
Smell terrible.”
Jim sighed. “I reckon they do. But I like 'em.”
“You’re a funny man,” said the child.
Pauline departed joyously to purchase her confec-
tion. Jim turned friendly eyes upon the tiny, indomi-
table figure of the little woman by his side. He tehk’d
once or twice and mopped his forehead with a lavender
handkerchief.
“You’ll lay off me, won't you, Jim?”
“Huh?”
“You’ll give me a free hand in this matter, won’t
you? Let me play it my own way?”
He thought for a moment before replying. And
then, slowly and deliberately he shook his head.
“Nope.”
He saw her figure stiffen, watched the delicate hands
ball into tiny fists. “Jim. . . .” There was horror
and unbelief in her tone.
“Nope, Mary—I aint gonna play hands off in this
little game of yours. Not for a minute. I can't.”
He, with difficulty crossed one enormous leg over the
other. “But I tell you what I will do,” he volunteered
conversationally.
“What?”
His voice was toneless.
“I’ll help you.”
For a second she did not move. “You—you'll
help?” she choked.
“Sure.”


166 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
“H-h-help me to clear Tim?”
“Sure.”
She faced him then, her face flushed and radiant, the
light of happiness flaming from her fine eyes. “Jim
Hanvey!” she said, “I love you for that!”
He fidgeted in embarrassment. “It is kinder funny
—a detective workin’ for a crook. But it's something
I’ve always wanted to do. Of course, I mightn't be
of any help-”
“You will, Jim. You will. Oh! it's wonderful.
I’ve been so alone y?
“Awl dry up, Sister. It’s my job to nab the whole
bunch of you when you’ve done something to be
nabbed for. But I like you—every one of you—and
I’m damned if I can sit back and see you go up for
something you didn’t do. Specially when you’ve been
double-crossed by an honest man.”
And long after she and little Pauline had disap-
peared beyond the traffic of Central Park West, long
after gray dusk had merged gently into velvet night,
long after the shrill playcalls of children had been
superseded by the low-toned dialogue of occasional
passing couples and the insistent, rythmic k-chnk,
K-chnk of oarlocks from the adjacent lake—long after
all of that Jim Hanvey sat upon his park bench and
mused upon the vagaries of circumstance.
Jim Hanvey had experienced a long, a colorful, a
varied career. Now, for the first time, he found him-
self embarked upon a professional enterprise on behalf
of a criminal, the object of his attack being a person


CAVEAT EMPTOR 167
in that class of society for which men such as Jim
Hanvey served as bulwark.
The situation was bizarre—rather outrageously so,
but it held an irresistible appeal to Jim. He was a
lonely man who counted his friends among those whom
he professionally hunted. The better class of criminals
knew Jim and liked him. They outwitted him if they
could—but they played straight with him, just as he
did with them. To most of them it was a source of
wonderment that he had not long since joined their
ranks. In answer to their frank questionings he in-
variably returned an answer astounding in its simple
logic
“A feller is either born crooked or straight. I was
born straight—that's all. You can’t blame me for that
any more than I can blame you for bein’ crooked.”
But now he was to attain the unspoken ambition
of many years: he was to expend his talents in an
effort to free one of his criminal friends from an un-
just charge. Let Tim Lannigan serve his time for
Smuggling—he was guilty. But Jim had checked up
on Mary’s story and knew that she had spoken the
truth. That being the case it behooved him to see that
Tim served a sentence for what he had done and was
extricated from the predicament into which he had
blundered.
That he had undertaken a task of no mean propor-
tions was plain to him. In this particular matter the
position of Noah Lathrop was impregnable. There
was no possible proof that Lathrop had connived with


168 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
Walter Yeager to purchase the stolen gems. There
was even less proof that Noah had hired Tim to do the
smuggling. Certainly there was no chance to enlist
the services of Walt Yeager. It wasn't Walt's fault,
anyway. He had played fair with both Tim and
Lathrop by the tenets of the criminal code. It was
unfortunate that Lathrop had betrayed Tim—but it
was too much to expect that Walt would do anything so
absurdly Quixotic as to confess to the robbery in or-
der to save Lannigan. And there wasn't even an out-
side chance to convict Yeager of the original theft.
Mary Lannigan had the correct idea. A man as
crooked as Lathrop had shown himself to be in this
instance had been crooked before. He would be
crooked again. He had indicated that he was moulded
of conscienceless stuff. Somewhere in his past there
must be a skeleton which he would not care to have
displayed. And in order to prevent that display he
might even be willing to confess his guilt as a smug-
gling accessory. In that way—and in that way alone
—Tim Lannigan could be saved from facing trial—
and certain conviction—for the crime which he had
not committed.
Jim first of all boarded the Southern for Atlanta
where he had two long and earnest conversations with
Tim Lannigan. Tim's story verified that of Mary in
every way. The big, handsome, red-headed crook was
pitifully embarrassed at the knowledge that Jim was
working for him. Too, he made no attempt to con-
ceal his emotion at tidings of Mary’s activity in his


CAVEAT EMPTOR 169
behalf. Jim found him bitter against Lathrop and
not at all so against Walt Yeager. “Poor Walt! He
was crossed up pretty near as bad as I was. And he's
flat now. Gosh! To think of getting away with a
job like that and then have a falldown. It's tough!”
“Sure is,” agreed Jim.
Acquainting himself with Noah Lathrop's personality
without meeting that gentleman was a more difficult
undertaking. He made occasion to be near him two or
three times when Lathrop was unconscious of the
sleepy-eyed surveillance. Jim found Lathrop a
rather undersized, slender man of obtrusive pomposity
and disagreeable manner. He spoke in a loud, nasal
voice which carried unpleasantly a considerable dis-
tance and his utterances were all dogmatic. Jim
found his Great-I-Am attitude annoying and at the
same time amusing. There was a laughable similarity
between father and daughter. Jim could well fancy
the boast of the man
“I pay four thousand a year for my apartment on
the Drive and I maintain three cars.” Jim's big
fingers fumbled with the gold toothpick. Somehow,
it seemed a little less vulgar than Pauline had led him
to believe.
Jim held frequent conferences with Mary Lannigan.
She had nothing to report but there was no lessening of
confidence or determination. He was amused by her
grim defiance—the indomitable will to power behind the
masklike manners and pretty, girlish face. No wonder
the smugly complacent Noah Lathrop was unsuspicious


170 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
of the dynamite within his house; to all appearances
Mary was merely an innoculously pretty young
woman temporarily engaged in the nursing profession—
against the day when she would be carried off to wife
by some six-foot truck driver.
“I know I’m right, Jim. The man's rotten all the
way through—and he handled this affair in a way
which proves that it aint the first time he's pulled some-
thing. Sometimes when I watch him I get mad
enough to Scream—I can imagine him chuckling to
himself about his cleverness. Not a thought for the
man who he thinks is going to do the long stretch in
France. Her teeth clicked suddenly. “Oh! what's
the use of letting myself get all worked up? I guess
my game is to lay low and keep grinning.”
“You said it, Sister. And when you get something
on him—talk it over with me. We’ll make him dance
a hornpipe.”
She looked up gratefully into his expressionless eyes.
“You can do that, Jim. Until you promised to help
I was only a crook without a chance. I didn’t know
what I was going to do when I found what I was hunt-
ing.”
Jim shrugged. “It’s you who's got to do the dis-
coverin', Mary. Just keep those bright eyes wide
open »
“I sure ain’t gonna do nothin’ else.”
“—And let me know every least little thing that goes
on. Listen in on his dining room conversation all you
can. A feller as stuck on himself as that bimbo—an’


CAVEAT EMPTOR 171
as crazy about hearin’ himself talk—is certain to blab
Something around the house.” Jim lighted a cigar.
“He may even have some interestin' papers lyin'
around.”
“No,” she said with perfect candor, “I’ve searched
everything. Even the safe.”
“Good. He rose heavily to his feet. “Keep it up,
Sis. We’ve got all the time in the world, plus—an’ the
best thing we can do is to use it. By the way, how’s
my little friend Pauline?”
The girl made a wry face. “Ugh! Nasty little
minx.”
“Huh!” grinned Jim, “think what she'll be like at
forty.”
A fortnight dragged by. Jim busied himself with
routine matters without, however, allowing the main
focus of his attention to waver from the Lannigan mat-
ter. Occasionally he made it a point to meet Mary in
the park. She had nothing to tell him and he talked
things over with her only for her own sake—to keep her
courage and optimism keyed to the proper pitch.
There was something heroic in her doggedness. He
shook his head in wonderment at the thought that until
recently she had been playing a lone hand—just as
grim, just as determined—“I sort of reckon,” he mused,
“that she sort of might be what you'd call kinder crazy
about that Tim Lannigan.”
It was not until another week had passed that any-
thing happened. It was early October and the air
was chill with the portent of coming winter. Jim


172 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
Hanvey was sprawled on the lounge in the untidy living
room of his apartment reading the pugilistic news in a
current sporting weekly. The air was fetid with the
odor of his vile cigar, his stockinged feet were cocked
upon the table and he had allowed his flowered sus-
penders to drop comfortably about his tremendous
waist. It was a considerable effort to answer the
summons of the telephone and his voice was none too
gentle—
“Hey! Hello! What you ringin' so much about?”
“Jim? This is Mary.”
His expression altered like magic. He caught
the nuance of excitement in her carefully modulated
tones.
“Yeh?”
“Are you alone?”
“Entirely.”
“Can I come up—now?”
“You tell 'em. I’ll fix it with the telephone boy so’s
he won’t start no scandal.”
A half hour later she was with him. She threw open
the window despite his protest. His eyes were fixed
steadily upon the attractive vividity of her face. Then
he yawned and appeared to sink into an indifferent
lethargic doze. It was only when she had drawn up
a chair and placed her hands on his arm that the sleepy
eyes uncurtained with an indication of interest.
“A'right, Sister—shoot.”
She found difficulty in selecting a starting point, and
when she did eventually speak it was with an inco-


CAVEAT EMPTOR 173
herence which was rather unusual— “He’s slipping,
Jim—and I’m watching.”
“You don't say.” -
“Yes—I do. I knew it would come . . . if I just
watched close enough. Of course I’ve had to keep
pretty much out of the way and I haven’t learned all
that I might, but—”
“At that,” interjected Jim dryly, “you learned a heap
more an' a heap faster than I am now.”
She laughed—a semi-hysterical little quaver—and
pulled herself together. “Jim, Noah Lathrop is up to
something.”
Jim nodded in satisfaction. “Good.”
“He’s had a visitor at the house for the last two eve-
nings. Who do you think it is?”
“How many guesses do I get?”
Her eyes burned into his, her voice trembled.
“Teddy Nelson!”
Jim nodded ponderously and, although his expres-
sion lost none of its impassivity, his tone indicated a
lively interest.
“Teddy Nelson, eh?”
“Yes—Teddy. And they’re talking turkey.”
“Teddy usually does.”
The girl sat back and inspected the bovine face of
the detective. “You got any recent suspicions of
Teddy?”
Jim's head inclined. “Have you?”
“Yes.”
“What?”


CAVEAT EMPTOR 175
room. “You keep those eyes of your’n peeled, Mary.
If he's gone this far with the deal the chances are he'll
go through. An’ if you can get wise to the hour when
they pull it I’ll be on hand. . . .”
“You think they’ll do it at home?”
“Surest thing you know. A guy as keen as Lathrop
ain’t riskin' a deal like that in his office; he wouldn't
even let Teddy come there if he knew what he was
comin’ for. Yeh, Sis, I reckon they’ll put it through
at home. So all you got to do is watch an’ keep me
posted.”
“And what will you do?”
“My durndest—that's all I can promise.”
“That's more than enough, Jim—a heap more than
enough.”
Jim flushed slightly—“Don’t you go countin' on me
too strong. You can remember at least one case where
I fell down something awful an’ there ain't no certainty
I won't flop this one.”
Mary had the grace to blush. “I’m sorry about
that, Jim.”
“Ah gwan! I ain’t. It was a pleasure to have you
put it over me. Say, listen—some day I want the low-
down on that, Mary.”
The girl departed and then for three days he heard
nothing from her. On the fourth day she telephoned
him to meet her in Central Park.
“Teddy was there again last night.”
“Sure enough?”
“Yes—for three hours. And this morning I heard


CAVEAT EMPTOR 179
stuff. Here’s where ol' sleuth gits in his dirty work,
ain’t it?”
She designated the library door. “What'll I do,
Jim?”
“Just stick around to look after the remains—if
any.”
“You’re not expecting anything rough?”
“Naw. . . . Teddy ain't that kind unless he's
changed a lot. But I’m gonna stage an awful play just
to see whether a feller which owns three automobiles
can turn green.”
She led him to the door and then withdrew into the
shadows of an adjacent room. Jim patted down the ill-
fitting coat which hung so grotesquely around his
girthful figure and rapped once upon the door.
For a dramatic instant he stood motionless, then
flung open the door and entered—blinking like a
monster owl in the brilliant light.
Before him was an interesting tableau. Lathrop,
motionless, was bending across the table inspecting a
string of magnificent matched oriental pearls. Beside
him was a pile of crisp, new one-hundred dollar bills.
His lean, rather saturnine, face, still reflected the
avarice of a moment since although an expression of
stark terror was now slowly robbing him of his natu-
rally aggressive unpleasantness.
Opposite sat Teddy Nelson—suave, dapper, per-
fectly at ease. Nelson's experienced eyes rested
briefly upon the intruder and a close observer could


180 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
have noticed the visible effort with which he pulled
himself together. Too, it was Nelson who broke the
portentous silence. That insouciant criminal rose to
his feet, bowed with exaggerated politeness and spoke
in a quiet conversational tone—
“Mr. Hanvey—this is indeed a pleasure.”
Jim was enjoying himself thoroughly. He produced
a pink silk handkerchief and mopped his forehead.
“'Lo Teddy.”
Nelson waved a comprehensive hand toward
Lathrop, the pearls and the money. As yet the as-
tounded jewelry importer had not moved; he sat
staring in bewilderment from one to the other.
“You will notice, Jim,” said Nelson, “that you have
nothing on me. My host is in possession of the money
and also of the pearls which I presume you are
seeking.”
Hanvey grinned. “You’re a hard egg, Teddy.”
“You are hunting for some pearls, are you not,
Jim?”
“I are.”
“Well—in all probability you have them. I am
willing to explain, Jim, that I never saw those pearls
before— I’m as positive of that as I am that I shall
never see them again.” He made a rueful little grim-
ace. “Business is pretty rotten these days.”
Lathrop was getting a grip on himself. He rose
unsteadily and addressed the detective. “Who are
you?”
The suggestion of a sneer wreathed Nelson's lips.


182 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
have been a bum play for him. Y’see, Teddy, we’ve
been watchin' this bird a long time—he was sort of
mixed up in that Tim Lannigan affair and we figured
he was worth lookin' after. An' we knew you had the
Rawlings’ stuff. So when you and him got together
we figured that two and two was pullin' their usual
act. Y'See, we’ve got you, Teddy, for the Rawlings
job—while all we send Lathrop to jail for is receivin'
stolen goods.” -
Lathrop tried to speak—and could not. His mouth
opened and closed—then opened and closed again.
His adams-apple bobbed alarmingly. His voice, when
it did come, was shrill with hysteria—
“It’s a lie—a lie! I don’t know anything about
this man. I don’t know anything about Lannigan.
What he said I did was true—I was trying to prove
that he stole these jewels.”
“The dirty liar. . . .”
“Lay off, Teddy,” advised Jim. Then, to Lathrop—
“You might as well come clear, buddy. I know how
much money there is in that little pile and I know what
bank you drew it from and at what time this morning.
I know, too, that this ain’t the first time you’ve pulled
a stunt like this—but I know it's gonna be the last.
Now Teddy, if you come clean I’ll see that things are
made light for you—light as I can have 'em made.
Give me the lowdown on the job.”
Nelson eyed the detective levelly. “Straight, Jim?”
“Here's my hand on it. No promises—only the
best I can do for you.”


CAVEAT EMPTOR 183
“Well,” Nelson cleared his throat, “in that case I’d
better come clean. There ain't no use confessing that
I stole them pearls off old man Rawlings about a year
ago. You know that an’ the insurance company detec-
tives know it. They knew it so well that there wasn’t
a chance for me to dispose of them through the regular
channels, so when I heard that Lathrop was inclined
to use his position as an honorable man to get away
with an occasional dirty little job, I went to him and
offered to sell and sell cheap—”
“No! It isn’t true. . . .” Lathrop's face was piti-
ful. “Nelson, please! This will all be used against
you.”
“Sure—sure. And it’ll be used against you, too,”
explained Jim casually.
Lathrop cowered as Nelson continued the story of
their negotiations. When he finished Hanvey returned
his attention to the figure of the terrified jeweler.
“My family—my child—my business—”
“You’re a fine slice of limburger,” complimented
Jim. “I suppose you’ve been weeping your eyes out
thinking about Tim Lannigan, haven't you?”
“Lannigan?”
“Yes—Lannigan, the lad you double-crossed—got
him to try an' smuggle in stuff that he didn’t know was
stolen. Well, you're clear of the Lannigan case but
we'll make you sweat for this. Ten years, maybe.”
“Please . . . for God’s sake—anything but that—”
Jim regarded him steadily. “Tim Lannigan is a
good friend of mine, Lathrop. One of the best friends


184 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
I have. It just occurs to me that we might make a little
deal. . . . Interested?”
“Yes. Yes. Go on.”
“Well—all we’ve been after in this Rawlings affair
is the stuff. We don’t care particularly about sending
Teddy Nelson up. And since we’ve got the pearls
. . . how about this: You sit down there and sign a
confession that you hired Tim Lannigan to Smuggle in
those jewels. You can say that you didn’t know they
were stolen—that it was simply a job on your part to
beat the customs. That'll be proof enough that Tim
didn't know they were stolen—and, of course, proof
that he wasn’t mixed up in the original robbery which’ll
keep him from serving twenty years or so in a French
prison for something he didn’t do.”
Jim paused. He fancied that he could hear the
rustling of skirts in the hallway. Lathrop looked up
pleadingly—
“What can they do to me for that?”
“They can give you two years in the Federal prison
—same as they did Lannigan. But they probably
won’t. They did that to Lannigan because he was
known as a professional crook. You'll most likely get
off with a heavy fine—and it’ll clear Tim of that French
Stuff.”
“Are you telling me the truth?”
Teddy Nelson broke in, somewhat explosively—
“Hell! Jim Hanvey ain't no liar.”
“You can choose,” explained Jim easily, “between
that and a certain long stretch for this Rawlings affair.”


CAVEAT EMPTOR 185
Lathrop looked up piteously. “I’ll do it,” he said
at length. “Tell me what to write.”
Hanvey dictated slowly and carefully, and when he
was finished he summoned Mary Lannigan to whom he
read the confession. Then, with Mary as a witness,
Noah Lathrop signed.
The following day Jim accompanied Mary Lanni-
gan to the Pennsylvania Station whence she departed
for Atlanta to break the gladsome news to her husband.
She was tearfully grateful— “Awl stow it, Sister—I
didn’t do a darn thing except have a little fun. . . .”
From the train he went to an unpretentious hotel in
the West Fifties where, a few moments later, he found
himself alone with Teddy Nelson.
Teddy was very much at ease. He waved his hand
airily— “Have a seat, Jim. Make yourself comfort-
able.” Then, defensively— “But leave that nickel-
plated cigar case in your pocket. I don’t mind talking
to a detective but I’m not willing to smell his cigars.”
Jim ignored the request. And as the first horrid blast-
of cigar smoke assailed Teddy, Jim vouchsafed a bit
of information—
“I fixed it for you, Teddy. Saw Simpson and
Clarke this morning—gave 'em the pearls. They were
so tickled it was a cinch getting them to promise to lay
off you.”
Nelson sighed relievedly. “Great stuff, Jim. I’ve
been hanging on to those things for a year—knowing
that I didn’t have a chance to get rid of 'em, and hating
to heave 'em in the river. Now they’re safely gone


THE KNIGHT’S GAMBIT
IM HANVEY posed pridefully before the triple
| mirrors. He hitched his trousers one notch
higher, affectionately patted the lapels of his
new coat and carefully adjusted the cerise necktie.
Then he faced the covertly grinning clerk and his
voice held that beatific nuance with which a small boy
calls attention to the magnificence of his first baseball
uniform.
“Swell, ain't it?” queried Jim.
The clerk, a dapper little fellow who was garbed
according to the dictates of the latest fashion folder,
was professionally enthusiastic. “Perfect, Sir. You
never looked better in your life.” Under his breath
he added a fervent: “And that aint no lie.”
Jim delighted himself with a further survey of his
mirrored self. And, in truth, whatever the ensemble
might have lacked from an esthetic standpoint it more
than atoned in brilliancy.
The enormous and pudgy figure of the detective was
enfolded in a new and ill-fitting suit of near tweeds. A
pink silk shirt was stretched tightly over the upper por-
tion of his anatomy. A collar of inconsequential
height but amazing girth encased the vivid tie. Below
the trouser cuffs was a brief expanse of white Sox which
topped a pair of peak-toed russet shoes. Above Jim's
collar flopped twin chins which bounded on the south a
187


188 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
countenance of bovine heaviness. The whole was
topped by a new gray felt hat which seemed in con-
stant danger of tobogganing from the crest of the
bulbous head.
Jim Hanvey's tiny, fishlike eyes held a gleam of self-
approval. Then, as he inspected himself, they closed
slowly, held shut for a moment, and uncurtained with
even greater deliberateness. His big hands were ele-
vated idly until the fingers found the elaborate golden
toothpick which hung suspended from the heavy chain
connecting the upper vest pockets. His chest inflated
and a sigh escaped his pursy lips— “I’ve been wantin’
an outfit like this for a mighty long time,” he com-
mented. “An' I just never sort of come around to get-
tin’ it.” -
The clerk discreetly lowered his head to scribble
hieroglyphics on a sales pad. “Anything else, Sir?”
he interrogated meekly.
“No-o. Don’t believe there is. . . . Oh! yes—a
silk handkerchief.”
That article was purchased and Jim fitted it with
meticulous care into the breast pocket of his coat so
that the pink edging was displayed to weirdest advan-
tage. “How much does it amount to, Son?”
“Seventy-two, fifty.”
Jim whistled. “Gosh! Swell clothes sure do come
high.” Reluctantly he extracted a battered wallet.
“Here y’are. I want my other clothes sent to the
hotel.” Then, with pitiful eagerness, “I couldn't look
no better, could I?”


THE KNIGHT’S GAMBIT 189
“No,” answered the clerk with perfect candor.
“You surely couldn't.”
Jim Hanvey departed. He walked with the pecu-
liarly stiff and self-conscious gait inevitably attendant
upon the wearing of new clothes. His big shoes
creaked with every step. His expression was one of
radiant self-satisfaction. For years he had craved an
orgy of new-clothes purchasing and now that the exi-
gencies of his profession had furnished an adequate
excuse he had done himself exceeding proud.
He entered a suburban street car and sat stiffly in his
seat misinterpreting the amusement of the other
passengers for envy. It never occurred to Jim that
his clothes were in shockingly bad taste or that his
appearance was grotesque. He was a simple and
lonely soul with the male's innate love of bright colors
and flaring finery rampant within him, his desires un-
tempered by the inhibitions of culture. He loved the
flagrant and flamboyant in dress and secretly har-
bored an ambition to carry a cane. He owned two
but thus far in his career they had remained cloistered.
He had never quite mustered sufficient courage to drag
one of them into the street. But some day . . .
Forty minutes later the street car reached the end
of its run and Jim alighted. The suburb silently pro-
claimed the opulence of its residents. Wide, tree-
shaded streets bounded by broad, velvety lawns be-
hind which hugely handsome residences reared their
architecturally perfect forms; gardens which paid
flowering tribute to landscape experts; sinuously wind-


192 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
rich rugs. Jim was left alone in the dim, lavishly com-
fortable confines of the library. He seated himself on
the lounge, hitched up his trousers at the knees to pre-
serve the crease, and waited.
Less than five minutes later Weston appeared. He
was a thin, undersized man with a peculiarly high fore-
head and deep cavernous eyes. His step was mincing
but his manner betokened a wealth of nervous energy.
He paused on the threshold and stared with ill-con-
cealed amazement at the unwieldy figure which rose
from the lounge to greet him.
It was a case of mutual surprise. Jim Hanvey had
been prepared to meet a towering, aggressive, physi-
cally powerful individual—a man whose physique was
in consonance with his reputation in the industrial
world. For Jim knew that Weston was all-powerful:
fair but ruthless, a hard fighter and a game one. The
little man in the doorway was rather of the lounge-
lizard type. . . .
As for Weston he could not believe that this mam-
moth individual who bulked before him was the person
who had been recommended as the best detective in
, the country. Jim was not at all of the detective type.
His new raiment accentuated the flabbiness of the
form, intensified the general impression of lethargic
indifference and general unfitness. And so the two
men stared, each struggling to readjust in a moment his
preconceived idea of the other. It was the financier
who spoke first, his voice snapping with a peculiar


THE KNIGHT’S GAMBIT 193
steely timbre not at all in accord with his diminutive
size.
“Mr. Hanvey?”
“Yeh. . . . Mr. Weston?”
“I am Mr. Weston.”
“Mr. Theodore Weston?”
“Yes.”
“Gosh. . . .” Jim paused suddenly. Weston
stared intently.
“Say it,” he prompted.
“You’re a runt,” proferred Jim. “I thought I was
gonna meet a big feller.”
“And you,” countered Weston, “look more like a
side-show freak than a detective.”
“You said it. I never was awful strong on looks
an’ my figger never caused me to be mistook for no
sylph.”
They stood facing one another in the subdued light
of the library. Jim covertly straightened his tie and
patted his new coat. Jim was very well pleased with
himself. He wondered whether this man had noticed
his new suit—
“Nice suit of clothes you’ve got on, Mr. Weston.”
“Ehp?” The smaller man was startled. “Oh!
Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Jim hesitated. “I’m awful
strong for swell clothes, aint you?”
“I don’t notice them much.”
Jim sighed disappointedly. “Thought not. . . .”


THE KNIGHT’S GAMBIT 195
particular moral turpitude. Yet the intervention and
assistance of friends cannot aid me at all—which is why
I have sought outside—and professional—help.”
“In other words,” summarized Jim slowly, “some-
body’s tryin’ to slip somethin’ over on you.”
“Precisely. Not in a business way. That would be
relatively easy to cope with. In entrusting you with
this story I must impress upon you the necessity for
strictest Secrecy. My confidence must remain invio-
late. As a matter of fact, I find myself excessively
embarrassed. . . . I–I–scarcely know where to
begin.”
“Hmm! An' you're doubtful about beginnin' at all,
aint you, Mr. Weston?”
“No. Not exactly. With the endorsement you have
received from business associates of mine. . . .”
“You still think I look like such a slob I aint the
man to show no finesse. Aint that it?”
“You state it rather crudely, Mr. Hanvey, but you
have hit the bull's-eye.”
“Well,” Jim slumped in his chair. His eyes closed
with maddening slowness—remained shut for a second
—then opened even more slowly. . . . “I’m willin’ to
do my best to help you out. But if you want me to
enter a beauty contest, I guess we'd better call it off.”
“It isn’t that, Mr. Hanvey. You see, the primary
essential is that you come here as my guest for two
or three weeks.”
“In this house? Gosh!”
“That will be necessary.”


196 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
Hanvey deliberated. Once again he gave vent to
the ocular yawn which interested—and somewhat ex-
asperated—his host. “I reckon I'll have to put up
with it then,” he sighed.
Weston smiled slightly. “I don't believe it will be
as terrible as you anticipate. The-er—reimburse-
ment in this affair, Mr. Hanvey, will be adequate.
More than adequate, should you happen to be
Successful.”
Jim waved a pudgy hand. “Never mind that. I'll
take a chance if you will.”
Again silence settled between them. Weston sat
forward in his chair with his keen eyes glittering across
the room. Finally he rose abruptly and stepped
mincingly across the library to the window. Jim re-
mained slouched on the lounge, apparently asleep.
A miasma of rancid smoke hovered about his Brobding-
nagian figure.
The descending sun of early evening bathed the
dapper figure of the little industrial giant in a soft,
mellow light. He stood by the window staring out—at
something—silent, intense, a bit morose. And finally
he spoke without turning his head.
“Hanvey?”
“Yeh?”
“Come here.”
Jim rose with a grunt and waddled across the room.
His enormous bulk completely shadowed that of the
smaller man. And now there had come a slight change
in the atmosphere. Weston's use of Jim's last name


198 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
fore recognition came to him his attention was once
more attracted to the girl.
She was young—that much was evident even at the
distance separating her from Jim. There was some-
thing about the slim, boyish figure; the artless eager-
ness with which she hung upon the words of her com-
panion, which proclaimed extreme youth. And, too,
the way she sat her horse—carelessly, easily, as though
she belonged. The girl wore no hat, her rich brown
hair was piled carelessly atop the exquisitely shaped
head. Her left hand held the rein loosely, her right
hung by her side. It held a riding crop which she
twiddled aimlessly. Up through the poplar-lined
bridle path they came . . . the shadows spotting the
roadway like the stippling of a pen-and-ink artist.
“My daughter,” said Weston simply and without
turning. There was affection in his voice—and worry
—and abounding pride. Jim responded to the tone
with all the sincerity of his emotionful nature.
“Swell lookin' kid,” was his comment.
He turned his attention to the man, now limned in
the glow of the late evening sun. He was a perfect
foil for the girl; a figure of powerful, dominant mascu-
line maturity offsetting her naïve girlishness. He wore
an immaculate riding costume. He rode like a Cen-
taur, swaying to the stride of his horse . . . oblivious
to everything save the girl by his side. He was talk-
ing, head inclined toward her. And then Jim recog-
nized the man and he emitted a slow, amazed whistle.
Theodore Weston turned.


THE KNIGHT’S GAMBIT 199
“You know him?”
“Yes.”
“Who is he?”
Jim favored the man with a prolonged scrutiny.
It was scarcely possible . . . but there was certitude
in the tone with which he made answer to his host's
question.
“That's Whitey Kirk.”
“Who is Whitey Kirk?”
“The cleverest con man in the world,” was the an-
swer, and there was a ring of professional admiration
in his voice. “I didn't know he was a friend of
yours—”
“He isn't.”
“There ain't anything to be ashamed of if he is.
Y'know I’m awful strong for Whitey—Warren is his
real name—because of the fact that he is so good. For
ten years that baby has been pullin' jobs, big jobs,
wide-open jobs—and they’ve never fastened a thing on
him. He's a wizard, that’s what. He's tackled
everything from stock swindling to smuggling and
he's gotten away with it. I can’t help liking a man
with his brains and ability. And nerve— Oh!
Mamma!”
Weston walked heavily back to the table of black
walnut which occupied the middle of the library.
Jim followed slowly, and then, seeing that the atten-
tion of his host was not upon him, deftly exchanged
the two cigars which lay upon the desk—so that his
own vicious black one was once more in his possession.


THE KNIGHT’S GAMBIT 201
Surprised Jim: “The man is a criminal, Mr. Hanvey.
It shall be your task to prove it!”
“Hmm!” Jim's glassy orbs closed—then opened—
with exasperating leisureliness. “Why?”
“Because—” and Jim liked the directness of Wes-
ton's speech, “that man is engaged to marry my
daughter.”
“Gee!” commented Jim Hanvey. “That's tough.”
“It is worse than that—it is horrible. She is not
quite eighteen years of age. He is—Oh! about forty
I judge—”
“Forty-one.”
“They met at Ormond Beach last year. We have a
winter place there. My daughter is a golf enthusiast.
This man, it seems, was down there playing golf—
peculiar pastime for a criminal—”
“Whitey's a gent.”
“Madge was injured one day on the links—struck
by a golf ball on number ten fairway. She was
stunned. Number ten is farthest removed from the
clubhouse. This man Kirk was playing right behind
her. He is a powerful fellow and he carried her to the
clubhouse in his arms. From there she was taken
home in a car which he provided. I thanked him and
he introduced himself. It never occurred to me that
he was not a gentleman. He told me he was a gradu-
ate of one of the large universities—”
“He is.”
“—And we were all emotionally grateful at the time.
We magnified the very simple favor which he had done


202 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
for us. Certainly it never occurred to us to scrutinize
too closely the very natural friendship which rapidly
developed between him and my daughter. We didn’t
take it seriously—somehow a parent finds difficulty in
appreciating the maturity of his own child.
“We all liked him. His natural gentility was the
only credential we asked. He and Madge were to-
gether everywhere: he appeared to be a man of means,
culture and leisure. We fancied that he had a pater-
nal interest in her. They golfed together, played
tennis, swam, rode—a very delightful winter idyll.
And the day Madge told her mother and me that she
was engaged to marry this man—well, Mr. Hanvey,
unless you’re a father—and have received a shock
through your child—a shock involving the happiness of
that child—you cannot understand.”
Jim fidgeted uncomfortably in his chair. The voice
of his host rang with fierce bitterness. . . . “You
sure are up against it, Weston.”
“I investigated him, suddenly realizing that Mrs.
Weston and I had been criminally negligent. I was
amazed by the fact that I knew nothing whatever of
him save that he bore all the earmarks of a gentle-
man. He vouchsafed no personal information. I
brought the family back north—and investigated fur-
ther. The thing was horrible enough as it was—a
seventeen-year-old-girl engaged to a man of forty.
She wouldn’t listen to reason. . . . I tried to be tact-
ful in my handling of the situation. You see,” simply,
“I am worth a great many millions of dollars and it


204 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
me. They told me that you were the one person who
might be of real assistance.”
Jim leaned forward in his chair. “Me? How can
I help?”
“I have been told that you know crooks better than
any other man in the world. That you can work
miracles with them—because you understand them.
I ask you pointblank, Jim Hanvey—will you under-
take the task of saving my daughter from this man?”
Jim lighted a fresh cigar. Through the haze of
rancid smoke he stared at the little financier. “I’ll
undertake it on one condition,” he said slowly.
“And that is—?”
“—That I be allowed a free hand. Absolutely.”
“Done!”
“Good. Remember, Weston, I’m liable to pull a
bone—the chances are that I’ll flunk it. Whitey
Kirk is the cleverest crook on two continents. He's in
soft here—awful soft. He ain’t gonna let go easy.
But if you're willin’ for me to try—I’ll try. If I flop
—it won’t be because I haven’t done my damndest.”
The smaller man rose, crossed the room and dropped
a hand on Jim's fat shoulders. “You won’t fail, Han-
vey.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” replied the other, “it means too much to
Madge. If you’re what they say you are—you'll put
it over.”
Jim rose awkwardly. “I’ll do my best. I’ll have to
stick around here for a week or two.” He looked down


THE KNIGHTS GAMBIT 205
upon his new and shrieking raiment— “Thank good-
ness I already bought a new suit. I’d hate to look
like a bum in a swell joint like this.”
Twenty minutes later Jim Hanvey departed for the
city in one of Weston's limousines. He lolled against
the rich upholstery enjoying to the ultimate the luxury
and uniqueness of the experience. At his modest and
untidy apartment he swiftly packed a near-leather
suitcase with those articles which he fancied would
be essential to his new rôle of society butterfly. He
left the apartment, entered the limousine for the re-
turn trip—then suddenly halted the chauffeur— “Just
a minute, Buddy. I forgot something.”
He re-entered the building. When he returned to
the car a few minutes later he nervously clasped the
thing which he had forgotten.
It was his light malacca cane.
He reached the Weston home shortly before the din-
ner hour and was shown to his rooms; a bedroom, par-
lor and bath suite on the west wing of the mansion.
He gazed apprehensively about and experienced more
than a hint of trepidation. A valet arrived to inquire
whether he might assist Mr. Hanvey to dress for
dinner. -
“My Gawd, no!” roared Jim. “You'd make me feel
downright bashful.”
In the living room he was introduced to Mrs. Wes-
ton, a Sweet-faced and surprisingly young woman con-
siderably larger than her husband. Mrs. Weston
pressed Jim's hands as she wished him well. “Theo-


THE KNIGHT’S GAMBIT 207
betokened trouble—great gobs of it—and trouble was
the one thing which Whitey Kirk was at that moment
most desirous of avoiding. He negotiated Jim into
the glare of an electrolier while he himself stood in
the shadows, but he gained no information from the
bovine expression of the triple-chinned detective. Jim
sat stolidly, lids curtaining his expressionless, fishy
orbs, fingers twiddling the golden toothpick. Theo-
dore Weston gazed interestedly from one to the other.
He felt a queer confidence in the ability of the ungainly
detective, and didn't understand the feeling. Jim was
the apparent personification of the ultimate in human
stupidity, but Weston's keen, sparkling eyes had not
missed the flash of apprehension which had whitened
Kirk's face at the moment of recognition.
And then Madge Weston burst into the room—bil-
lowed through the door like a stray zephyr. She
called gay greetings and then, girllike, made directly
toward Warren Kirk—pausing abruptly at sight of the
stranger. She accepted her father's introduction
matter-of-factly and immediately set about the task
of making the stranger feel at home. It was plain to
her that he was out of the picture—a veritable china-
shop bull—and she was more than a little sorry for
him. Jim responded eagerly to her advances, and the
warmth of his response grew more keen when he no-
ticed that Kirk was highly displeased.
Here was the sort of girl who made an irresistible
appeal to Jim—pretty in a fresh, wholesome, sensible
and entirely immature way; eager, unspoiled, urgent


THE KNIGHT’S GAMBIT 209
A shade of annoyance flashed across the man's face.
“My name is Warren.”
“A'right, Warren. Le’s travel.”
They descended from the spacious veranda to the
moon-drenched garden. The night air was soft and
warm and Saturated with the odor of lilacs. From far
off came the tinkle of a piano and the sensuous strains
of a violin—and in the street somewhere children were
playing and calling gleefully to one another. Every-
where quietude and beauty and peace. Side by side
the two men walked: Jim's big figure waddling on
short, fat legs; Whitey's broad shoulders thrown far
back, his firm, muscular limbs moving with easy
rhythm. And it was the taller man who broke the si-
lence. He spoke without turning and his voice was
frigid and direct.
“What's the big idea, Jim?”
“Hmm! Just visitin’ my ol’ college chump who I
ain’t seen since we graduated from Harvard together.”
“Let’s cut out the kidding. What are you here
for?”
Jim's voice was mildly reproving. “Don’t you
know?”
“I can guess.”
“A'right. You got my permission. One guess
ought to be enough. If you miss I’ll give you an-
other.”
“You’re here—” Whitey's icy voice came slowly,
his words close-clipped—“to break up my romance.”
“Your What?”


210 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
“Romance.”
“With that kid?”
“Yes—with that kid.”
Jim's heavy head rolled in earnest negation. “Naw,
son—you're all wrong. I ain't here to bust up no
romance.”
“Listen to me, Jim Hanvey—you've got a reputation
for telling the truth—”
“I’m telling it now. I ain't here to bust up no
romance, Whitey. I’m here to keep you from gettin'
away with whatever graft you’re planning.”
“I’m not planning anything except to marry this
girl.”
“Well—that’s a pretty good graft, ain’t it? Good
lookin’ kid—young—heiress to about twenty million
bucks. Mmm! I'd call it a real swell graft.”
“I’m in love with her—”
A harsh note crept into the detective's voice.
“That’s a lie, Whitey, and you know it. If you was
you’d clear out. You know you can't bring her nothin'
but misery. Now what I want to find out is this—are
you plannin’ to go through with this deal an’ marry
her, or have you got a price?”
“I have no price.”
“You can’t be bought off?”
“No.”
“Well, that makes my job harder. I thought maybe
you was lookin’ for a soft spot and didn’t want to queer
things by bargaining with the old man. It'd be worth
a heap to him to get rid of you. Not that you ain’t a


212 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
as ever, Kirk struggling to conceal the worry inspired
by Jim's air of confidence. Whitey knew that he had
never slipped in his decade of criminality—he knew
but he wasn’t sure. Perhaps, somewhere in that pe-
riod, there had been an error of judgment, a weakness
which he did not suspect. He knew the axiom of the
criminal world—a detective may make a thousand
mistakes and yet be successful; a criminal cannot err
once. Warren Kirk realized that he was only human
—and therefore fallible. And if Jim knew something
and could prove it . . .
Later in the evening Kirk persuaded Madge to ac-
company him to the veranda. Scarcely had they left
the room when Jim fired a question at her parents—
“Knowing what you do about this guy, why'd you
agree to their engagement?”
“Madge is headstrong,” was the simple answer.
“We thought it best to appear to consent.”
“Mmm!” Jim nodded slowly. “It sure is a pleas-
ure to work with folks which uses their heads for
somethin’ more than havin' a picture taken of.”
Meanwhile, on the veranda, Whitey Kirk was
talking with low-voiced earnestness to the girl. “It’s
this way, Madge—Hanvey is a detective and a good
one. He is one of the leaders of the police clique
which for years has been attempting to hang something
on me. Your father has fallen under their influence.
He has hinted to you that my past is not all it might
have been. He has hired Jim Hanvey to come down
here and prove to you that I am crooked.” He bent


THE KNIGHT’S GAMBIT 213
his handsome head close to her wide-open, frightened
eyes. “I believe I am a gentleman, little girl. I want
you to promise that the minute you lose your trust
in me you will let me know—and I shall leave you.
But if you're willing to stand by me . . .” With a
little sob she seized his hand and pressed it tightly.
“Don’t talk that way, Warren. Don't! I can’t
bear the thought that anyone even thinks you are not
all right. And don’t suggest that I won’t stand by
you. I love you, dear. . . .”
He took her in his arms then and kissed her, and
even as he did so there was a coldly calculating light in
his gray eyes. He was playing this game for big stakes.
It was the chance of a lifetime—an opportunity to
insure affluence with safety. And Madge was a pretty
good sort. He wasn’t in love with her, of course, but
on the other hand he might do worse in the selection of
a life partner. Nice, clean kid—and sensible. . .
“Gee! it’d sure bust things higher than a kite if Jim
could ever prove to her . . .”
And so after the silence of midnight had fallen over
the house, Whitey Kirk sat staring from the window
of his room. Beside him was an ash tray filled with
cigarette stumps.
Jim had him worried. Whitey knew—none better
the ability of the ponderous detective, knew that
he would not be absolutely safe until he was actually
married to the girl. It wasn’t that Jim had discov-
ered proof of any past transgression so much as there
was danger that Jim might frame him.


214 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
Whitey knew well the romantic strain rampant in
the soul of the ponderous visitor, realized that Jim be-
lieved he must save the girl. And he realized that, all
other methods failing, there was every likelihood that
Jim would frame a robbery or a bit of crookedness in
such a manner that he would appear guilty. “He
might even plant a jewel robbery,” reflected Kirk,
“and plant the loot in my room. Then, if they
caught me . . .”
Early the following morning he went riding with
Madge and forewarned her of that possibility. Madge
was horrified and indignant, but there was in her eyes
a queer, questioning light which had been absent the
previous night. Madge was seeing a great deal of
smoke and instinctively she found herself wondering
whether, after all, there might not be a bit of fire.
She cast aside the idea as unworthy—but it persisted
subtly and she was downcast and constrained for the
last hour of their time together.
But she was blessed with a strain of sterling loyalty
and active fighting qualities. Immediately upon her
return home, she sought an interview with her father.
It was brief, surfeited with mutual pain, and very much
to the point. Father and daughter were honest with
one another.
“Why are you opposed to my engagement, Dad?”
“The disparity in age, for one thing.”
“What else?”
“I don’t like Kirk.”
“You believe he is not—all that he might be?”


216 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
thought she knew. If he was not that man . . . If,
beneath the polished exterior, there was black-
ness . . . She went quietly to her room to pon-
der. . . .
When she came downstairs shortly before the
luncheon hour Jim Hanvey was waiting for her. His
huge figure overflowed a chair in the reception hall
and he lumbered to his feet at her descent. Somehow,
despite the nature of his mission, she could not find it
in her heart to dislike him. There was something in-
finitely pathetic and appealing about the man—a
vague, elusive quality which excited the maternal in-
stinct in her breast. The cheap, ready-made clothes
which flapped so grotesquely about the ill-shapen
figure were not funny . . . she liked Jim Hanvey and
she admitted it frankly. He bowed now with ele-
phantine lack of grace.
“Good mornin', Miss Madge.”
“Good morning.”
Jim glanced around apprehensively. “I’ve been
sittin' here waitin’ for you. I wonder if you'd talk to
me for a minute?”
She arched her brows in surprise. “Certainly.”
“Let’s go where no one can hear us.” .
They repaired to the library. Jim hitched his chair
very close to hers. “I want you to understand just
one thing, Miss Madge—I’m a friend of your’n.” He
cleared his throat. “I want to come clean with you—
if you’ll let me.”
“Please do.”


218 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
of hers. Her eyes were shining: “I don’t know how
to thank you. And I do trust you— Oh! so much!
It's horrible, what they’re saying about Warren—and
I know it isn’t so. I—well, do you mind if I tell
Warren that you’re here to help him—to help us?”
“No,” returned Jim dryly, “I don't mind. Tell
him. He'll be awful interested.”
And Whitey was interested when she told him the
following morning. He was more than that, and the
amazement which was writ large upon his features
was reflected in the fury which surcharged his voice.
“It’s a damned lie—” He did not catch the
startled, hurt glance which she bestowed upon him.
“Jim believes I’m crooked. He's here to prove it to
you. And when he says he's our friend, he lies.”
She cringed slightly. The intensity of the man
troubled her. It was something which her immaturity
could not understand; a new vision of this hitherto
soft-spoken, gentle, thoughtful man. A tremor of
doubt assailed her. Girl-like, she could not compre-
hend the bitterness which seemed so unnecessary.
For the moment Whitey Kirk had stepped out of char-
acter.
Later she told Jim that Kirk was distrustful and
Hanvey insisted that the three of them meet for a
chat. Kirk violently opposed the suggestion. Things
which he could not fathom were happening too swiftly
for his comfort. He was afraid of Jim and did not
know how to combat this new tack—this brummagem
friendliness. It was Madge who insisted that the trio


THE KNIGHT’S GAMBIT 219
talk things over, and Madge who made evasion im-
possible. Lowering and sullen he greeted the im-
passive Jim who puffed placidly upon one of his mur-
derous cigars and appeared happily oblivious to the
rancor in the other's manner. But Madge was notic-
ing—and she was vaguely uncomfortable for Jim.
“What's your game, Jim?” Whitey Kirk came
straight to the point.
“Game? Who said I was playin' a game?”
“You know perfectly well that when you told Miss
Weston you were here in the rôle of friend, you
lied.”
“Mph! You don’t care who you call a liar, do you?”
“No I don’t, an y?
“Well ” softly— “I’m too much your friend to
get sore at you about doin' it. Ain't that the sensible
thing, Miss Madge?”
“It is.” She clipped her words short with a manner-
ism keenly remindful of her father. “And I must
say, Warren, that you seem unnecessarily severe.”
He swung wrathfully upon her. “I tell you that
your father has employed this man to destroy our
happiness—to break off our engagement—”
“He told me so himself,” she answered with some
asperity.
“He did?”
“Certainly. And he said he was remaining here
because he is our friend and because if he resigned any
other man who assumed the task would be our enemy.
Isn't that simple?”


THE KNIGHT’S GAMBIT 223
Madge sat at her window, staring seriously across
the silhouette of hills. In her eyes was a brooding
reflective light which was at once doubting and specu-
lative. Instinct informed her that Jim Hanvey was
her friend. She could not help but trust him. And
she had that day made the startling discovery that
there was something to Warren Kirk beside suave
gentility. She had glimpsed beneath the surface and
had seen there a hardness and a grimness which she
—eighteen and in love—had never suspected.
There was little sleep for her that night and she
did not come down the following morning until long
after breakfast. She had forgotten an engagement to
ride with Kirk and learned with an inexplicable meas-
ure of relief that he had gone alone. In the morning
room she found Jim Hanvey smoking one of his vile
cigars and worrying himself over the proper place to
drop the ashes. She settled herself for a chat—and
so, eager and friendly, Whitey Kirk found her when
he returned from his ride. He remonstrated with her,
and, as she had discovered a granite something in him
the previous day, so he now learned that there was a
strain of firmness in her which did not brook opposi-
tion.
“I think you're unjust and unreasonable, Warren.”
“I know what I’m talking about.”
“Has Mr. Hanvey ever harmed you?”
“It isn’t his fault that he hasn’t. He has tried.”
“How do you know?”
Kirk's face flushed. That was a question which


THE KNIGHT’S GAMBIT 225
her jaw. “It isn't what he said, Mr. Hanvey—it's
what he didn't say.”
“Well then—he didn't mean nothin' by what he
didn't say. Whitey's a swell feller, Madge. A nawful
swell feller. Best in the world. He's got his faults
—we've all of us got them. But I’m strong for Whitey
an’ I’d give anything in the world if he’d believe
that.”
“So would I,” she said. “I trust you, Mr. Hanvey.
I don’t know why—but I do. Perhaps it’s because I
like you so much.”
Jim blushed like a schoolgirl. “Gee! them words is
music to my ears. There ain’t many folks have said
that to me, Miss Madge. Y'know—it seems that
when folks meet up with a fat man they think all they
got to do to prove they’re good fellers is to give him a
razzin’. Goshamighty, a fat feller likes friends as
much as a skinny one. More, I’ll say. He needs
'em more.” He breathed heavily with the exertion
of prolonged declamation. “That's why I wisht
Whitey would like me an’ trust me like you do. Mat-
ter of fact I’ve just been achin’ to solve his problem,
but he wouldn’t let me get within firin’ distance—you'd
think I was gonna eat him.”
“You’ve been aching to solve what problem, Mr.
Hanvey?”
“His an’ yourn.”
“How?”
Jim looked away. “I don’t exactly like to tell you.
If Whitey was to suspect I was hornin’ in on his affairs


228 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
when they returned to the spacious veranda, but
Madge was victim to a strange admixture of emotions.
On the one hand was the thrill of active romance—on
the other a feeling that she was doing wrong, that she
wasn’t playing fair with her parents; that, perhaps,
after all was said and done, Whitey wasn’t exactly the
man for her.
Some of her doubts she expressed to Jim the fol-
lowing morning. He laughed away her fears. He
had advised it, he said, because it was the simplest way
out of a serious difficulty. A problem, he explained,
was only a problem until it attained solution. It be-
came then, a status. Those were not Jim's words,
but that was the sense of them. She was only half-
convinced and told him so.
“But I trust you, Jim Hanvey. I’m taking your
advice. I’ll do what you say.”
“You really love Whitey?”
“Y-yes.”
“Then elope with him tonight.”
All through the long afternoon she was distraught.
Her suitcase was packed and ready. Immediately fol-
lowing a peculiarly strained dinner Whitey Kirk dis-
appeared. He returned in a few minutes having, in
the interim, placed his suitcase in the girl's car. The
world was a very bright and rosy place for Whitey just
then. He glanced contemptuously toward the sloth-
ful, hulking figure of the detective. Not the least item
of the prospective triumph would be Jim's discomfiture.


THE KNIGHT’S GAMBIT 229
For her part, Madge was uncertain and unhappy.
Only her immaturity and her fear of that youthful
bugbear known as “backing down” prevented an
eleventh-hour retreat. But, starry-eyed and firm-
jawed, she set herself to go through with it. She had
said she'd do it and she would—come what might.
But she experienced none of the happiness which she
had fancied would be hers upon her nuptial night.
There was only a vague, formless terror . . . time
and again she turned to Jim Hanvey for comfort. Jim
knew—she could talk to him. He tried cumbersomely
to reassure her, and succeeded partially. That eve-
ning he was to her both mother and father . . . they
were very close to one another; the big, ungainly de-
tective and the bewildered, emotion-driven child of a
millionaire father.
At seven-thirty o’clock Whitey Kirk called Madge
aside.
“Your suitcase in the car, dear?”
“Yes,” she answered softly.
“You put it there yourself?”
“Yes. . . .” Then she hesitated and bit her lip.
Madge had never been taught to lie. “Well, not ex-
actly myself.”
“What do you mean: Not exactly?”
“Nothing.”
“What do you mean, Madge?”
“Well, somebody put it there for me.”
“Who?”


234 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
trickle of blood coursed down his fat cheeks and lost
itself in the fat recesses of the ample chins.
How long she stood there she didn't know. She re-
membered her father leaping across the garage, whip-
ping out a gold penknife as he did so. And she knew
vaguely that Kirk was beside her, his hand on her
elbow. She shook his hand off and he moved away as
though she had struck him. Weston administered
first aid to the stricken man from a silver pocket flask
and not until the fishy eyes wavered open did the girl
move, and then it was to dart across the garage and
drop to her knees by the side of the ungainly figure.
She pillowed his head on her breast and soft, crooning
mother-sounds came from between her lips. She
wiped away the thin stream of blood with the hem of
her skirt. Jim rousing himself with an effort, blinked
dazedly into the glare of the auto lamps and shook his
head. His voice came lugubriously—
“Gosh! I sure feel like Friday the thirteenth.”
As Jim, with the aid of Theodore Weston, struggled
to his feet, Whitey Kirk moved slowly into the circle
of light. His finely chiselled face exhibited great con-
cern. He voiced a question— “What happened,
Jim?”
It was Madge Weston who answered. She, too, had
risen, and a new maturity seemed to have enveloped
her. With a quietly dramatic gesture she removed
from the fourth finger of her left hand the ring which
Kirk had given her. She extended it to him.
“You know what happened to him, Warren.”


THE KNIGHT’S GAMBIT 235
“I don't. . . .” His denial was fervent. “I’ll
swear to you, Madge—”
“Take this, Warren. I’d rather not discuss the
matter.”
His eyes held hers. And the man saw there a light
of finality which was beyond question or argument.
With that revealing glance he knew that he had lost.
Madge turned to her father and gave a calm, quiet,
womanly explanation—
“I was about to elope with Warren. He was afraid
that Mr. Hanvey might try to stop us. And so he
committed this—this cowardly act—”
“I didn't!” It was Kirk defending himself pas-
sionately. “I give you my word. Jim, you know I
didn’t do this. Tell them—”
“It doesn’t matter what Mr. Hanvey says,” retorted
the girl Sadly. “He has always been your friend and
he's your friend now. He’d probably say you didn’t
do it, wouldn't you, Mr. Hanvey?”
“Yeh.” Jim's big head nodded slowly. “I'prob'ly
would. I ain't aimin’ to git Whitey into no trouble.”
“You See, Warren, he's standing by you to the end.
For it is the end, Warren. The very end. I’ve
learned a good deal in the last few days. Somehow,
I marvel that I didn’t know before.”
“But I didn’t do it, Madge. Tell her that I didn't
do it, Jim.”
Jim met his eyes levelly. “I ain’t accused you of
nothin', have I, Whitey?”
Kirk stood rigid, staring from one to the other.


THE KNIGHT’S GAMBIT 237
“I wasn’t so dog-goned sure of it myself,” answered
the big detective slowly. Then he grinned ruefully
as he tenderly rubbed the bruise on his head. “I’ll
hand you one thing, Mr. Weston. Your bindin’ an’
gaggin' wasn’t such a fine job—but believe me that
sure was one awful wallop you hit me. I don’t won-
der Miss Madge was so sure that Whitey done it.
She never would believe her Dad was that cruel.”
Weston was deeply apologetic. “You insisted that
I hit you hard.” -
“Sure I did,” chuckled Jim. “I’m just remarkin'
that you certainly took me at my word.”


PINK BAIT 241
Mr. Donley shook his bullet head sorrowfully.
“Ten thousand berries. Gosh. . . . But the point is
—where’ll we meet?”
Mr. Braden did some careful thinking. “Let’s say
tomorrow afternoon at two o'clock at the corner of
Boulevard and Thirty-second street, Bayonne. And
be sure they don’t trail you.”
Mickey laughed shortly. “The dick that follies me
there is going to have went all over Joisey.”
They met as per schedule. Tommy Braden at the
wheel of a borrowed sedan. Together they rolled
slowly down the Hudson County Boulevard toward
Bergen Point. Mr. Donley produced a chamois sack
and from it poured forth a stream of pink glory.
“Gawd! ain't they beauts?”
Tommy's eyes glittered with the appreciation of a
connoisseur. “Very fine, Mickey. A rope of matched
pearls . . . hmm! I should say they’re worth a hun-
dred thousand dollars.”
“Ev'ry dime of that. Say, listen—how 'bout raising
the ante a grand or two?”
“Don’t be silly, Mickey. Here's your five thousand.
Give me the pearls.”
Mr. Donley left the sedan at Eighth Street and re-
turned to New York via the Jersey Central. The
route chosen by Mr. Thomas Matlock Braden was
considerably more circuitous. He crossed the Kill
von Kull to Port Richmond and traversed Staten IS-
land to St. George where he boarded the New York
ferry. He reached his apartment, concealed the pearls


PINK BAIT 243
fact that the latter was by way of being a jewel
collector.
Tommy, too, collected jewelry, although in a rather
more informal way. A gem to Mr. Mallory was a
thing of beauty and of glory; something to be treasured
and gazed upon and studied. Mr. Braden, being
rather grossly material, saw in a jewel only its in-
trinsic worth and its marketable value where the
method of its coming into his possession had been a
bit questionable. But he loved jewelry none the less
. . . the viewpoint of the two men was basically the
same although diametrically opposite in the working-
out; Braden saw jewels in terms of cash; Mallory saw
dollars in terms of gems.
Jared Mallory was known to the masses in a vague
way, such as a king is known. He was a person with-
out a public personality. He shunned publicity and
human contact outside his own little personal circle.
He was a living definition of the word exclusive in its
Sociological application . . . and so it was that very
few persons were aware of the fact that Mr. Mallory
had but recently sailed for France. Tommy Braden
knew it, but that was only because Tommy happened
to have an interest in Mr. Mallory. And now Tommy
planned to cash in on his observation of the millionaire
jewel-collector. -
Tommy's decision to visit the famous Indiana re-
sort was the result of careful deliberation. He knew
that this was the last place in the world that Mr. Mal-


PINK BAIT 245
THOMAS M. BRADEN-New York.
“I wired for a suite. . . .” Tommy's voice was
rather indifferent, his manner bored.
“Yes sir. Certainly sir.” The gong. “Front.
Show Mr. Braden up to Suite F.”
The dinner hour approached. Mr. Braden bathed
and dressed with scrupulous care in an ultra-conserva-
tive dinner jacket. There was about his rather
statuesque figure an air of stateliness which harmonized
with the conventional simplicity of his garb. His dress
was so unobtrusive as to command instant attention.
He descended to the lobby, crossed to the dining room
and slipped a crisp and ample bill into the willing hand
of the headwaiter by way of assuring himself the
proper respect.
He knew that more than one person commented upon
him during the course of the meal. For the most part
he kept his eyes down, but when they did chance to
focus upon some person, that individual experienced
the unpleasant sensation of being looked through.
More than one consulted the clerk after dinner for
information as to the identity of the stranger who had
now retired to a corner of the lobby and was puffing
lightly upon a monogrammed cigarette.
Among those who had particularly noticed Tommy
was a couple from the Middle West: a rather wizened
gentleman of some fifty-five years and his unduly
ample wife. Mr. and Mrs. Edgar H. Morse had, for
the past five years, been frantically attempting to


246 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
create the impression which Mr. Braden was now
registering so profoundly. Wealth had come to them
in an unexpected flood. They were not crude persons
but they did lack the background which is essential
to true culture and, as earnestly as they had struggled
for financial success during years which were rather
more lean than fat, so they set about adjusting them-
Selves to the social demands of their miraculously ac-
quired millions.
They were rather pathetic as they hung on the fringe
of things and sought to absorb in a few years the social
ease which must be born in one. They were not
aggressive in their wealth—as a matter of fact they
scarcely understood it; had not yet fathomed its mean-
ing. And their tastes were those of the contest-
answerers who send in to the editor lengthy replies
to the prize query: “What would you do if you sud-
denly inherited a million dollars?”
Mr. and Mrs. Morse strolled over to the desk and
made inquiry of the clerk.
“Oh! him? That’s Thomas M. Braden.”
His manner indicated that anyone who was anyone
would certainly know Mr. Thomas M. Braden. Mr.
Morse caught the nuance and uttered an enlightening—
“A-a-ah! So it is.”
“He’s a wonderful looking man,” commented Mrs.
Morse. “So distinguished.”
They managed to seat themselves near Tommy. He
appraised them scientifically. There was no mistak-
ing their new and complete wealth— “Woman—no


PINK BAIT 249
His eye focussed upon a simple monogram. Pri-
vate brand . . . but no: the initials were distinctly
not T. M. B. He inspected more closely, then lighted
the thing and inhaled deeply. “Fine cigarette. What
make?”
“My own,” answered Tommy Braden suavely.
They chatted amiably for a few moments and then
Tommy rose, expressed polite regrets and moved
away. “Tºmorrow morning, remember,” the little
man flung after him. “We’ll have a great round.
Er—a—that is, I hope we will.”
Tommy Smiled his best Mallory smile, indicating the
ultra-correct degree of mild enthusiasm. And when
he had taken hat and stick and disappeared Mr. Ed-
gar H. Morse did a very peculiar thing. He reached
eagerly into the ash tray and rescued therefrom two
frayed cigarette stubs. Mrs. Morse was duly horri-
fied.
“Eddie! What in the World!”
But Edgar did not hear. He was frowning slightly
and his gaze was fixed intently upon the monogram of
Tommy’s privately made cigarettes.
“Listen, Ella—you heard him say they were his
private cigarettes?”
“Yes. But a good many gentlemen—'
“Sure. Sure. I’m not saying they don’t. But
there's something peculiar about this chap. See this
monogram here—it ain't T. M. B. at all. The initials
are J. M.”
From the deepest shadows of the spacious veranda,
y


PINK BAIT 253
restraining hand. “Jared Mallory?” he said half to
himself.
Susie was annoyed. “Now listen at me, Gus—”
“I thought Braden wasn't his name. Jared Mal-
lory! Holy Suffering Catfish! Say, you ain’t sure
about that, are you, Susie?”
“No. Of course I ain’t. I only know it, that's all.
If you think my lamps have went bad you can assort
them card which he flang on the floor.”
It took the young man but a few seconds to recover
the torn bits of pasteboard and arrange them in
proper order. “Well I’ll be darned—Jared Mallory
is right. Say, lemme tell the Chief.”
Susie restrained him briefly. “Who is this bird
Mallory—that you should get all het up over him?
Who did he ever kill?” -
“Jared Mallory,” explained the excited young man,
“is one of the richest nuts in the United States: that’s
all. He's got a bankroll so big you’d have to have
four eyes to see it all.”
“Then why the alias?” she queried practically.
“This joint ain't Mallory's size. He's the kind of
guy who thinks he's slumming when he visits a hotel
like this. Is that clear now?”
“Sure—sure it is, Gus. Clear as mud.”
It required just five minutes of the young man's time
to transmit his enthusiasm to the manager. “Of
course,” counselled that dignitary, “you shall do noth-
ing to embarrass Mr. Mallory. If he desires to visit
us incognito—”


256 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
general comment had it—possessed the wealth of
Croesus, the family tree of a Plantagenet and he was
inclined to be more or less of what the public expres-
sively if inelegantly terms a nut.
Within a week all doubt which may have existed
as to his being Jared Mallory had been removed.
The manager had personally made occasion to visit
Tommy's room when Tommy was absent. He found
a half hundred cigarettes monogrammed J. M., one
or two handkerchiefs with the same embroidered ini-
tials and an ancient letter addressed to Jared Mallory's
New York address.
But even at that Tommy was not entirely satisfied.
He closeted himself one day with the manager and ex-
plained to him that a telegram might possibly come to
the hotel addressed to Mr. Mallory; in which event
it was to be delivered to him. No such telegram ever
arrived, but whatever doubt may have remained to the
manager was promptly and effectively set at rest. Nor
did that personage maintain the secrecy which had
been demanded of him. True, he passed the informa-
tion only to certain intimate friends who, in turn, con-
veyed it to their own intimates—until the positive
knowledge was the property of the entire guest per-
sonnel.
There was, of course, an avalanche of attention
showered upon the supposed Jared Mallory to all of
which he was magnificently indifferent. He was cour-
teous and frostily impersonal. He accepted one or
two invitations with an air of bespeaking condescen-


PINK BAIT 257
sion, and through it all he vouchsafed his intimacy
only to the Morses.
But even with them he maintained a reserve. Ed-
gar Morse, prideful of his recent success, told Tommy
of it, thereby bringing no agony of soul to Mr. Braden;
but of himself Tommy never spoke. He did men-
tion casually an acquaintanceship extending from Cape
Town to Bombay and from New York to Sydney; he
spoke feelingly and with passionate intensity when-
ever the subject of jewels was mentioned and he openly
admired an unusually handsome emerald which Mrs.
Morse possessed. But not once was he other than
Thomas Matlock Braden—even on the memorable eve-
ning when Mrs. Morse, carried away by her interest
in the conversation, addressed him as Mr. Mallory.
Tommy's forehead corrugated in a frown of annoy-
ance. “What's that?” he inquired with frigid polite-
IneSS.
She flushed scarlet. “Why—er—you see, folks
around the hotel say you are Jared Mallory of New
York.
There was no doubting his anger. His voice came
in crisp and incisive negation: “I am afraid I am not
responsible for gossip. I am not Jared Mallory.”
Ella Morse was flustered and her husband came
eagerly to her rescue. “Now don’t you go blaming
Ella, Mr. Braden. She's been hearing so much about
you being Mr. Mallory and all the folks in the hotel
wanting to know if you really were, that she-I—
that is, we-we've sort of called you Mr. Mallory to


258 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
ourselves and the name kind of slipped out. It ain’t
any business of ours who you are—and we didn't go
to cause you any embarrassment. . . .” He paused
and spluttered. Tommy stared coldly.
“I understand, Mr. Morse. And I am sure that Mr.
Mallory would not be at all flattered.”
“No-of course he wouldn't. He’d prob'ly be awful
sore. That is—er—a-not because folks thought you
were him—of course you’re as good as he is any day
in the week, including Sundays—but on account of his
feeling—well you know what I mean.”
“Yes. I’m sure I do. But let's don't discuss it
further. I prefer to remain Thomas M. Braden.”
“’Sall right with me, Mr. Braden. You can be
Willie Jones if you want to and it don’t make any
difference to us, does it, Ella?”
But after Tommy had parted from them that eve-
ning after a session at the casino, Edgar swung on his
wife. “Goshamighty, Ella—wasn’t he sore when he
found out folks knew who he was?”
She nodded. “Can you blame him, Eddie? Here
he's taken all this trouble to make folks believe he ain’t
Jared Mallory . . . I reckon he's terribly put out.
But there isn’t a doubt in the world that he's him. If
he wasn't Mr. Mallory he wouldn’t get peeved about
folks thinking he was.”
The friendship between Tommy Braden and the
Morses flourished after that little verbal clash. If un-
pleasant memory of it rankled in Tommy's mind, he
gave no indication and his suavity and friendliness put


PINK BAIT 259
them completely in his power. They drove together—
in Morse's car—and Edgar and Tommy played golf
daily. He shunned the society of the other guests,
rigidly maintaining his attitude of impregnable ex-
clusiveness. And it was after a fortnight of this that
the subject of jewelry again came up: neither Edgar
nor his wife suspecting that Tommy had introduced
the subject.
He appeared to become inspired. He thrilled them
with romances of famous gems. The history of re-
nowned jewels he had at his finger-tips. They were
seated in the parlor of his suite, the air filled with the
fragrance of excellent cigars. . . . “But after all,”
declaimed Mr. Braden, “there is only one jewel which
is worthy the name.”
“And that is?”
“The pearl.”
They were in enthusiastic agreement. Tommy
launched into an expansive account of the pearl fish-
eries which he claimed to have seen, he explained to
them the mysteries of great pearls and enthralled them
with his enthusiasm. And then
“I’m passionately fond of them,” he confessed boy-
ishly. “And I have something here—if you'd like to
See it.”
A significant glance flashed between the others.
The jewel-collector had been humanized by his
hobby. . . . He opened one of his trunks and a few
seconds later returned with a battered leather case of
sizeable dimensions. They gathered near him at the


264 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
have known their friend at that moment. Tommy's
face was hard and bitter and there was fear delineated
in it. He put his thoughts into unspoken words—
“What the hell is Jim Hanvey doing here? Why
should a detective like him come to a joint like this?”
Tommy Braden, by dint of hard and untiring
work, had risen gradually to the very top of his
profession. The road had been neither easy nor un-
dangerous. He had faced disappointment and re-
versal with a bravely smiling face—and now he had
come to the point where he felt entitled to reap the
fruits of his endeavor. Tommy had been the despair
of detectives. He operated with an easy suavity and
a level-headed cunning which sent them running up
blind alleys in the futile search for evidence to convict,
so that thus far Tommy had avoided the inconven-
iences of jail—save in the case of a single slip in the
early days of his career.
That single jail sentence rankled in Tommy's breast,
and it had inspired in him a wholesome fear of state
boarding houses. In jail one was deprived of one's
individuality and individuality was Tommy's greatest
stock in trade. He intensely disliked swapping his
name for a number and his exquisitely tailored clothes
for a uniform. It seemed a great pity that the state
had no more judgment than to fail to differentiate be-
tween crude, lumbering crooks and gentlemen of the
profession who operated with delicacy and finesse.
But, after all, Tommy Braden feared only one man in
the detective world, which was why he was so visibly


PINK BAIT 265
disturbed at finding himself a fellow-guest of that
One Inan.
The following morning he played golf with Edgar
Morse. He unbent more than ever before and daz-
zled the little business man so thoroughly that Morse's
mind was not on the game and he lowered his course
record seven strokes. “By Golly!” reflected Mr.
Morse, “there ain't a doubt that this Braden or Mal-
lory, or whoever he is, really likes me.”
Tommy was annoyed. He had been enjoying the
cat-and-mouse contest and Jim's advent forced him
to greater speed than he had planned. They walked in
from the eighteenth green together, consumed large
drinks of iced sarsaparilla which Mr. Morse insisted
was excellent for the blood, and then Tommy made his
way to the hotel while Mr. Morse selected his favorite
putter and a half dozen balls for a session of utterly
useless practice on the clock course.
Tommy saw the hulking figure of the mammoth de-
tective too late to avoid a meeting. He was perturbed
but at the same time thankful that his introduction to
Jim at this particular time should come while he was
unaccompanied. And realizing the inevitability of a
talk with Jim, it was he who spoke first.
“Well, well, well—if it isn't my fat friend.”
Jim looked up. Heavy eyelids closed over glassy
orbs with maddening slowness, held shut for a moment,
then uncurtained with even more annoying deliberate-
ness. There was no doubting the sincerity of the sur-
prise which was reflected upon the pudgy countenance.


PINK BAIT 269
Tommy warmed up considerably. He even unbent so
far as to say that Edgar was the first genuinely con-
genial person he had met in years. He hoped that
their acquaintanceship might not perish when they
parted, and—Oh! yes, he was leaving in a few days.
He wished that there was something he might do to
indicate to Mr. and Mrs. Morse the depth of his ap-
preciation for the pleasure their society had afforded.
He correctly interpreted the eager glance which
passed between husband and wife. “There is,” burst
out Edgar, then bit his lip in embarrassment: “Er—
a—that is, I was just thinking—I’m kind of crazy, I
guess, an 22
“What is it, Morse? Anything in my power .
You see, I have few real friends. I am more or less
well fixed in a financial way, and in such a position
one becomes distrustful of persons who protest friend-
ship. . . . Tell me what you were thinking.”
“I can't—really. 'Tisn’t possible.”
“Indeed it is.”
“No. Can't.”
Tommy beamed upon Ella Morse. “What is it,
Mrs. Morse? Certainly we are sufficiently intimate to
permit frankness.”
She flushed. “Not to that extent.”
“Pshaw! If there's any favor—”
“Well, it's this,” exploded Morse. “If you wouldn't
get Sore—that is, if you understood—but of course I
can’t ask you because they mean more to you than
just what they mean and—that is, it isn't like you just


270 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
had them, and— Oh! damn it! I’ve got myself all
balled up!”
Tommy frowned slightly. “I judge you have refer-
ence to my pearls?”
“No! No! Certainly not. That is, I didn’t go to
pull a bone, and—”
Mrs. Morse leaned across the table. “Yes, Mr.
Braden, he does mean your pearls. He's embarrassed
because we both realize that it is utterly out of the
question to even suggest that you part with them,
and 22
Tommy lay back in his chair. He had an infectious
laugh and he now injected the full radiance of a pleas-
ing personality in the laughter and good-humored
glance he bestowed upon them. “So that's it, eh?
Well, well, well! You folks certainly are funny.
What in the world should cause you embarrassment
about wanting to buy my pearls? Of course you
want to own them. I'd be rather hurt if they didn't
impress you with a desire for ownership. Why man!
man! I'm complimented.”
Morse was beaming. “Dog-gone if you're not the
finest fellow I ever met. You see, pearls like those
are something that can’t be bought from a jeweler . .
and we both love 'em. We're not strong for dia-
monds and platinum and stuff like that. Pearls—
they’re classy and rich—and all such as that. And
of course from the first minute we saw them we got
to thinking how swell it would be if Ella could own
them . . . that is, some just like 'em.”


276 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
for three o'clock that afternoon. The pearls were
mentioned: Tommy repeated his offer to present them
to his friend. Morse was grateful, but yet found it
impossible to accept so valuable a gift. He assured
Braden once more that there would be no less an obli-
gation despite the payment of a sizeable sum of money.
Tommy was relieved.
The morning dragged endlessly. Braden took his
driver, midiron and a dozen balls and went to the prac-
tice tee where for an hour he slashed out clean, straight
shots averaging more than two hundred yards in length.
Golfer though he was, he experienced no thrill from
the direct, cleaving flight of the balls: he was suf-
ficiently a golfer to know that if his mind were not else-
where the golfing results would be less satisfactory.
His lunch was tasteless. His eye quested through
the huge dining room for a glimpse of Edgar Morse
and his wife. They were nowhere to be seen. He
knew that they were either lunching in the grill or out
driving. The hands of his watch progressed with ex-
asperating slowness. He feared that something might
go wrong at the eleventh hour . . . occasionally he
touched the leather case in the inside pocket of his
Coat. . . .
But he did not permit his impatience to cause a
tactical blunder. It was fully ten minutes past the
hour of his appointment when he rapped upon the door
of the Morse's suite. Edgar answered in person. The
eyes of the little man were a-gleam with eagerness.
One glance at Morse and Mrs. Morse convinced


PINK BAIT 277
Tommy that all was well. They were effusive;
couldn’t thank him enough for his generous offer of
the previous evening and they hoped that he hadn’t
changed his mind—and that he wouldn't later regret
having sold the pearls.
A paen of triumph sang in Braden's heart. He ex-
tracted the pearls from his pocket and snapped the
case open. Mrs. Morse gasped. He lifted the rope
of pearls and personally fastened them about her
throat. She was almost tearful with excitement.
Edgar Morse produced a pocket check book. “And
now if you will permit me, Mr. Braden—I—er—be-
lieve Seventy-five thousand is the amount you men-
tioned.”
Tommy nodded. “Yes. That is exactly what they
cost me.”
Edgar Morse held his pen poised. Rich color
flooded his cheeks. He hemmed and hawed for a mo-
ment and then—
“I hope you’ll pardon me, sir—but how shall I make
this check out?”
Tommy frowned. “What's that?”
“How shall I make it out—that is, er—to whose
Order?”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.” -
“Well, I mean—you know there's the idea around
the hotel—that is, about Jared Mallory, and—”
Tommy’s voice was crisp. “Just make the check
out to Thomas M. Braden.”
Morse nodded and wrote swiftly. He extended to


278 JIM HANVEY, DETECTIVE
Tommy a check for seventy-five thousand dollars pay-
able to Thomas M. Braden and drawn upon the Loop
National Bank of Chicago. “I didn’t mean to give any
offense, Braden. Of course you understand what I
thought—that is, other folks were sayin 22
“Quite all right, Morse; that's perfectly all right.
I have really been exceedingly annoyed by this silly
idea that Braden is not my name.” He folded the
check and slipped it casually in his pocket. “By the
way, are we golfing in the morning? I was hitting
them mighty cleanly in practice to-day.”
Alone in his room again Tommy inspected the check.
Veteran though he was, his heart was pounding. He
had played cunningly for big stakes and had won a
well-deserved victory. There remained nothing for
him to do but pack up and get away; then to convert
Morse's check into cash and disappear. He decided
upon a European trip; Paris had not known him for
several years and he longed for the sensuous pleasures
of the Boulevards. . . . He ripped open the drawers
of his dresser and the doors of his chifforobe: the task
of packing promised to make up in speed what it may
have lacked in neatness.
Of course he knew that he must manage his going
away carefully. Morse must not know that he was
hastening his departure . . . he'd carry one suitcase
and send back for the trunks the next day, or else
eliminate them from his scheme of things. The im-
portant task was to place a maximum of distance be-
tween himself and his victims in a minimum of time.


PINK BAIT 279
He worked feverishly at his packing, pausing occasion-
ally to glance at the check which had recently been
handed him. He was a trifle sorry for the Morses, but,
he figured that they could well afford to lose the
money . . . nor would it prove a loss unless by some
mischance the pearls should be recognized and there
seemed little likelihood of that. Certainly the Morses
did not move on a social plane where they were likely
to meet persons familiar with the Vanduyn pearls.
They might, of course, boast that they had purchased
the pearls from Jared Mallory and news of this might
reach that gentleman which, in all probability, would
start something. But, in so far as Tommy could figure,
no one was suffering through the transaction. What
injury had been inflicted upon the Vanduyns had been
done long ago.
It was a pleasing philosophy and Tommy Braden
felt quite virtuous. He scarcely heard the light rap
on the door. Only when the rapping became insistent
did he open.
Jim Hanvey waddled into the room. He wore a suit
which he fancied was a tweed. It hung loosely about
his ungainly figure. The golden toothpick was very
much in evidence. Jim blinked slowly—“Gosh!
Tommy, you ain't going away, are you?”
Mr. Braden was flustered. He had a premonition
of disaster. If only he could hold Jim off for a brief
span of time. . . . “Just running up to Chicago for a
few days, Jim. Coming right back. Merely carrying
one bag.”