Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 25, No. 2, August 13, 1927

“You come, ah, very highly recommended. Very highly indeed. Nevertheless I must tell you that in dealing with me it will be worth your while to keep your own counsel. We... ah... that is, I — have a way of rewarding those who keep faith with me. I also have a failing for doing a little something for anybody who is so foolish as to attempt to play me false. Understand? I’m sure you do.”

“Quite,” said I. “This is purely a business proposition with me. I have a string of pearls that I cannot dispose of just now. Neither can I afford to keep them. You can put them away or let them go through some quiet channel just as you see fit. In any event, you may be certain that I will keep my mouth shut. I would probably take a long trip as the guest of the State if my connection with this thing became known.”

“Exactly,” beamed Barton. “You are a man of good sense. And then, of course, you would be foolish to attempt to fasten anything upon me. Would it... ah... be too much to ask you if you have ever been convicted of a crime?”

“Yes,” I replied shortly. “I am on the books.”

“Excellent,” sighed the gem dealer frankly. “Then I do not need to point out that your word would be of no value against mine.”

“None,” said I with just a trace of bitterness.

“Come, come, my friend,” laughed Barton, “that is but a trick of fate. I shall treat you fairly. Now let me see, ah, whatever it is you have to dispose of.”

There was a greedy light in the eyes that followed my hand into my inside pocket as I withdrew the pearls. I dropped them to the table top where they lay shimmering. For just an instant Barton smiled, then his face became a mask again.

“Very ordinary,” said he.

“I beg your pardon,” I retorted smoothly, “they are very fine pearls.”

I made as if to pick them up.

“Don’t be hasty. Don’t be hasty. They will do very nicely. Now, ah, how much do you think you should be paid for your, ah, work?”

“I’ll take two thousand dollars.”

“I’ll give you fifteen hundred.”

“No.” I thought it well to bargain with him. Where was Hey wood? I fidgeted nervously in my chair. Suppose he failed to appear?

“Too much,” Barton was saying. “When you consider the danger of selling them, I should make a very small profit. I will give you seventeen hundred, ah, on the chance that there will be other things and that I may be favored with, ah, your company again. Understand?”

“There will be others,” said I grimly, “unless something happens to me. For these, however, I will take two thousand dollars or nothing. I know they worth much more.”

“You are a hard bargainer. All right. I will give you what you ask.”

He reached into his hip pocket and withdrew a fat wallet.

“A check wouldn’t do, of course.”

“No. I’ll take mine in cash.”

He counted the money out carefully. I was breathing hard with excitement. Where was Heywood? My ear caught a faint creak as though the library door was being opened. I did not dare to turn around.

“Fourteen hundred, fourteen fifty, fifteen hundred—” Barton’s thin voice droned on.

Then there came a rustle behind me and Heywood, with a jovial grin upon his face, stood in the light of the library lamp.

“Well, Barton,” he said. “You’ve cooked your goose at last.”

The jeweler, hands poised in midair, gazed at him and his Adam’s apple danced nervously up and down in his fat throat.

“Who are you?” he finally managed to gasp.

“Me?” echoed Heywood jauntily. “Why, I’m a little detective from headquarters. I tagged your friend up here and found just what I expected. You know, we’ve had an eye on you for some time. You and your crooked partner, Blake.”

“Blake’s no partner of mine,” croaked Barton.

I leaped to my fet.

“Listen to me, Corrigan,” I snarled, “you haven’t got a damned thing on me. I’m just sitting here. Barton’s got the pearls and he’s got the money. I’m as clean as a whistle. You can’t hold me.”

“Stow it,” said Heywood shortly. “We don’t care a whoop about you, anyway. You’re small fry, my boy. What we want is the goods on this fleshy old thief here and this time we’ve got him and got him right. Get your hat, Barton, you’re going for a ride!”

The jeweler made a low mourning noise in his chest and his puffy little hands fluttered to his perspiring forehead.

“For God’s sake,” he begged, “can’t we do something about this? Isn’t there any way I can square it up? Think of my wife and children and my business!”

“You’ve got one chance,” snapped Heywood. “Just one. Come clean on that Paris robbery and I’ll make it easy for you. Otherwise, up you go for buying these stolen pearls. Ten years, probably.”

Barton’s pasty face was sunk low upon his chest.

“What do you want me to tell you?” he asked in a whisper.

“I want you to tell me how you engineered that Paris job, how you hired the boy to smuggle the gems into this country and where you planned to dispose of them.”

“What can they do to me for that?”