Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 2, September 24, 1927

Smith walked over to the sideboard and dropped the note beside the candlestick. Bordington deposited the copy of the conditions of treaty on the table. It was all done with a solemnity which was almost ridiculous.

Bordington burned his note, after a brief examination of it, with pitiful eagerness. Its genuineness was beyond all doubt. In fact, Smith had decided that it was of no further use to him. He was too wily not to realize that persistent blackmail is likely to prove disastrous to the blackmailer. He believed on big, sure strokes — and finishing.

He scanned the treaty conditions. They were complicated, couched in legal language, and were not too clear to the eyes of a layman without some consideration; but there was enough there to show him that unless Lord Bordington was an exceptionally clever faker, the thing was a true copy.

Bordington turned round. His eyes were shining. The note was a heap of crushed carbon in the candlestick, for he had smashed the crinkled remains with his fingers.

“That’s that,” he said. It was like a prayer of thankfulness.

Smith grinned. “Feel better, eh? Glad to see you picking up. I like people to be happy. Unfortunately, in business, one has to do certain things. However, all’s well that ends well. Watch the stock markets for the next few days and see me wading into Che Fiangs. I suppose it’s no use offering to shake hands? Well, well. We all have our likes and dislikes, don’t we?”

Bordington said: “Good night,” and turned to the door.

Smith, as on the previous occasion, preceded him. “Let me do the honors,” he said. He was aggressively, insultingly cheerful. “Don’t slide out as though you’d committed a felony. I’m sorry to part with you. You’re a man with a good business sense. I hate those guys who think it shows strength of mind to go round kicking against the pricks. So long.”

Bordington walked straight across the little outer lobby, out through the outer door and into the corridor. He did not look at Smith.

As Smith shut the door, Bordington glanced round. The girl, he decided, should be ready. He was to be given time to get downstairs and out of the hotel — five minutes, they had calculated — and then she would strike. It had been a good plan, securing her services. She was a poised, daring, witty little thing, and she might prove a match for Smith if she came on him unawares and when he imagined himself absolutely safe.

If Smith, afterward, loosed on her the whole of the underworld, that was her funeral — not Lord Bordington’s. Bordington would pay her fifty thousand. It was up to her to insure her personal safety.

He took the elevator, came to the marble floored entrance hall, and stepped out.

Meantime, Smith closed the outer door, stepped across the lobby, and into his sitting room. There, he came to a standstill, rigid, bent forward slightly, his face like a beast’s.

Standing between the parted curtains, crookedly, thin, peaked face thrown forward, one shoulder hunched, cripple fashion, with a gun held low against gray flannel trousers, was a slim, weakly man.

“Pink, by God!” said Smith.

Pink smiled.

“Hello, my lord! Pardon, my lord—” mimicing Smith’s voice of a few minutes before; and then, snarling: “Sit down — you dog!”

Smith walked toward the chair Lord Bordington had just vacated.

Chapter VII The Stupendous Bluff — Called

In this, the most stupendous moment of his life, all Smith’s reserve of power and self-control came to his aid. The man; before him had stepped back over the edge of death to confront him. Any second might be his last. He knew Pink well — the fellow’s complete disregard for human life, his fiendish rages, the immense passions which flared in the wasted, stunted body. Pink, in a rage, was more terrifying than many giants.

Pink dropped into a chair. “You’ll fold you arms, Bill Smith; and if you move a blessed finger I’ll kill you where you sit. I want to talk to you.”

Smith folded his arms. He was watching Pink steadily, and his commonplace face showed no signs of any emotional or mental disturbance.

“Fancy your coming back,” he observed.

“Yes — fancy,” drawled Pink. He leaned forward. “You wanna choose a higher cliff — the next one you push me over — Bill Smith.”

“I will,” said Smith coolly.

Pink’s gun hand moved suggestively. Smith did not flinch.

“I been listening,” said Pink.

“I gathered that.”

Pink cocked his head to one side. “Don’t you talk educated these days? Got up, too. Funny what other people’s money’ll do for a man, ain’t it?”

“Extraordinary. And more extraordinary what one will do for other people’s money. But you said you had been listening. Is that statement relevant to this interview?”

“Aw — can that high falutin’ talk. I listened twice — first time you talked to that bloke — and this time — and I’ve got a line on the whole bag of tricks.”

Smith permitted himself to smile, although his eyes remained watchful. “The same old Pink,” he said. “You were always good at getting lines on things.”