Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 75, No. 4, April 15, 1933

There had been no second story work. A well dressed man had walked down the hall, fitted a key into the door of our suite, stepped inside, remained a few minutes, and stepped out again, natural and easy. He had walked out of the hotel into a waiting car — and three bellhops had jumped on waiting bicycles and followed. Simple as that.

“And you didn’t tell them to call the house detective?” Trixie asked thinly.

“Think of the publicity, my dear.”

“I think you are a reckless idiot!” Trixie flared.

“You’ve called me that before,” I reminded. “He who steals and runs away will surely pay some other day.”

“Mad!” Trixie muttered despairingly. “Stark, raving mad!”

Cross west on the brightly lighted bridge over Lake Worth and you come into another world. The coast highway runs through West Palm Beach, and now and then a tourist stops off and settles. Apartment buildings, cottages, cozy houses — it was like getting home from phantasy land. We found the other two bellhops beside their bikes at a corner in the residential section.

Their dope was short and sweet. The car they had followed had turned into a driveway in the middle of the block, and was still in there.

“Stay here with the car,” I said to Trixie.

And she said: “Never again. You need someone with sense to watch you.”

“Meaning a woman,” I said sarcastically. “Nevertheless, you stay here. This isn’t a tea party.”

So she stayed, and two of the bellhops walked down one side of the street and the other guided me to the one story stucco cottage where Waldo Maxwell’s jewels had flitted. One side room was lighted. The window shades were down.

I sent the kid across the street and walked to the back of the house. A big car was standing in the driveway, heading toward the street.

No one was worried inside — and why should they be, after strolling out of the Palo Verde so easily? A radio was playing jazz. The screen door on the back porch was unlocked, and so was the kitchen door. I pulled my automatic as I stepped inside.

A swinging door opened out of the kitchen, a hall beyond that, and to the left was an archway into a dining room. A voice said: “God, Harry, this bracelet ought to be worth five grand anyway. The emerald is good for two, and most of the diamonds will bulge a carat and a half.”

And a second voice, “Shall we split this necklace and peddle the pearls separate?”

“I wouldn’t,” I advised as I stepped in. “That’s a sucker trick.”

There were two of them, sleek, good looking young fellows. One knocked over a chair as he jumped back and reached under his coat. When he saw my gun he stood still.

Waldo Maxwell’s bait was spread over the table. They hadn’t been able to keep their hands off it. Harry had a little black mustache that jerked as he got out: “What are you doing here?”

“Don’t be so formal,” I said. “This is a pinch.”

And Harry gasped, “It’s a frame! He talks like a dick!”

“You mind reader,” I said. “He is a dick. Turn around while I collect your rods, suckers.”

Harry took a chance, dodged and grabbed for his gun. I shot him through the shoulder. The next instant the light went out as his sidekick reached the wall switch. They both cut loose as I dropped to the floor behind the table. Four shots that were almost one — and a door slammed...

I was alone with my ears ringing and the radio blaring away in the next room.

That was what slowed me up! My ears and the radio. I couldn’t hear their movements, had to go slow for fear they were waiting for me. The motor in the driveway suddenly spun. Gears whined as it rushed toward the street.

And just as I opened the front door there was a terrific crash at the street. They had run into another car in front of the driveway as they turned sharp to avoid it.

I ran out.

Two groping, stumbling figures reeled on the sidewalk, fighting at their eyes. I backed away quick from the thin drifting vapor they were trying to escape.

It was my rented car they had run into. Trixie joined me, and said coolly: “I drove up when I heard the shots, and blocked them. I let them have the gas through the open window of their car.”

“Good girl!” I yelled. “Tell those bellhops to collar ’em until the cops get here!” And I ran back into the house while the neighbors poured out into the street.

I reached the street again just as the police car slid up. We settled the rest in the station house. It took the jewels on the dining room table, the testimony of the bellhops, our credentials and a telephone call to Waldo Maxwell to clear Trixie and me enough so we could leave for the evening.

And at that we were told it was damn queer business, and there was going to be a lot of explaining before the matter was settled.

“There will be,” I promised.

Trixie was wild as a taxi took us back to the Palo Verde.

“See what you’ve done with that idiotic jewelry!” she stormed. “A man shot, two cars wrecked, serious charges plastered everywhere — with all the publicity it will bring — and Maxwell is as bad off as ever!”