“You’re mugged, now,” observed Jamison. “I guess a flash-light picture
will go well in court....”
“His ears were pink,” explained Jamison, his tone indicating the
ultimate of boredom. “His ears were nice and pink. That gave him
away.”
Craig was huddled in a chair in the police-station. The big policeman
stood guard beside him and the desk-sergeant listened sympathetically
to Jamison’s tale of woe.
“My Gawd,” said Jamison disgustedly. “I haven’t seen a really neat job
in so long you’d think everybody with brains had turned honest. Look
at him, now. He passed through here once a month for six months or so,
carrying stuff from New Orleans to New York and back. He was a regular
at the hotel, and the clerk always gave him the same room, and he saw
it had one o’ these cheap made-by-the-million bureaus in it. And he
set to work from that!”
He flung away his perpetual cigarette and grunted.
“He took some measurements of the inside, an’ got a piece of veneer to
fit the bottom of one of the drawers. Then, today, he climbed off the
train, went to the hotel, took his bonds and laid ’em, neat, in the
drawer, trimmed up his veneer to fit exactly, and glued it down on top
of ’em. To look at it, it was a perfectly empty drawer, and nobody
looks for secret compartments in hotel furniture, particularly of the
made-by-the-million kind. He wandered downstairs, ate his dinner while
the glue dried, smoked a cigar, and went back up to his room and
yelled bloody murder. He thought he’d get away with the story that his
room had been robbed while he was out!”
The desk-sergeant shook his head sympathetically.
“Tst! Tst!...” he said commiseratingly.
“He had a good make-up on” commented Jamison morosely. “He looked like
the wrath o’ Gawd, and he played his part pretty well, but he overdid
it, of course. Showed me a notebook to check up his movements by—and
he’d made an entry in it while there was a bit of glue on his finger.
The smudge told a lot, since I’d already made up my mind he was tryin’
to steal from himself. Say”—he addressed the prisoner—“were you
thinkin’ maybe your firm would prosecute you for the theft and be
unable to get a conviction for lack of evidence?”
The prisoner seemed to shrink a little farther into himself, but did
not reply.
“That was it,” said Jamison gloomily. “Once he’d been tried, you know,
they couldn’t have done a thing no matter how much proof they got that
he had recovered and was selling the bonds later.”
“He gave himself away, you say?” the desk-sergeant asked.
“Dead away,” admitted Jamison depressedly. “I knew he’d done it, the
minute I first saw him, and if that wasn’t enough, I sent him out to
get the room-clerk and he stopped in the doorway to take a last look
straight where he’d put the bonds. And the first place he looked when
he came back was the same spot. It was a shame to pinch him, he was so
innocent.”
“But can you jug him?” queried the desk-sergeant.
“Jug him? I could hang him,” asserted Jamison in the profoundest
disgust. “I got Murphy to frame a story that he’d found the bonds on a
bell-hop, and when Murphy—”
“Me name’s O’Ryan, sorr,” interrupted the policeman.
“When O’Ryan sprang the plant and we went out, Craig went straight to
look at the bonds and make sure they were safe. All I had to do was
take Murph—O’Ryan by the hand and wait two minutes and then swing in
the door and pull a flash-pistol. I had Craig neatly mugged with the
bonds in his hands. Could I jug him, I ask you?”
“You could,” agreed the desk-sergeant. “But you keep saying all along
that you knew he’d hidden out the bonds. How’d you know that?”
“His ears were pink,” said Jamison wearily. “If you saw a man who’d
just been robbed of a fortune, you’d expect him to look sort of pale,
wouldn’t you?”
“I would that.”
“This man was made up pretty good. His eyes looked sunk way back in
his head, and he was pale to just the right extent. He put over the
voice stuff pretty well, too. He’d made himself up with number one
dead white, that he carried in his shaving-soap tube, but he’d left
his ears pink, a nice, healthy pink. And I had only to take one look
to know what was up.”
“’Twas careless,” said the desk-sergeant.
“Careless? It was criminal!” Jamison seemed to be mourning over the
decay of crime. “I haven’t had a real good case in a coon’s age.
Crooks haven’t got brains any more.”
And he shook his head in the most abysmal gloom.
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the April, 1922
issue of _The Black Mask_ magazine.]