The Threat
Max Lynch smiled disarmingly as he seated himself in a chair opposite
the detective.
"You have an abrupt way with your clients, Nichols."
"You're no client of mine," the detective retorted. "You never have
been and you never will be!"
The gambler continued to smile blandly, refusing to take offense. "I
admit I've never hired you on a job of my own," he said. "But many a
time a guy has said to me 'Who is the best private dick in town?' and I
says 'Chris Nichols,' just like that. It has brought you some nice
jobs."
"I don't believe I've ever taken any case through your influence, Max
Lynch. But that's neither here nor there. What's on your mind?"
The gambler moved forward in his chair.
"Well, Nichols, it's like this. Dutch O'Neil is in the jug for pasting
a dude customer of mine over at my casino last night. Dutch is one of
my bouncers and this fellow started upsetting the faro tables after he
had lost his roll. Dutch bounced him out so hard the fellow is in the
hospital with a broken jaw."
"And you want me to send the man some flowers?" the detective asked
sarcastically.
Max Lynch ignored the thrust. "It's this way," he explained. "The guy
turned out to be a big shot of the town--a broker or something. And he
has turned so much heat on the judge the poor old fossil is afraid to
let Dutch go. Now it happens this broker is an old friend and client
of yours--George Kirby. Know him?"
"Yes, I know him very well."
"All right, you go and see George and soften him up. If you can get
him to drop his charges and have the case nolled there's half a grand
in it for you."
"I'll have nothing to do with it."
"I'll raise the ante," the gambler offered. "Seven hundred and fifty."
"There's not enough of your kind of money in this town to employ me on
a crooked case like this."
"A real good guy, ain't you?" Lynch sneered.
"No, not good. Just sanitary."
The gambler's face flushed with anger as he arose and edged toward the
door.
"O.K., chief," he said mockingly. "And don't worry about that
'sanitary' stuff. Just wait till our clean-up gang hears about this!"
He slammed the door after him and Penny could hear his heels clicking
angrily as he walked rapidly down the long corridor to the elevator.
She quickly came out of hiding.
"Dad, that was Max Lynch--the one they call 'Diamond Max,' wasn't it?"
she inquired anxiously.
"Yes," the detective responded soberly. "I guess I shouldn't have
permitted you to listen to the conversation."
"I'm glad you did. Only it made the chills run down my spine to hear
that man talk. He seemed so sinister."
"Max isn't a very pleasant character, Penny."
"What did he mean by that last remark? It sounded like a threat."
"I imagine it was a threat, Penny."
"Why don't you turn the man over to the police, Dad, for attempted
bribery?"
"I wish I could," her father answered. "Max is a slippery eel to
catch. The police have been trying for years to get evidence against
him--they always fail."
"But he deliberately tried to bribe you, Dad. Surely that ought to be
enough to land him in jail."
Mr. Nichols shook his head as he thoughtfully toyed with a penknife.
"Max surrounds himself with highly paid, crooked lawyers and hired
witnesses. He is clever and cagey. Several times he has been brought
to trial but always he escapes."
"Why do they call him 'Diamond Max'?" Penny questioned curiously.
"He's been known by that name ever since I can remember. Perhaps you
noticed that the man wore a number of diamonds?"
"He was loaded with them. Were they genuine?"
"Oh, yes. Max has always had a passion for jewels, especially
diamonds."
"I suppose he came by them dishonestly."
"Possibly, although he could easily afford to buy fine jewels with the
profit derived from his casino."
"The place is called the Red Rose, isn't it?" Penny remarked.
"Yes, it's a disgrace to the community."
"Then why hasn't it been closed?"
Mr. Nichols smiled tolerantly at his daughter. "The Red Rose is
located just over the county line," he explained. "It happens that the
sheriff has a very charitable attitude toward Lynch's gambling
enterprises."
"Then there's nothing to be done?"
"Not very much I fear. What we need is a new sheriff."
"Promise me you'll be careful," Penny urged anxiously. "I'm afraid of
what Max may attempt to do."
Mr. Nichols smiled confidently as he locked his desk.
"His threat was an idle one I think. Don't give it a moment's thought.
Your old Dad can take care of himself."
Penny sighed as she followed her father to the elevator. She knew that
she should dismiss the matter from her mind yet that was exactly what
she could not do. Ever since she could remember Mr. Nichols had lived
a dangerous life. He had trailed and captured daring criminals and
during his lengthy career, first as a police officer and later as a
private detective, had received many threats. Several times he had
escaped violence by a narrow margin. Usually Penny did not worry, but
Max Lynch had impressed her as a man who would seek retaliation.
The girl was so preoccupied as they drove toward the Nichols' home that
the detective commented upon her silence.
"Forget it," he advised kindly. "I know how to deal with Max's
strong-arm squad."
Penny halted the car on the driveway and the detective alighted to open
the garage doors. She drove in and snapped off the ignition. Together
she and her father walked up the stepping-stone path to the rear
entrance of the house.
The Nichols' residence was not imposing in appearance but the
well-shrubbed grounds gave it a home-like air. A grass tennis court
occupied one part of the lot while the opposite side was devoted to
Mrs. Gallup's flowers. Since the death of Penny's mother, the kindly
woman had served as a faithful housekeeper.
Mrs. Gallup, her plump arms covered with flour, was making biscuits
when Penny and her father entered the neat kitchen.
"I'm slow tonight," she apologized. "All afternoon agents and peddlers
have been coming to the door. It was enough to drive a body crazy.
But I'll have dinner ready in about fifteen minutes."
"We're in no hurry," Penny assured her. "Has the evening paper come
yet?"
"Yes, I heard the boy drop it in the mailbox a few minutes ago."
Usually Penny had scant interest in the newspaper but she was curious
to learn what had been published concerning the stolen Rembrandt. She
ran to the mailbox and soon had the sheet spread out on the floor. As
she had expected, the story appeared on the front page. And there was
a slightly blurred picture of the painting which had been stolen.
Penny studied it carefully and read the story several times before
relinquishing the paper to her father.
"Well, has the thief been apprehended?" Mr. Nichols asked with a smile.
"No, the story just says the police are working on the case and expect
to make an arrest within a few days."
"Your young friend's name isn't mentioned?"
"Amy Coulter? No, but I don't like that statement about the police
expecting to make an arrest."
"It's probably just some reporter's idea," Mr. Nichols answered
carelessly.
"I certainly hope so. Of course, it's possible the police have traced
the real culprit by this time. I hate to think Amy Coulter is under
suspicion."
After Mr. Nichols had read the newspaper, Penny carefully cut out the
story which concerned the theft at the Gage Galleries, including the
reproduction of the missing painting and a map of the various rooms of
the museum.
"Do you intend to do a little private work on the case?" the detective
inquired, slightly amused.
Penny laughed and shook her head. "No, I was just interested because I
happened to be at the Galleries when the painting disappeared."
In an inside section of the paper she found an article which had been
written by the art critic, Hanley Cron. He discussed at length his
selection of the prize winning statue, but while he listed a number of
figures which were deserving of high praise, nothing was said regarding
"The Black Imp," Amy Coulter's entry in the contest.
"After dinner I'm going to get another paper and learn what other
critics have to say about it," Penny announced. "You should have seen
the prize winning piece, Dad. It was terrible!"
"I fear you may be prejudiced in this Coulter girl's favor, my dear."
"I'm not. Others said the same thing."
Directly after the dinner dishes were wiped, Penny slipped out to the
street corner to purchase two other evening papers. She turned to the
art sections and was gratified to discover that Hanley Cron's selection
of the statue, "Winged Night," was severely criticized by various
authorities. Amy Coulter's entry was highly praised and one writer
ventured to say that it should have been awarded the
five-thousand-dollar prize.
Penny showed the papers to Mrs. Gallup and her father, feeling that her
judgment had been confirmed. However, she was deeply troubled by the
similarity of the news stories regarding the theft of the painting.
Each account mentioned that the police expected to make an arrest soon
and one said that officials of the museum were of the opinion the
painting had been stolen by a disgruntled contestant for the Huddleson
prize.
"They must mean Amy," Penny declared. "I wonder if she has any idea
she is under suspicion."
The telephone rang. It was a call from police headquarters for Mr.
Nichols.
"I'll have to run down to the station for a few minutes," the detective
announced as he returned to the living room after answering the
summons. "The chief wants to talk with me about an important case."
"While you're there see if you can't get a little information about the
stolen painting," Penny urged, helping her father into his coat. "Find
out if they really are looking for Amy Coulter."
"So you can tip her off I suppose?" Mr. Nichols inquired dryly.
"I hadn't thought of it particularly, but it's an excellent idea,"
Penny twinkled.
Mr. Nichols was gone nearly two hours, but as he had expected, Penny
was waiting up for him when he entered the house.
"What did you learn?" she demanded instantly. "Is Amy Coulter under
suspicion?"
"Oh, I didn't consider it a good policy to ask questions about a matter
which was none of my concern."
"Then you found out nothing," Penny cried in disappointment. "And I've
been sitting up waiting for you too!"
"I didn't say what I learned," Mr. Nichols smiled. "I merely mentioned
that I did not make any inquiries."
"You did learn something then! Tell me!"
"Nothing very encouraging, Penny. The police are after this girl--at
least they intend to apprehend her for questioning."
"She's not been arrested yet?"
"No, it seems they haven't located her yet."
"I heard someone at the Gage Galleries say Miss Coulter lived at a
rooming house on Pearl Street. I wonder if she's still there."
"If she is, my advice to you is to keep away from the place," Mr.
Nichols said severely. "Don't get mixed up in the affair."
"But it seems so unfair for the police to annoy an innocent person,
Dad."
"All right, go ahead and involve yourself if you must," the detective
returned. "If you land in jail for assisting a criminal I suppose I
can always arrange to bail you out!"
They both knew that Penny would never feel comfortable in her mind
until she had warned Amy Coulter of the accusation against her.
Directly after breakfast the next morning Penny took the car and drove
to Pearl Street. She did not have Amy's exact address but she was of
the opinion that it would not be difficult to locate the right house.
Therefore, she was dismayed to discover that the street seemed to
consist of uniform looking dwelling places, nearly all with "room for
rent" signs in the front windows.
"This will be like hunting for the proverbial needle in the haystack,"
Penny thought.
Beginning at one end of the street, she rang the doorbell of each
likely looking house, inquiring if anyone by the name of Amy Coulter
roomed there. She had covered nearly half the street and was growing
very discouraged when she halted at a place which looked cleaner and
slightly more inviting than its crowded neighbors.
In response to Penny's rap, a woman in a blue wrapper came to the door.
"Can you tell me if a girl named Amy Coulter lives here?" Penny asked
mechanically, for she had asked the question many times.
"Amy Coulter?" the woman repeated. "No, not any more."
"Then she did live here at one time?" Penny inquired eagerly.
"Yes, until last night. She didn't give me any notice. She just took
her luggage and went."
"Did Miss Coulter leave a forwarding address?"
"No, she didn't. I can't tell you anything more about her."
Impolitely, the woman closed the door in Penny's face.
The girl walked slowly down the steps to the street. She was
disappointed at not finding Amy, and a little troubled to learn that
the youthful sculptress had departed from the rooming house without
leaving an address. Her disappearance looked almost like flight.
The muffled roar of an automobile engine caused Penny to gaze toward
the street. A dark blue car had pulled up to the curbing. Three men
in civilian garb climbed out, and after briefly surveying the rooming
house, walked toward it.
"Plain-clothes men from police headquarters," Penny appraised
instantly. "I can spot them a mile away. I wonder if they're on the
trail of Amy Coulter too?"