"I have been told that you know crooks better than any other man in the
world. That you can work miracles with them--because you understand
them. I ask you pointblank, Jim Hanvey--will you undertake the task of
saving my daughter from this man?"
Jim lighted a fresh cigar. Through the haze of rancid smoke he stared
at the little financier. "I'll undertake it on one condition," he said
slowly.
"And that is--?"
"--That I be allowed a free hand. Absolutely."
"Done!"
"Good. Remember, Weston, I'm liable to pull a bone--the chances
are that I'll flunk it. Whitey Kirk is the cleverest crook on two
continents. He's in soft here--awful soft. He ain't gonna let go easy.
But if you're willin' for me to try--I'll try. If I flop--it won't be
because I haven't done my damnedest."
The smaller man rose, crossed the room and dropped a hand on Jim's fat
shoulders. "You won't fail, Hanvey."
"Why not?"
"Because," replied the other, "it means too much to Madge. If you're
what they say you are--you'll put it over."
Jim rose awkwardly. "I'll do my best. I'll have to stick around
here for a week or two." He looked down upon his new and shrieking
raiment--"Thank goodness I already bought a new suit. I'd hate to look
like a bum in a swell joint like this."
Twenty minutes later Jim Hanvey departed for the city in one of
Weston's limousines. He lolled against the rich upholstery enjoying to
the ultimate the luxury and uniqueness of the experience. At his modest
and untidy apartment he swiftly packed a near-leather suitcase with
those articles which he fancied would be essential to his new rôle of
society butterfly. He left the apartment, entered the limousine for the
return trip--then suddenly halted the chauffeur--"Just a minute, Buddy.
I forgot something."
He re-entered the building. When he returned to the car a few minutes
later he nervously clasped the thing which he had forgotten.
It was his light malacca cane.
He reached the Weston home shortly before the dinner hour and was shown
to his rooms; a bedroom, parlor and bath suite on the west wing of the
mansion. He gazed apprehensively about and experienced more than a hint
of trepidation. A valet arrived to inquire whether he might assist Mr.
Hanvey to dress for dinner.
"My Gawd, no!" roared Jim. "You'd make me feel downright bashful."
In the living room he was introduced to Mrs. Weston, a sweet-faced and
surprisingly young woman considerably larger than her husband. Mrs.
Weston pressed Jim's hands as she wished him well. "Theodore says
you'll succeed, Mr. Hanvey ... he says he knows you will."
"He's an awful wise guy."
"You don't know what it means to us."
"The heck I don't. Believe me, Mis' Weston--I know a heap about this.
An' say--if it ain't impolite to ask--how long is it before we eat?"
It was in the library immediately preceding dinner that the detective
met Whitey Kirk. That gentleman, tall and broad and handsomely
debonaire in his dinner jacket, strolled into the room puffing on a
cigarette. He paused and stared through the semi-gloom toward the large
and strange figure in the outrageous clothes. The figure moved forward
and, as though from a distance, Whitey heard the voice of his future
father-in-law--"... my friend Mr. Hanvey. Mr. Kirk...."
Then Jim's limp hand and the well-known voice--"Sure, me an' Whitey
Kirk is old friends, ain't we, Whitey?"
"You know one another?" Weston's simulation was very poor indeed.
"I've had the pleasure of Mr. Hanvey's acquaintance for a number of
years."
"Yeh--sure he has, Mr. Weston. We've had business dealin's with one
another--as you might say."
Kirk had regained his impassivity and by no slightest gesture did he
give testimony to the internal seethe nor the swift groping of his keen
brain for the answer to this new problem. The presence of Jim Hanvey
betokened trouble--great gobs of it--and trouble was the one thing
which Whitey Kirk was at that moment most desirous of avoiding. He
negotiated Jim into the glare of an electrolier while he himself stood
in the shadows, but he gained no information from the bovine expression
of the triple-chinned detective. Jim sat stolidly, lids curtaining his
expressionless, fishy orbs, fingers twiddling the golden toothpick.
Theodore Weston gazed interestedly from one to the other. He felt a
queer confidence in the ability of the ungainly detective, and didn't
understand the feeling. Jim was the apparent personification of the
ultimate in human stupidity, but Weston's keen, sparkling eyes had not
missed the flash of apprehension which had whitened Kirk's face at the
moment of recognition.
And then Madge Weston burst into the room--billowed through the door
like a stray zephyr. She called gay greetings and then, girllike, made
directly toward Warren Kirk--pausing abruptly at sight of the stranger.
She accepted her father's introduction matter-of-factly and immediately
set about the task of making the stranger feel at home. It was plain to
her that he was out of the picture--a veritable china-shop bull--and
she was more than a little sorry for him. Jim responded eagerly to her
advances, and the warmth of his response grew more keen when he noticed
that Kirk was highly displeased.
Here was the sort of girl who made an irresistible appeal to
Jim--pretty in a fresh, wholesome, sensible and entirely immature way;
eager, unspoiled, urgent with life and vitality; far, far removed
from the genus flapper--all of whom were anathema to Jim. Flappers
frightened the big fellow. They had a manner which he could not
fathom, their quick vapid repartee passed over his head, he held the
consciousness that he was the butt of their covert ridicule. But not
with Madge. She was herself wholesome and delightful and girlish. By
the time they entered the dining room Madge and the big detective were
the best of friends.
The dinner commenced as an ordeal for Jim until he realized that he
could never solve the fork riddle and devoted his entire attention
to enjoyment of the rich and rare food. Mrs. Weston smiled toward
her husband--she had the soul of the true hostess, the hostess who
enjoys the enjoyment of her guest. True, Madge was a trifle shocked
by his lack of table manners, but that was soon borne with--and then
forgotten. He _was_ having such a good time!
Alone, following the dinner, the three men were silent. Warren Kirk was
decidedly ill-at-ease. Finally he rose: "Mighty fine night, Jim."
"Huh?"
"Beautiful night--outside."
"Ain't so worse inside."
"Want to stroll round the grounds?"
"You mean you want to have a talk with me?"
"Not exactly--"
"Sure." Jim, with difficulty, hoisted himself from the chair. "But
remember I'm a rotten walker, Whitey."