There was nothing about Mr. Thomas Matlock Braden to mark him as being
other than a perfect gentleman. From the moment of his unostentatious
arrival he blended perfectly into the tinsel background of the
fashionable Indiana resort hotel and while he regretted that the other
guests were not aware that he possessed eleven new tailored suits he
found contentment in the fact that they were equally ignorant of his
eleven aliases.
Tommy Braden was old enough to appreciate the benefits which accrue to
one who treads the path of rectitude, and, by the same token, he had
attained to a philosophy which was based upon the theory that there was
no transgression provided one is undiscovered. He was slightly more
than forty-five years of age, tall and lean and quietly purposeful. His
black hair was graying at the temples: he presented a picture which
impelled passers-by to turn and murmur: "What a distinguished looking
gentleman."
In cultivating this external aspect of severe probity, Tommy assumed
a virtue which he had not. Morally, Tommy was a total loss. He was
courteous and suave and cosmopolitan. And unscrupulous. He feared
nothing save detection and ordered his existence upon the hypothesis
that the legally constituted authorities are, on the whole, a stupid
lot who have mastered the fundamentals of criminology and care nothing
and know less about the finer points of the science.
He had long since graduated from the ranks of ordinary crooks. He now
handled only tasks which required extraordinary finesse, infinite
patience and an all-embracing knowledge of human nature. He selected
his clients with as great care as he chose his victims and the former,
at least, had small cause to protest his treatment. Certainly Mr.
Michael Donley fancied himself extremely fortunate in having secured
the cooperation of so eminent a personage in the criminal world.
The deal between Messrs. Donley and Braden had been consummated in a
few moments.
"You know them Vanduyn poils, Tommy?"
"Yes."
"I got 'em."
"I know it."
"How'dja get wise?"
Mr. Braden's thin, ascetic lips expanded into a tolerant smile. "You
bungled that job horribly, Mickey. Every dick in the country knows who
pulled that job. They'll nab you the first time you turn around."
Mr. Donley made a rueful grimace. "You said it, bo. There aint a fence
will touch 'em. That's why I come to you."
"Yes?"
"How about sellin' 'em for me?"
"I might consider it."
"I'll split fifty-fifty."