by Unknown
“What?” Van Diesten said in the darkness. “What is—”
“Shut up!” the thin voice snapped. “There’s somebody outside! If you brought someone with you—”
“No, no!” Van Diesten denied. “I didn’t—”
“Stand still! This gun’s against your back, and it’s cocked! If you move—if anybody comes near us—”
After a long time, Van Diesten said in a half-whisper: “There is nobody.…”
“Shut up. Don’t move.… The door’s open! There’s somebody in this room!”
Collins dived at the sound. His shoulder smashed hard at the beefiness that was Van Diesten, and his fingers clawed and caught a thin wiry body beyond, and then the whole rickety structure swayed and groaned to the crash of their falling bodies.
He still had his grip on the wiry figure. The revolver blazed almost in his face, and the report was like a handclap against his ear drums. And then he got hold of the hand, felt the cramped rigidity of the fingers gripping the revolver butt, and twisted back and down.
The second report was a dull bump, muffled against cloth. The wiry body pulled back with crazed, insensate strength and then went limp and strangely heavy.
Collins said: “Van Diesten, are you all right?”
Van Diesten was choking for breath. “Yuh-yes.”
“Find the light. Shine it down here.”
The flashlight moved its beam down through the torn stretch of flooring. On the ground, crumpled in a limp pile, lay Rick Preston. His glasses were broken and glistening beside him, and his thin, hungry face was twisted into a frozen snarl. He still had the revolver clutched in his right hand, and his coatfront was sodden with blood.
“That one,” said Van Diesten in numbed amazement. “That is the reporter that came only tonight to my home to ask me about this Myra Martin.”
“He’s dead,” said Collins, climbing up on the floor again. “Where’s the girl?”
The light moved away and circled across the floor toward the dark secretiveness of a corner. There was Myra Martin, at last. She was sitting up and smiling a little with her dead lips, and there was a red hole in her forehead and a trickle of blood that scarcely marred her still white prettiness.
“Poor little dummy,” said Collins.
“What is it, please?” said Van Diesten. “This—all this—I do not understand.”
Collins said slowly: “Myra Martin was a foolish little girl who wanted desperately to get into the movies. She couldn’t in the ordinary way, because she didn’t have enough talent or training, but of course she didn’t believe that. She’d gotten quite a little fame out of some publicity she got from winning a beauty contest, and she thought the same thing might work out here. She was going to use you as a stooge.”
“Me?” said Van Diesten. “But why?”
“You’re a famous director. She disappeared, leaving a lot of clues that would, by inference, point to you. Then her mother appeared, searching for her. She inquired everywhere—drawing attention to herself with her pathetic little story about her lost daughter and her lost business. Then she, too, disappeared just as her daughter had.”
“But why?” Van Diesten repeated blankly.
“To draw attention to Myra’s disappearance. As soon as either of those disappearances were investigated at all, all the planted clues and hints would point right at you. There’d be inquiries made and publicity.”
“And tonight?” Van Diesten asked.
“Tonight you were to have a mysterious interview with Myra. When questions were asked, you’d testify to that. Then Mrs. Martin would reappear, and you’d meet her. They’d bounce you back and forth between them, and you’d have to play along because you’d be more and more under suspicion of trying some dirty work. But right here, another party cut in. That was Rick Preston—very clever, very unscrupulous. He saw what Myra was up to—saw it quicker than I did. He wasn’t interested in two-for-a-penny publicity. He wanted money and a lot of it, and he realized instantly that Myra’s scheme was an ideal one for blackmailing you. If he changed that setup a little, you’d be right behind the eight-ball. You’d be accused of complicity in the disappearance of Myra and Mrs. Martin, and even if you could prove in court you had nothing to do with either, you’d be ruined in pictures. They won’t take a scandal like that.”
“No,” said Van Diesten. “That was why I was so afraid. Why I came here when she called and told me to. And then, I am trying to become a citizen—for my two boys and my little girl as well as myself. If I was implicated in any crime, then they would not let me.”
Collins nodded. “They figured on that. Mrs. Martin came to me, thinking I would go to the police after she disappeared. Myra was still after publicity. But Preston didn’t want it—not through me. He tried to scare me off. He was already in touch with Myra. He found her at the Fortmount Hotel and got in with her by telling her he was a reporter. He played along with her until tonight, pretending to help her, and then he told her what he really meant to do—he wasn’t going to get publicity for her. He was going to get money from you. She refused, and she made a scene. She was a little fool, and she didn’t realize how dangerous … Preston didn’t think he could lose by killing her. She had planned her own disappearance too well, and it gave him another weapon to use against you—a real one, not a fake.”
“But—but what is this publicity she was going to get?”
Collins said: “Myra was going to prove what a wonderful actress she was. Prove it by fooling an expert—you.”
“How could she do that?”
“There is no Mrs. Della Martin. Myra and her mother are the same person. Myra played the part of her mother. That was her little scheme. If she could fool you—doing that—it would prove how clever she was.”
“Same person …” Van Diesten repeated.
“Then, she planned, she would have suddenly faced you and proved to you that she had been playing two parts and playing them so well she had fooled you, and you’d have given her a job, in self-defense if for no other reason.”
“How did—how did you know?”
“When she came to see me as Mrs. Della Martin, she didn’t cry. She told a very sad story. She nearly made me cry. She should have at least shed a tear or two. But she couldn’t. If she had, she’d have spoiled her make-up.”
There was a long silence, and then Van Diesten fumbled uncertainly over words: “You did all this, and you do not even know me.…”
“Well, to tell the truth,” Collins said, “I think I brought it on myself. The only way I can figure that Myra would know anything about me is that I must have gotten crocked at a party somewhere and talked too much about my experiences in Europe. She either heard me or someone she knew did. If I’d have kept my big mouth shut, I’d never have gotten in this in the first place.”
“That does not make any difference. You have done so much, and I want to show you how I feel.…”
Collins chuckled. “Never mind. I don’t even want a job. I’ve got a better one than you could give me coming up.”
“Better?” Van Diesten said.
“Yes. The Army. I’m just sitting around and loafing while I’m waiting to be inducted. You run along home now. I’ll report this, and I won’t even mention your name. There’s a detective by the name of Tilwitz who is going to come steaming around here in a little while. He won’t believe me no matter what I say, so I’ll dream up something real fancy for him.” Collins’ voice sobered suddenly. “This is Myra’s last chance, and I’m going to give her as big a part to play as I can.”
T. McGuirk Steals a Diamond
Ray Cummings
RAY(MOND) (KING) CUMMINGS (1887–1957) was born in what is now Times Square and, in later years, made it a habit to eat at a restaurant built near the place of his birth, specifically asking for the table nearest the actual spot. His family was wealthy and he attended Princeton at a precocious sixteen years of age, but was removed after only a month to go to Puerto Rico, where his fat
her and brothers had started a large orange plantation. He got a private tutor, but neither he nor the tutor was particularly interested in studying, instead enjoying the nightlife of the island. After brief stints working at oil wells in Wyoming and mines in British Columbia and Alaska, Cummings went to work for Thomas Alva Edison, mostly writing for and editing house organs and record album covers, before becoming a full-time fiction writer. His first story, “The Girl in the Golden Atom” (1919), became an instant classic of science fiction, helping to earn him the title “the founding father of pulp science fiction.” He went on to produce more than seven hundred short stories, mostly science fiction and mystery, for the pulps, as well as numerous SF novels. In later years, the quality of his writing declined, so he collaborated with both his wife and his daughter. His imagination remained intact, and with them he wrote a series of “impossible crime” stories; a collection titled Tales of the Scientific Crime Club was published in 1979.
“T. McGuirk Steals a Diamond,” the first of fourteen McGuirk tales written for Black Mask, was published in the December 1922 issue.
T. McGuirk Steals a Diamond
Ray Cummings
“I deman’ to be let go!” said T. McGuirk, the quaintest character in the underworld, when the pawnbroker’s strong-arm man had searched him in vain for the missing diamond. You’ll enjoy the doings of T. McGuirk because he has a system all his own.
T. McGUIRK LEANED FORWARD.
“What I’m sayin’ is—I gotta steal a diamond!”
He half whispered the information, gazing about him apprehensively.
Lefty Lannigan’s amusement was wholly undisguised.
“You got to—what?”
T. McGuirk’s injured feelings showed in the flush that spread under his four-day stubble of beard. A hurt look came into his pale, watery eyes.
“What you laffin’ at? I said I gotta steal a diamond. I need a diamond, wery bad.”
The gunman surveyed his friend ironically.
“Oh you do? A real diamond? What for?”
T. McGuirk shook his head.
“That’s my business,” he stated with dignity. “I gotta girl an’ I need a diamond. I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ more.”
“You don’t need to,” commented Mr. Lannigan.
“An’ so I come to you,” T. McGuirk added gravely, “to steer me into somebody where I can steal a diamond.”
Mr. Lannigan pondered.
“You’re not kiddin’? You’re serious?”
“Wery serious,” T. McGuirk stated succinctly.
“Well, let’s see. You’re goin’ to do the job alone?”
T. McGuirk nodded.
The gunman, after a moment of grave consideration, suggested Stone and Blackstone, leading Fifth Avenue jewelers.
“They got some real good diamonds,” he declared. “You might try them.”
But T. McGuirk shook his head vehemently.
“You ain’t got no sense. I ain’t lookin’ for no job like that. Ain’t you acquainted with no crook what’s got a diamond to sell?”
Mr. Lannigan folded his arms, staring loftily down at T. McGuirk’s wizened form.
“Want me to steer you into a pal of mine so you can lift a sparkler? You’re a fine—”
“I thought you might have a enemy,” T. McGuirk explained meekly. “A fence or somethin’ that maybe done you a dirty deal. If he’s got a unset diamond to sell I’m a-goin’ to steal it off’n him. See?”
An idea came to Lefty Lannigan—a most amusing idea, for he chuckled.
“I got just the man,” he declared heartily.
He thumped T. McGuirk on the back so vigorously that the little man’s head seemed nearly to snap off.
“Just the man, Timothy. Ever heard of Ike Gluckstein?”
T. McGuirk had, vaguely. Gluckstein was a “fence” of unusually shady reputation even among those of the underworld with whom he did business.
T. McGuirk nodded. Mr. Lannigan went on:
“You try him. Go to his pawnshop—here, I’ll write down the address—an’ tell him you want to buy an unset sparkler. He’s got some wonders. Mention my name an’ he’ll sit up an’ take notice. He’ll show you some, an’ then—” Mr. Lannigan shrugged.
What would happen then obviously was past his understanding.
“Wery good idea,” assented T. McGuirk. “Gimme the place where he is.”
He pocketed the slip of paper with thanks.
“I’ll see Mr. Gluckstein right at once, personally. Wery good idea.”
A twinge of conscience overtook Mr. Lannigan. T. McGuirk was so trusting, and so obviously in earnest.
“You got a gun, Timothy?”
T. McGuirk shook his head emphatically.
“I’m a peaceable man. I don’t never use no rewolwers.”
He offered his hand, but still his friend hesitated.
“Hadn’t we better talk it over, Timothy? I s’pose you got a plan? You know what you’re doin’?”
“A plan? Sure I got a plan. I’m a-goin’ to steal a diamond. I gotta have a diamond, right away.”
Mr. Lannigan shrugged, discharging himself from further responsibility.
“Go to it then. But I warn you, Ike’s a bad guy. You let him catch you tryin’ to make away with a sparkler an’ he’ll wring your neck. If you pull anything queer make sure you get away with it.”
T. McGuirk assented gratefully.
“Wery good idea, in-deed.”
He shook hands and smiled his thanks.
Lefty Lannigan stood staring after him dubiously as he darted like a jackrabbit across the busy street, disappearing behind a passing stream of taxis.
The pawnshop of Isaac Gluckstein stood on an unobtrusive street of New York’s Lower East Side. Mr. Gluckstein was closing up for the evening, preparing for his more serious and much more profitable business, most of which was transacted in a back room with access to an alley alongside the building, when T. McGuirk appeared through the front entrance. The pawnbroker paused in the act of opening his safe and surveyed his visitor. What he saw was some five feet three of rags and filth—an extraordinarily inoffensive-looking little man who stood just over the threshold and smiled ingratiatingly.
Mr. Gluckstein grunted with contempt and turned back to the safe; T. McGuirk padded forward with complete confidence.
“You got a diamond you wanta sell me, Mr. Gluckstein?”
The pawnbroker looked up again, staring.
T. McGuirk’s smile widened, exposing an uneven row of tobacco-stained teeth.
“Lefty Lannigan sent me. He said you would sell me a diamond.”
At this mention of the well-known gunman the pawnbroker seemed somewhat impressed.
“You say it, Lefty’s a friend of yours?” he asked incredulously.
T. McGuirk nodded briefly.
“He sent you to me?”
Another nod.
“To buy a diamond?” Mr. Gluckstein’s incredulity was melting.
Still another nod.
The pawnbroker smiled—quite as ingratiating a smile as T. McGuirk’s.
“You could buy a diamond from me,” he stated. “You’ve got the money, my friend?”
T. McGuirk frowned.
“I got plenty money. I ain’t lookin’ for no credit—cash, that’s me.”
Mr. Gluckstein rubbed his hands together—a slight, wholly instinctive gesture. Obviously he had heard of the adage that appearances are deceiving. He surveyed this cash customer with a new respect.
“You could buy from me a very fine diamond, my friend—and cheap.” Mr. Gluckstein leaned forward confidentially and lowered his voice. “Lefty Lannigan did it to you a favor. He knows I got stones—at a price. You couldn’t beat my prices, young man.”
“Wery good,” agreed T. McGuirk without enthusiasm. “Let’s see some. About two carats—unset.”
The pawnbroker stared again.
“An unset stone? I thought you wanted it a nice diamond ring—mayb
e for a lady. I got here many fine unredeemed pledges—”
T. McGuirk shook his head contemptuously.
“Me skirt’s wery partic’lar. I gotta get a unset stone an’ have it set special. Besides—”
T. McGuirk’s eyes gleamed craftily. He raised himself on his toes to reach up nearer Mr. Gluckstein over the counter.
“Besides, I wants a real bargain. Lefty said you had some partic’lar sparklers—unset—an’ I could buy one cheap an’ no questions asked.”
It was a stupendously complicated speech for T. McGuirk. He panted a little from the exertion of it.
Mr. Gluckstein pondered, then reached a sudden decision.
“Come with me,” he said briefly. “Wait—I lock up the shop.”
He locked the front door, pulled down the green shades and turned down the lights. Then he led his visitor through a door in the rear of the shop into a dim room adjoining. A man sitting there with his feet on a board table stood up as they entered. He was a huge man, thick-shouldered and barrel-chested, with a close-cropped, bullet head, blue jowls and a villainous countenance. T. McGuirk smiled at him naïvely.
“Meet Mr. Delancy,” said the pawnbroker. “Pete, a friend of Lefty’s. He wants to buy it a nice little unset diamond. His name is—”
“Me monicker’s T. McGuirk,” supplied the visitor promptly. “That’s the name I goes by mostly.”
Mr. Delancy acknowledged the introduction. A glance passed between him and the pawnbroker. Delancy nodded significantly and pushed his chair back to the wall. He seemed quite without further interest in the proceedings; as a matter of fact he was watching the visitor closely.
T. McGuirk sat down at the table, directly under the circle of illumination cast downward by the gas jet over his head. Mr. Gluckstein went to a small safe in a dark recess of the room, returning in a moment. In one hand he held a small square of black velvet, in the other an unset jewel. He laid the velvet on the table and placed the stone in its center.
“Such a diamond!” he murmured, half to himself. “Look how you could see it sparkle! Now there is a diamond—”
