The batter made a terrific swing. The bat struck the ball with a crack which sounded like the blowout of a huge tire. The ball went sailing high in the air, and the crowd surged to its feet.

Far above the field, the baseball started to curve back toward the third-base line. Spectators watched it with that tense silence which is associated with baited breath, clenched hands, and taut lips.

With swift acceleration the curve of the ball took it back over and across the third-base line.

The third baseman couldn�t reach it.

The fielder couldn�t get to it.

The ball thudded to the ground for the third foul to be called on the batter.

With a long drawn sigh, the crowd relaxed. Some sat down at once. Others remained standing as though loath to believe that the play was over, feeling that perhaps a miracle could recall that which had already happened.

Mugs Magoo said conversationally to Paul Pry: �Big Jim Dolovo is having a hell of a time agreeing on a price for his next job.�

Paul Pry deposited the empty soda-pop bottle between his feet, and said: �Mugs, what the devil are you talking about?�

�Big Jim Dolovo.�

�I heard you, but what the devil has Big Jim Dolovo got to do with this ball game?�

�He�s buying a bunch of gems,� Mugs Magoo said, �and the guy he�s dealing with ain�t as easy as Big Jim likes to have �em.�

�You mean he�s buying gems here at this ball game?�

�Yes, of course.�

�But how can you tell, in this bedlam of noise?�

�He�s making signs,� Mugs said.

The pitcher caught the catcher�s signal, wound up, and sent a fast ball hopping toward the plate. The batter braced himself then relaxed.

�Ball three,� the umpire called.

Paul Pry said, moodily: �Do we have to talk business now, Mugs?�

Mugs Magoo deftly extracted a cigarette from a package with his left hand, snapped a match into flame, and lit the fragrant cylinder. �You told me to point out anything interesting in the line of crook activities whenever I saw them, and wherever I saw them,� he said.

The pitcher suddenly wound up, shot his arm back and over. But instead of the fast ball hopping through the air to explode into the catcher�s glove, he sent a delivery which seemed barely to dribble through the air. The tense batter tried to control his swing in vain. He swung so hard that he spun himself through a complete turn, and the swing was fully completed before the hall hit the catcher�s glove.

The crowd roared into noise as the crestfallen batter jogged over to the player�s bench.

While the new batter was stepping up to the plate Paul Pry said: �O.K., Mugs, you win. No good having my attention split up half and half. I didn�t get half the kick out of that strike-out on the slowball I should have. Where the hell�s Big Jim Dolovo, who is he, and what�s he doing?�

�The fat guy over there with the blue coat. The one with the big ring on his hand. You�ll see his hand in a minute. There. He took off his hat to wipe his forehead with a handkerchief. See him?�

She let her elbow rest lightly, for the moment, on his extended palm. With a quick flash of slender legs she squirmed her supple body into the automobile, around on the seat. She laughed, and said: �I�m ready and, if you insist, I will save carfare. You see, I�� She caught herself midsentence as she was drawing in a breath. A quick twinge of pain erased the smile from her lips. Her hand went mechanically to her left side. �Oh,� she said. �I think I will let you run me to my doctor � if you don�t mind.�

�Not at all,� Paul Pry said, closing the car door and crossing to climb in behind the steering wheel.

Four or five of the spectators, their eyes fastened on Merva Bond�s beauty, ostentatiously took down the license number of Paul Pry�s automobile.

Pry tapped the tips of his fingers on the horn button, eased the car into motion and inched his way through the gathering crowd and out of the parking place.

�You have some doctor in particular that you�d like to see?� he asked.

�Yes,� she said. �A man in whom I have the utmost confidence, Doctor Paul Warfield. It�s after office hours. He�ll be in the Wendell Arms Apartments now. Apartment C, I believe it is. If you don�t mind, we�ll run by and see just what he has to say.�

�It�ll relieve my mind a great deal,� Paul Pry agreed.

During the drive to the Wendell Arms Apartments, Merva Bond showed herself to be a good sport who was determined to carry on, despite an injury which was causing her some pain. �I don�t know what you must think of me,� she said. �You must think I�m frightfully stupid.�

�I think you�re very delightful, very game, and very beautiful,� Paul Pry gallantly assured her.

Her warm brown eyes surveyed him with approval. �You know,� she said, �convention requires that I get your name and address and all that sort of thing.�

Paul Pry liked to drive powerful and distinctive automobiles. In his particular profession, however, a distinctive automobile was something more than a luxury. It represented a business blunder. He had, therefore, sought to compromise by indulging his flair for automobiles and assisting Mugs Magoo�s lugubrious prayers for his safety, by maintaining an apartment residential address under the name of Rodney Bock. It was this name and address which he gave to Merva Bond who reciprocated in kind by telling him that her name was Vivian Goff, that she was a stenographer working in a title insurance company, and that she had, by dint of careful saving, amassed enough money to leave on a two weeks� vacation, during which she was determined to do exactly as she pleased, rather than follow some particular vacation plan. The first steps in this rather unusual vacation had been to get herself a manicure, a new dress, a beauty treatment, and take in the ball game.

Paul Pry assured her that it would be a shame to have her vacation spoiled, and he trusted that her injuries wouldn�t inconvenience her.

Mugs Magoo tossed off the last of the whiskey, regarded the empty glass with the expression of a man gazing down into a coffin at the face of his best friend. �Yeah,� he said, slowly, �they�ll string you along for a while in order to find out how much you know. You see, you didn�t register as knowing anything about them, but only as knowing something about Big Jim Dolovo. So Big Jim signaled them to pick you up, and turn you inside out. After you�ve been turned inside out, Big Jim Dolovo will give the word, and you�ll start pushing up daisies.�

�In the meantime,� Paul Pry said, �I think I�m going to have some very delightful evenings with Miss Vivian Goff � Merva Bond to you, Mugs.�

�Yeah, you�ll have some delightful evenings all right,� Mugs Magoo said, without enthusiasm. �Some day, she�ll draw up and yoo-hoo at you from a car. You�ll take off your hat, put on your best smirk, and trip across to say �Why, how do you do, Miss Goff. This is indeed a pleasure,� and she�ll draw back a little, and someone from behind her will push the muzzle of a machine gun across her lap and blow your backbone into your coat tails.�

Paul Pry ignored the gloomy prediction. �Did you say they communicated through the personal columns?�

�Who?�

�The crooks.�

�Yes, sure. Listen, couldn�t I have another quart of whiskey just to celebrate the last time we�re sitting around in the old apartment, chatting about crooks and things?�

Paul Pry shook his head, went to the shelf where newspapers were piled, and began busying himself with the personal columns. After a while, he had segregated two messages. �Look at this, Mugs,� he said. ��S-S. Return home. All is forgiven. Fara.��

Mugs Magoo yawned drowsily. �Yeah, you can find all you want of those,� he said. �They keep those in type all the time. All they change are the initials and the signature.�

�And then this one,� Paul Pry said. ��S-S. Nice to have you back. Have a fine job for you. Play ball! You always were a grandstander, so why not watch the grandstand? Time is ripe for immediate action. But must reach terms this afternoon. Day.��

Mugs Magoo stretched back his deep chest, sucked in a lungful of air, and gave a prodigious yawn.

�That whiskey making you sleepy?� Paul Pry asked.

�Not the whiskey,� Mugs said drowsily, �and I ain�t what you call sleepy. I�m just tired. The goofy things you do is what makes me tired.�

�How about that last ad?� Paul Pry asked. �Does that sound like one addressed to Soup Scanlon?�

�Uh-huh. That�s Big Jim all right,� Mugs Magoo said, and dropped his chin on his breast while he slept.

Paul Pry opened the closet which contained his collection of drums. He could never really concentrate upon the abstract until after he had lulled his conscious senses into a state of mental tranquility through the pulsations of drums. His drum collection contained specimens gathered in various parts of the world. His particular favorite was a Japanese Shinto temple drum which is not beaten at all, but is rubbed gently around the rim until the drum, which looks like a very thin metal bowl, builds up vibrations which multiply into a resonance of rhythm. Long after the rubbing has ceased, the drum continues to pulsate in the generation of weird throbbing cadences. By following that rhythm as it fades down into silence, the Japanese worshipper is able to concentrate his attention upon the imponderables.

Paul Pry gently rubbed the drum into life, and then sat squatting on his heels, listening to the sound which pulsed into noise, died down almost into silence, then throbbed once more into audible sound. With the passing of seconds, the emanations of sound beating upon the eardrums grew momentarily fainter, although the loss in volume was almost imperceptible.

Paul Pry scraped back his chair.

�Now then,� he said, �you understand why I didn�t want you to know. You�re too nice a girl to associate with crooks, and yet I couldn�t keep on lying to you. This will be good-bye. It was swell while it lasted.�

Her eyes were big and starry. �Oh,� she said, �I respect you so much for telling me. And, after all, you know, I don�t think it�s exactly a crime to rob the very rich and� Well,� she rushed on, with a quick, nervous laugh, �anything that you do seems absolutely all right. I�� Her face twisted into a spasm of pain. �Oh,� she said, �that hurts. Excuse me. I�ve � I must go to the restroom and lie down for a moment. Promise me you won�t leave. Promise that no matter what happens, you won�t go away, that you�ll stay here and wait for me. I want to see you. I want to talk with you. But I can�t now. Oh, my side hurts!�

Paul Pry was on his feet, bending solicitously over her. She let him pull back her chair, walk for a few steps at her side, then said, �Wait, please. I�ll be back in a few minutes,� and threaded her way along the crowded dance floor to disappear behind the curtains of the ladies� room.

Paul Pry beckoned to the girl who was selling cigars and cigarettes.

�Want to make five bucks, sister?� he asked.

Her face was, for the moment, coldly scornful. Then, as her eyes studied his profile, the corners of her lips twisted slightly into a smile.

�How?� she asked.

�The jane who was with me,� Paul Pry said, �is a married woman. There�s just a chance she may be taking me for the old badger game. She slipped into the ladies� room, and I think she�s telephoning. She�s a blonde with a��

�Yes, I noticed her,� the cigarette girl said. �What do I do?�

�Slip in there and hear as much of the conversation as you can, then relay it back to me.�

�For five bucks?� she asked.

�For ten, if you make a good job of it,� Paul Pry said.

She flashed him a smile over her shoulder as she vanished in the direction of the dressing-room.

Five minutes later she was back, bending over the table, her tray, with its assortment of cigars and cigarettes, held temptingly close, so that the aroma of tobacco drifted to Paul Pry�s nostrils. Her smile was disarming, cordial, and impersonal.

�Cigars?� she asked. �Cigarettes?�

Paul Pry gravely indicated a package of cigarettes, and took a wallet from his pocket.

She tore open the cigarette package, and, as Paul Pry took a cigarette, bent close to hold a lighted match.

�You�re hooked,� she said, as Paul Pry inhaled the first, deep drag from the cigarette. �She�s calling a guy she calls Soup, and says she�s all set to take you to the cleaners. That you�re not to be rubbed out right away, because you�re going to pull a chestnut out of the fire first.�

Paul Pry said, �Thanks,� and handed her a twenty-dollar bill.

�Just a moment and I�ll get you your change.�

He shook his head. �My compliments,� he said.

She smiled down at him. �Sorry that the rose you picked was so full of thorns,� she said. �Try me some night. I haven�t any husband,� and she was gone, moving along the table repeating in a voice of cultivated sweetness: �Cigars? Cigarettes?�

It spoke volumes for the impressive manner in which Mugs Magoo had handled the situation that the hard-boiled, metropolitan newspaperman arose as though taking leave of a royal personage, and tiptoed from the room.

Mugs Magoo, puffing away at the water pipe, said to Paul Pry: �Shut off that damn phonograph. Kick this slave out of here.�

The woman stopped her dancing to say: �I ain�t no slave, and don�t go calling me one.�

Mugs Magoo raised his heavy, filmed eyes. �Come here,� he said.

The woman hesitated a moment, then sullenly walked over toward the pile of sofa cushions on which the Rajah of Rajore sat cross-legged.

�Ever hear of what happens to rebellious wives in my country?� Mugs asked.

�I�m not in your country,� she said. �I�m here.�

�They�re sewed in sacks,� Mugs Magoo went on, �and dropped into the Bosporus.�

�You ain� goin� sew me in no sack, mister.�

Mugs Magoo met her flaming eyes. �I didn�t say I was,� he said. �I was just explaining why I have no civilized manners as far as women are concerned.�

�Well, I�ll civilize you,� she said. �In case you don�t know it, Mistah Rajah, that was a damn good dance, an� I ain�t accustomed to bein� called no slave.�

Paul Pry fought back amusement from his eyes.

�I think,� Mugs Magoo said, �that you�d make an excellent queen of my harem. When I go back, I think I�ll take you back with me. How�d you like to be the queen boss of the outfit, have about twenty-five women to wait on you, and have your word law?�

She tilted her chin scornfully. �Humph,� she said, as she started for the door. �Get sewed in a sack and dropped in the phosphorous!�

When she had closed the door, Paul Pry roared with laughter. �Mugs, you�re getting your geography mixed. You�re a rajah from India. The Bosporus is where they drop the recalcitrant wives of the sultans. And where the hell did you get that water pipe?�

Mugs said: �I rang up the hotel manager and gave him hell because they didn�t have water pipes in the hotel.�

�You,� Paul Pry charged, �are quite drunk.�

Mugs poured the first drink of whiskey from the third bottle. �Wrong again,� he said. �I�ve only had two quarts this afternoon.�

�You�re drunk,� Paul Pry repeated.

Mugs Magoo raised filmed, dubious eyes. �Damned if I don�t know but what you�re right, Paul,� he admitted. �I guess I�m getting soft. I can�t take it any more.�

Paul Pry said: �Well, keep your head, Mugs, because we have work to do.�

�Bring out the work,� Mugs said, tossing off the whiskey. �Ever try one of these water pipes, Paul? They�re swell.�

�I,� Paul Pry announced, �have come to knock you over the head, render you unconscious, and steal the ruby from your turban. Do you have any suggestions as to how the act should be put on?�

�How�s it happen you ain�t pushing up daisies?� Mugs asked, thickly.

�I�ve confessed to Merva Bond that I�m a thief, and that I have designs on your ruby. She�s very sick, but putting up a brave fight against her injuries. She made me promise that I�d let her see the ruby as soon as I got it.�

�Well,� Mugs Magoo said judicially, �that�s giving you a few more hours to live.�

�Just the way I doped it,� Paul Pry said. �A car of Soup Scanlon�s gang was parked in front of the night club ready for eventualities.�

�You�d have been the eventuality,� Mugs Magoo said. �You�re flirting with dynamite. Ever try one of these water pipes, Paul? They�re��

Paul Pry said: �Now get your mind on this, Mugs. Do you know Adelaide Faraday?�

�Never met her,� Mugs Magoo said. �What�s her racket, knockout drops, badger game, blackmail, stickup, or just plain moll?�

�It happens,� Paul Pry said, �that she�s the leader of the Four Hundred. It also happens that she�s the owner of a string of diamonds valued at somewhere in the neighborhood of a hundred thousand dollars.�

Mugs Magoo sighed. �That�s nice,� he said. �Get her to try one of these water pipes sometime. She doesn�t know what she�s missing.�

Paul Pry looked swiftly around him, and she took advantage of the opportunity to explain her presence with a prevarication so plausible that it spoke well for her inventive genius. �That side�s bothering me a lot,� she said. �After I went home, I couldn�t sleep. I lay and twisted and tossed, and then called up Doctor Warfield. He�s out at the theater and won�t get in until between one and one thirty. I thought I�d go crazy if I tried to stay home, and I wanted to see people, wanted to be where there was something to occupy my mind. I naturally didn�t want to walk the streets without an escort. And then I thought of the station, so I came here to wait and pass the time away.�

Paul Pry�s expression of sympathy was so perfunctory that she looked up at him with surprise. �What�s the matter?� she asked.

Paul Pry, looking nervously over her shoulder, said: �I�ve got it.�

�Got what?�

�The rajah�s ruby.�

�No!� she said.

�It�s a fact. I copped it just a short time after I left you. In one way, I�m sorry. In another way, I have no regret. He�s lousy with money. He has more wealth than he knows what to do with. I�m down to my last hundred dollars. You know what happens when a man can�t put up a front any more. I need this to tide me over. Perhaps I�ll send him some conscience money when I get in the dough again. And... well, perhaps I won�t.�

�I wouldn�t,� she said quickly. �It would be absolutely wasted. After all, the world owes you a living. Let me see it.�

�I wouldn�t dare to. Not here.�

�Oh, please! Let me just hold it in my hand.�

�No, no. I tell you I don�t dare to. You can�t tell who�s watching.�

�Here comes a detective,� she said.

Paul Pry�s hand slid to his hip. �Quick,� she breathed. �Give it to me, and I�ll hold it for you. Don�t be a fool. You can�t smoke your way out of here. Give it to me. I�ll hide it. Quick!�

Paul Pry slipped the synthetic jewel into her hand. �Don�t let him see it,� he said.

�Indeed I won�t,� she laughed. �Just watch.�

She bent over as though to adjust her stocking. Her slender hands ran up the silken contours to disappear for a moment under the folds of her skirt, then returned empty. With the manner of one who is making polite conversation about the weather or the health of a distant relative, she said: �He turned away... No, he�s coming back. He�s looking at you. Don�t look now. I think it would be better if it seemed as though you were just answering a question for me. Raise your hat and turn away.�

Paul Pry bowed, smiled, raised his hat. �How,� he asked under his breath, �did you happen to know this detective?�

�Don�t be silly,� she said. �Life hasn�t always been a bed of roses for me either, my dear. You can trust me.�

She smiled, turned, and walked casually away in the direction of the women�s room.

Big Jim Dolovo, his eyes closed, his posture giving every indication of sleep, stirred. He went through the motions of waking up. He stretched, yawned, then arose and sauntered toward the door to the women�s room.

Paul Pry beckoned to the redcap who brought up the two suitcases. �I think that�s all,� Pry said, handing him a two-dollar tip.

�Yes, suh. Thank you very much, suh,� the beaming redcap said. �There�s nothing else you want, suh?�

�Nothing else,� Paul Pry said. �I�ll wait here.�

The crash awoke echoes in the street. The black sedan seemed for a moment to telescope against the front of Paul Pry�s charging vehicle. Then the sedan shot ahead as though it had been a projectile fired from a gun. It turned half around, tottered, went over on its side.

Paul Pry slammed on his brakes, kicked the gears into neutral, grabbed his cane and slid out from behind the steering wheel. Quick as he was, Mugs Magoo was ahead of him.

Men were standing up in the overturned sedan. An automatic revolver spattered viciously. Mugs Magoo, swinging the whiskey bottle, charged forward. The whiskey bottle struck a gangster on the head, glanced off to splinter against the side supports of the car. Mugs Magoo�s strong left hand gripped the smooth neck of the bottle which terminated in the jagged saw-tooth of broken glass. With a roar, Mugs Magoo mingled into the mel�e.

Paul Pry ran to take care of those on the other side of the wrecked sedan. Twice the biting blade of his sword-cane flashed out. Each time it came away stained with red. Mugs Magoo, bellowing with rage, was swinging his jagged weapon.

Three seconds later, Paul Pry yelled: �Into the car, Mugs. I hear a siren.�

Mugs Magoo paused for a moment to survey the interior of the taxicab, finally dragging a bulky package into sight.

Paul Pry held open the door of the convertible. Mugs climbed heavily into the seat just as a police car swung around the corner two blocks away, the blood red of its spotlight emphasizing the scream of its siren.

Looking up, Paul Pry became conscious of half dressed forms silhouetted against windows, heard the screaming of women, the shouting of men.

�Hang on,� Paul Pry said.

The police car slowed momentarily at the scene of the battle long enough to hear the shouted comments of the spectators, long enough to disgorge an officer who stood guard with a riot shotgun, awaiting the arrival of an ambulance and patrol car. Then the police car shot forward.

Paul Pry had two blocks head start.

At the end of half a mile, the two blocks had become six. At the end of a mile, he tried a screaming turn at such high speed that the police car, throwing on its brakes to duplicate the same maneuver, lost sight of its quarry.

Five minutes later, Paul Pry drove his somewhat battered convertible into his hide-away garage, switched off the motor and headlights, and, with only the dashlight illuminating his cameo-like profile, grinned at Mugs Magoo. �That,� he announced, �is that.�

Mugs nodded. Gone was his gloomy pessimism. His face was a mask of grinning joy.

�What the devil kept you?� Paul Pry asked. �I rang the Altamont Hotel, and they said you�d left forty minutes before I started.�

�I had,� Mugs Magoo conceded. �But when I was within a block of the place, I suddenly remembered I�d forgotten my water pipe.�

�And you mean you went back to get that narghile?�

�That�s right,� Mugs Magoo proclaimed enthusiastically. �Best smoke a man ever had. It�s the real McCoy.�

�Mugs,� Paul Pry proclaimed, after the manner of a judge pronouncing sentence, �never again do you get an allowance of three bottles.�

Mugs Magoo grinned. �Well, to tell you the truth, you said my allowance was three bottles a day. But you didn�t say just when I should drink �em. Well, I had one quart in the morning. That was my regular allowance for not being a rajah. So as rajah, I was entitled to three quarts, and I saved those until along in the evening, and then, of course, after midnight it was a new day so I started in on the other three quarts � and those damn hoodlums wrecked one quart... But gosh, it was fun. I didn�t realize there was that much joy left in life. I guess I was born to be a cop. It don�t make so much difference whether you have one arm or two. When you can wade into a bunch of rats and start smearing �em all over the place, it really amounts to something.�

Paul Pry sighed. �You�re the one who heads the daisy-pushing brigade.�

Mugs Magoo said: �I thought, because I was a cripple, my fighting days were over� Whoopee!... Come on, son. I�ve got a credit of a quart of whiskey. That�s the McCoy, too. Let�s go up and drink to the health of the daisy-pushers.�

Chuckling, Paul Pry switched out the dashlight.

From the street outside could be heard the scream of the siren on a radio car as it cruised fruitlessly, searching for a cream-colored convertible.