It was the short man who asked for Meriden; to the query the girl inquired
if he had a card. He gave her one which seemed important enough to take in to Mr. Meriden. The card read:
J. B. CORSTON
Manager
Interstate Service Stations
When the girl had left the desk, the short man's lower lip formed a grin, while his upper lip raised, displaying stained, misshapen teeth. He turned to the tall man beside him.
'I'm J. B. Corston,' he undertoned. 'Got it? Just forget that I'm Pinkey Findlen. And forget that you're Slick Thurley.'
'Easy enough, J. B.,' replied Thurley, 'I'm Bill Quaine, from headquarters. I've sprung that gag often enough.'
Martin Meriden didn't like the looks of his visitors any more than the girl had. From behind his desk, the portly, baldish treasurer of Eastern Refineries was prompt to express his opinions regarding the visit of J. B.
Corston.
'This is our first interview, Mr. Corston,' spoke Meriden, testily. 'You can take it for granted that it will be our last.'
'That's sure enough,' returned Pinkey, in a raspy tone. 'After you've bought the Interstate Service Stations I won't have to see you anymore.'
'But I don't intend to buy!' Meriden pounded the desk with his pudgy fist.
'I told you that in my letter. Your chain of service stations exists only on paper. It is worth nothing to us!'
Pinkey leaned back in his chair; he tucked his thumbs in the arm holes of his vest, as he turned his head toward Slick, with the comment.
'You talk to him, Quaine.'
SLICK produced an envelope from his pocket. He drew out some clippings, slid them across to Meriden. They were old newspaper accounts relating the exploits of Detective William Quaine, ace of the racket investigation squad.
Quaine's photograph was printed also; and - as Slick had often privately expressed it - the picture might as well have been Slick's own. Though he and Quaine might have been distinguished if together, separately, either could pass
for the other.
It happened, too, that they had never made the test of meeting face to face. If there was one man that Slick dodged consistently, that fellow was Bill
Quaine.
Meriden took it for granted that Slick was Quaine; but he couldn't see any
connection between that fact and the proposed purchase of the Interstate Service
Stations.
The treasurer of Eastern Refineries was soon to be enlightened. Pinkey Findlen observed that Meriden had fallen for the first step in the game.
Pinkey
spoke to Slick Thurley:
'Show Mr. Meriden those other clippings, Quaine.'
'Certainly, J. B.,' returned Slick, in a brisk tone that suited his false part. 'Look these over, Meriden. They tell about a crook called the Masked Playboy.'
Meriden was nodding as he eyed the recent clippings. Still, he couldn't understand the link, until Pinkey opened a large envelope and shoved two photographs across the desk.
They were the pictures snapped the night before, during the phony crime at
the office of the Nu-Way Loan Company. The first that Meriden saw was the picture wherein the Playboy was masked. He laid that photo aside; looked at the
one below it. He saw a pale strained face with worried eyes. He recognized those
features.
Martin Meriden sank deep in his chair. His lips took on a fishlike gape.
'Reggie!' gasped Meriden. 'My - my own son Reggie! And I - I thought he had -'
'You thought he'd been behaving himself,' sneered Pinkey. 'But he hadn't!
You gave him cash for a trip to Europe, but you didn't know he blew it and had to make it up, somehow.'
'But Reggie is sailing - at noon - today -'
'You mean he will be sailing, if you come through with the deal on those service stations.'
A new expression showed in Meridian's eyes. His tone was indignant when he
uttered:
'This is blackmail!'
'That's what they call it,' agreed Pinkey, 'Or a shakedown. It's all the same in this case. You come through, Meriden, or the kid does a stretch in Sing
Sing!'
MERIDEN'S hands were fidgeting on the desk. Pinky liked the sign. He'd seen others act that way before. Pinkey's rasp became less noticeable. He was trying smooth encouragements.
'You're not the first guy,' he said to Meriden. 'Others were up against the same proposition. They came through. Quaine, here, will tell you it's the easiest way.'
Meriden looked toward Slick; he saw the fake detective reach for the incriminating photographs. From now on, apparently, the pretended Bill Quaine was to keep the evidence.
'So you've turned crook,' accused Meriden. 'That means you're not to be trusted, Quaine, any more than this man' - Meriden thumbed toward Pinkey -
'who
appears to be your boss.'
Slick's only reply was a sarcastic smile.
'How do I know that you won't blackmail me further?' demanded Meriden, hoarsely. 'This could go on and on -'
'Only it won't' interposed Slick. 'You and I are in the same boat, Meriden. You've got to cover up on this deal that you make with J. B. here.
I've got to cover up that I was in on it. One shakedown to one guy is all we can chance.'
Slick looked to Pinkey for corroboration. The big-shot gave a nod.
'That's the way it stands,' assured Pinkey. 'But if you don't come through, Meriden, Quaine will turn in these pictures to headquarters and make himself a hero again.
'He'll be the guy who outsmarted the Masked Playboy, by figuring where he was due and placing a camera there. Quaine will identify your son Reggie and he'll also deny that he tried this shakedown.'
Meriden saw the logic. He knew that the false Quaine could explain this visit by saying that he came to ask questions regarding Reggie's identity. As for Pinkey, he would back anything that the false Quaine said. Believing Slick to be a real detective and Pinkey to be a bona fide businessman named J. B.
Corston, Meriden could find no loophole. He looked dazed; but he managed to gather his wits and ask one important question.
'What about my son?' queried Meriden, 'Where is he?'
On the boat,' returned Pinkey, 'Getting some sleep after a bad night. The bulls nearly nabbed him, after that job. Why don't you call him, Meriden?
They've got a telephone service to that ship. Make sure that he's all right.'
MERIDEN made the call. He controlled his tone while he talked to his sleepy-voiced son, and made no remarks that Reggie could have interpreted as knowledge of last night's episode. From that conversation Meriden convinced himself that Reggie was not in the clutch of crooks.
'Satisfied?' queried Pinkey, when the call was ended. 'You ought to be.
