Nothing in Her Way - By Charles Williams Page 0,2

along with the wallet.”

He nodded. “That’s it, exactly.”

“All right,” I said. “Down, boy. You can put it back in your pocket and fade.”

“How’s that?” he asked, the guileless blue eyes growing wide.

“Look. It was old when the pharaohs were in the construction business. If you have to work the pigeon drop, why don’t you try the neighborhood bars?”

The smooth, pink face split open then, and he laughed. “Nice work, Mike.”

“Mike?” I asked. “You know me?”

He looked pained. “Really, Belen. You don’t think I’m that stupid in casing a mark? And I haven’t pulled anything as crude as a pigeon drop in twenty years.”

I was still a little angry. “Well, what’s the gag?”

“Don’t you know me?”

I shook my head.

“Charles,” he said. “Wolford Charles.”

It rang then. I’d heard of Wolford Charles—or Prince Charlie, as he was known to half the bunco squads in the country. But as far as I knew, I’d never seen him.

He must have been reading my mind. “You have an atrocious memory for faces, Mike. Don’t you remember that crap game in my hotel room in Miami last fall? You took four hundred dollars off me.”

I thought for a minute. “Sure. I remember that. But the only man I recall who looked anything like you was some gold-plated Bourbon from Philadelphia, by the name of—” I stopped.

He smiled reminiscently. “Precisely. Er—Shumway, as I recall. Eccentric chap. Cursed with an absolutely unshakable belief that he could make a six the hard way. A touching bit of faith in these days of spiritual bankruptcy, but mathematically unsound.”

I leaned back in the booth and lit a cigarette. “All right, but I still don’t make it. You didn’t think you were going to get your four hundred back that way.”

“One moment, Mike, please.” He shoved the Daiquiri away and asked the girl for Scotch without ice. “The late Mr. Ackerman’s feeling for drinks was almost on a par with his taste in cravats.” He looked down at the can-can girl and winced. “But to get back to your question. Call it an intelligence test.”

“Why?”

“I was curious as to your reaction.”

“And so I spotted it,” I said impatiently. “What do I get? A merit badge?”

“I was thinking of something a little more substantial. To be exact, a piece of a small business venture I have under advisement at the present time.”

“I just got off,” I said. “It was nice meeting you, Charlie.”

“But Mike, old boy, you haven’t even heard it.”

“And I don’t need to. I already own an Arkansas diamond mine.”

He shook his head. “You misunderstand me. You put up no capital at all. It’s really in the nature of a job, with a nice slice of the bood—er, profits. Say ten per cent.”

“Nothing doing,” I said.

“But why?”

“I’m a gambler, not a con man.”

He gestured impatiently. “There is nothing whatever illegal about this. It’s just a simple matter of—ah—enhancing the value of a piece of real estate. But let me tell you about it, and about Miss Holman.”

“You’re wasting your breath,” I said.

“Miss Elaine Holman, a very charming and lovely young lady I met in New York. She’s connected with the theatre. Her mother and father are both dead, and she comes originally from a small town in the West.’ She was reared by an uncle who must be, from all accounts, one of the greatest scoundrels outside the pages of Dickens. You see, Mike, through a small irregularity in her mother’s will, this girl has been cheated of an inheritance of nearly seventy thousand dollars. All quite legally, of course, and there’s nothing the courts can do for her.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said. “And the uncle is in a Mexican prison, and the seventy thousand dollars is in the false bottom of a trunk being held by customs in Laredo. Cut it out, Charlie. Everybody’s heard of that one.”

He was hurt. “Please, Mike. I’m trying to tell you this is strictly on the level. All I’m trying to do is help this girl get back what is rightfully hers. For a slight—ah—commission, of course. After all, I’m not a philanthropic institution, and the idea I have in mind will entail some expense.”

“Roughly, around sixty-eight thousand, if I’m any judge,” I said. “Provided, of course, the whole thing’s not a pipe dream. But why are you telling me?”

“Because I want your help. I’m offering you a job.”

“But I’ve already turned it down. Remember?”

He sighed. “I wish there was some way I could convince you this is strictly legitimate.” He looked up then, past