The Golden Horseshoe and Other Stories Read Online Free Page B

pockets, dropping the contents upon the chair that I had just left.
    Mrs. Quarre was pouring herself some more tea.
    â€œThomas,” she said; “you’ve overlooked that little watch pocket in the trousers.”
    He found nothing there.
    â€œThat’s all,” he told the man behind me, and returned to his chair and cigar.
    â€œTurn around, you!” the harsh voice ordered.
    I turned and faced a tall, gaunt, raw-boned man of about my own age, which is thirty-five. He had an ugly face—hollow-cheeked, bony, and spattered with big pale freckles. His eyes were of a watery blue, and his nose and chin stuck out abruptly.
    â€œKnow me?” he asked.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œYou’re a liar!”
    I didn’t argue the point: he was holding a level gun in one big freckled hand.
    â€œYou’re going to know me pretty well before you’re through with me,” this big ugly man threatened. “You’re going to—”
    â€œHook!” a voice came from a portièred doorway—the doorway through which the ugly man had no doubt crept up behind me. “Hook, come here!”
    The voice was feminine—young, clear, and musical.
    â€œWhat do you want?” the ugly man called over his shoulder.
    â€œ He’s here.”
    â€œAll right!” He turned to Thomas Quarre. “Keep this joker safe.”
    From somewhere among his whiskers, his coat, and his stiff white vest, the old man brought out a big black revolver, which he handled with no signs of either weakness or unfamiliarity.
    The ugly man swept up the things that had been taken from my pockets, and carried them through the portières with him.
    Mrs. Quarre smiled brightly up at me.
    â€œDo sit down, Mr. Tracy,” she said.
    I sat.
    Through the portières a new voice came from the next room; a drawling baritone voice whose accent was unmistakably British; cultured British.
    â€œWhat’s up, Hook?” this voice was asking.
    The harsh voice of the ugly man:
    â€œPlenty’s up, I’m telling you! They’re onto us! I started out a while ago; and as soon as I got to the street, I seen a man I knowed on the other side. He was pointed out to me in Philly five-six years ago. I don’t know his name, but I remembered his mug—he’s a Continental Detective Agency man. I came back in right away, and me and Elvira watched him out of the window. He went to every house on the other side of the street, asking questions or something. Then he came over and started to give this side a whirl, and after a while he rings the bell. I tell the old woman and her husband to get him in, stall him along, and see what he says for himself. He’s got a song and dance about looking for a guy what seen an old woman bumped by a street car—but that’s the bunk! He’s gunning for us. There ain’t nothing else to it. I went in and stuck him up just now. I meant to wait till you come, but I was scared he’d get nervous and beat it. Here’s his stuff if you want to give it the once over.”
    The British voice:
    â€œYou shouldn’t have shown yourself to him. The others could have taken care of him.”
    Hook:
    â€œWhat’s the diff? Chances is he knows us all anyway. But supposing he didn’t, what diff does it make?”
    The drawling British voice:
    â€œIt may make a deal of difference. It was stupid.”
    Hook, blustering:
    â€œStupid, huh? You’re always bellyaching about other people being stupid. To hell with you, I say! If you don’t like my style, to hell with you! Who does all the work? Who’s the guy that swings all the jobs? Huh? Where—”
    The young feminine voice:
    â€œNow, Hook, for God’s sake don’t make that speech again. I’ve listened to it until I know it by heart!”
    A rustle of papers, and the British voice:
    â€œI say, Hook, you’re correct about his being a detective. Here is an