The Mystery Megapack

reached out and tapped the card-index file, a neat little compartment of exquisitely polished rosewood matching the table; it contained the names of various men well rated financially, selected as future contributors to Mr. Clackworthy’s income. There was an amazing lot of information in those brief notations, intimate data which would have surprised and dumfounded the subjects thereof; their foibles, hobbies, and, not uncommonly, the secret chapters of their lives. The rosewood file was a “prospect list,” a methodical arrangement kept by the man who made the pursuit of easy money a thorough and profitable business.
    “Not a single hunch,” he murmured. “It seems to be the closed season for my pet list of suckers, and—”
    “An’ it don’t take no movin’ van to tote the bankroll,” interrupted The Early Bird quickly. “Ain’t that it?” His voice took on an apprehensive inflection, but Mr. Clackworthy smiled reassuringly.
    “We can hardly go into competition with the subtreasury,” he admitted, “but neither are we in the imminent danger of becoming public charges. The bank balance, to speak in the concrete terms of dollars and cents, is precisely”—he turned to a penciled memo at his elbow—“nineteen thousand two hundred and sixty-three dollars thirty-three cents. In some respects a reassuring sum, but it must be remembered that a confidence man can’t expect to win much confidence without a good and sufficient working capital. The sight of a neat little packet of thousand-dollar bills is more convincing than all the logic; the man who needs credit the worst has the hardest time getting it. Money is the magnate which—”
    “Nix on the essay,” interrupted The Early Bird ruefully; “work the chin a little less an’ the noodle a little harder, boss. If the sum total of our mutual assets ain’t more’n nineteen thousand two hundred an’ sixty-three berries—me bein’ flat, due to payin’ tuition in gettin’ educated to the fact that a full house ain’t always worth the limit—we gotta get busy an’ garner in some kale. Lately, things ain’t been breakin’ right for You, Us an’ Company, Unincorporated.”
    “Yes, we’ve had a rotten run of luck, James,” admitted Mr. Clackworthy. “If I were superstitious, perhaps I would say that an evil jinx has been clogging our footsteps.”
    “Huh!” snorted The Early Bird. “I hope you ain’t got the notion that we’ve been operatin’ under the guidance of a lucky star. Three flivvers out of five schemes, an’ on them two we did put over you can’t say that we took enough coin outta circulation to start the mint workin’ overtime. I’ll tell the money-worshipin’ world we didn’t!”
    “At least we stayed out of jail,” reminded Mr. Clackworthy. “That much was lucky.” The Early Bird shivered at the forced recollection of their narrow escape from durance vile; Mr. Clackworthy had played too far across the legal line and had almost come to grief.
    “There was a guy what once spieled ‘Money talks,’” said The Early Bird, hastily changing the subject. “I sure make the wish that it would murmur a sweet li’le lovesong into our eagerly strainin’ ears; somethin’ like ‘I’d leave my happy home for you.’ As it is, we ain’t even heard it whisper.”
    Mr. Clackworthy laughed, his coplotter’s idiomatic humor restoring his genial good nature. He reached across the table to his cigar humidor and selected one of his favorite brand of perfectos.
    “That suggestion of yours, James, about appealing to Bacchus’ for an idea to fertilize the sterility of our brains, and—”
    “What mob does this Bacchus guy train with?” demanded The Early Bird. “I ain’t strong for cuttin’ in no outsiders.”
    “My dear James!’’ remonstrated the master confidence man.” Your ignorance of mythology is appalling. Bacchus was the legendary god of wine, and the name—”
    “Aw!” grunted The Early Bird, entirely mollified. “I gotcha, boss; that was just a highbrow way, of sayin,’ ‘Let’s wet the tonsils.’ Sure, I’m on; but hereafter when you’re gonna slip me an invite to a drink, it ain’t necessary to be so dang fancy about it.” With alacrity he touched the gong which summoned Nogo, Mr. Clackworthy’s Japanese servant. James and Nogo had a sort of private code between them, and he struck four measured strokes, the signal that liquor, ice, and Seltzer were to be brought. Obedient to the