Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 1, September 17, 1927

AN OCCULTIST PROPHESIED HIS DEATH AT THE WHEEL, SO HE DEFIED IT EVERYWHERE ELSE: AT EACH TURN HE FLIRTED WITH THE GRIM SPECTER

Although Harold Ward operated the Boston antivice society during his father’s illness successfully enough to cause crooks to attempt his life, on the death of the elder Ward, Harold was removed from the society and Sawtell, formerly the chief’s aid, took over control. During the early part of his regime he allowed a warrant to expire on the notorious Harrison gambling and dope house, to the disapproval of Detective Steele, ally of the society. Steele refused to disclose the identity of the person who obtained the inside information about the house; that person was his most elusive operative, Dizzy McArthur, so called for his reckless abandon, former college athlete and war aviator, who was in the game for adventure, and chafed under the temporary inactivity.

Chapter XXXII A New “Ticket”

The investigator did not allow his operatives to approach him while in the corridors of the courthouse. Judge White was on the warrant bench. Appearing as complaining witness, and offering also the testimony of his two men, Steele asked the magistrate to grant a new search warrant for the premises at 142 Warrington Street. After examining the witnesses briefly. Judge Gray complied; and the warrant was given to Joseph McNulty, an aged police officer attached to the district attorney’s office.

McNulty was disliked by most of the police — not for personal reasons — for he was an affable and quick-witted man — but because of his close connection with the district attorney.

The officer adjusted his glasses and peered at the warrant. “What do you want me to do with this, Mr.—”

“Merely to keep it, for the present,” Steele replied. “And to say nothing about it to any one.”

“All right, sir; I can certainly do that,” said the other, laughing.

This was on Thursday forenoon. In the evening Steele sent an operative, Brown, to watch Harrison’s house; and he himself through Warrington Street twice about midnight. He saw two parties entering and one leaving. In the morning Brown reported that the dive had been running as usual.

The investigator went to the courthouse again, but did not find McNulty. He descended to a telephone booth and called Sawtell.

“This is Steele, speaking from the courthouse. I have a new search warrant for Harrison’s place.”

“Heavens!” exclaimed Sawtell. “What have you done that for, Mr. Steele? Just when I was trying to let them get into full swing! Don’t you see — they’ll be tipped off exactly as they were before!”

“Oh, do you think they will?”

“I know they will! A very foolish move, Mr. Steele.”

Anger was plain in the other’s voice. Steele hung up the receiver, smiling in faint amusement, and returned to his office, where he was required upon another case. When evening came he gave instructions for Thompson to watch the house on Warrington Street.

Sawtell’s prediction proved correct. All corners to Harrison’s that night were turned away at the door. Moreover, Thompson reported the presence of several exceedingly tough-looking men on a near-by corner for more than three hours. He said that these men had every appearance of gunmen.

For the third morning in succession, Steele went to the central court. He found McNulty in the district attorney’s office and spoke briefly with him. Leaving the building by the rear entrance, he met Special Officer Bennett, leader of the raiding squad.

Bennett gave him a peculiar glance. “How are you these days, Mr. Steele? Still doing work for the D. A.?”

“Occasionally. Just now I’m on that Harrison job.”

“Oh, yes, on Warrington Street. But that place isn’t running any more, I understand from the society.”

“I know it isn’t,” the investigator said. “It’s closed tight. That’s the way I hope to keep it. That was Mr. Ward’s wish. Sometimes. I believe, the unspoken threat of prosecution is more effective than prosecution itself.”

“I guess that’s right,” returned Bennett, smiling, and again looking at him oddly.

Steele did not hear from Sawtell during that day, which was Saturday. In the early evening he called Dizzy McArthur’s home.

“Is Mr. Kendall McArthur there?”

“Kendall McArthur speaking.”

“This is Steele.”

“Who?” demanded the inventor — and he broke the connection.

Steele hung up his receiver, and presently the bell rang.

“Hello, Mr. Mack? Yes — this is really Steele. Can you come around to my office?”

The other arrived in a half hour.

“Mr. Mac,” the head of the agency asked, regarding him seriously, “are you sure that you want to go on with this matter?”

“You mean, with Harrison’s?”

“Yes.”

The inventor laughed. “I’m going to finish it.”

“M-mm. Why?”

“I’m a sportsman.” explained McArthur.

“Quite so. But I wonder if you really have any idea of what you are doing. You are attempting to stand in the way of a system which is making hundreds of thousands of dollars every month for promoters and grafters in this city.”

“That’s what makes it hardfought and interesting.”

Steele chuckled quietly. “You’ll find it interesting enough if they ever suspect that you are the cause of their recent troubles; I guarantee that. I have three men out watching the house to-night. Heaven help them if their purpose becomes known in that neighborhood.

“Well, if you wish to continue — we’ll take a ride through there a little later.”

They did, passing the house several times behind the curtains of Steele’s gray roadster; and to all appearances the place was closed. Parties were turned away from the door one after another. Finally Steele followed one of the parties — two gamblers and the girl known as Diamond-Tooth Marjie. They rode away from the house in a red cab, circled through the back streets for a few minutes, and presently returned, walking down a narrow, dark alley toward the back of Harrison’s premises.

In the morning Steele’s operatives informed him that they had seen many parties enter and leave quietly by the back alley.

“Do you know,” he declared to Walter Clapp, his most intimate associate at the office, “I think it is small wonder that Mr. James Ward often had to use drastic methods to accomplish his results. How little any of us knew of the endless fight he had — one man, all alone, against indifference and corruption — like a rock in the midst of a dirty stream! Is it any wonder that the currents wore his life away?”

Chapter XXXIII “Watch Them Mix It”

“I Wanna Go Where You Go—”

“Then I’ll be happy!” finished Little Evelyn, laughing.

McArthur thought that it was an unusually thin and pale Little Evelyn who sat opposite to him at Canton Cabaret. He would scarcely have recognized her as the girl whom he had first met there four months earlier. Her face was lined, her eyes sunken, and artificial colors did little toward concealing it all.

“In Heaven’s name,” he flung out suddenly, “why don’t you, why can’t you cut it out?”

She smiled at him again, a faint and rather wistful smile. “Sky-pilot!” she murmured. “Holy-Joe! Holy-Joe Mac!”

“It’s no worse than being a booster,” he returned.

“A... booster!” said Evelyn, a hint of anger creeping into her eyes. “Say, listen — don’t call me a booster! If you do, I’ll never speak to you again. I’m not a booster—”

“You said you were once—”

“I never did!” she gave back, putting down her knife and fork. “I certainly hope I was never that dumb. Only dumbbells are boosters. I... I—” She hesitated, her face relaxing into a smile once more. “I may have said I used to be a fillout or a get-away for a mob of swell boosters—”

“Well,” challenged McArthur, “what’s that but shoplifting?”

“It’s all the difference in the world,” declared his companion. “Fillouts and getaways don’t do any hoisting themselves. Their job is to beat it with the swag as soon as the boosters lift it, so if the finger calls the booster he doesn’t get any goods on her. Then the booster can put up such a squawk that he’ll never dare bother her again.”

“Humph. I think it’s rather a nice distinction. I’m not criticizing you — but I can’t understand what you see in it. It’s only the dope that makes you do such things—”

She laughed again, coughing. “Listen. We have to hit the coke to help our nerve. It makes one’s face steady.”

The inventor shook his head. The pity of it had never impressed him so forcibly as it did upon this evening in the Canton. It occurred to him that the finger might soon call Little Evelyn in a summons which she must answer without stalling, without waiting to split the swag before going up the river.

“For God’s sake, Evelyn, quit it, before it’s too late!” he begged suddenly.

“But how can I?” she asked. “I have to live some way.”

“Tell me. Have you a brother?”

“No. Why?” She looked at him, her gaze puzzled.

“Well — I haven’t any sister, either. Let’s pretend that I’m your brother for a little while. You won’t have to keep on with this game, if we do that.”

For an instant the girl stared at him, amazed; then once again she shook with laughter.

“You — be my brother!” she exclaimed. “You — be my brother! Go on — you’re making fun of me—”

“I’m not,” he said.

“But how could you be my brother? And, listen, you fiddler! What was the idea in sending me away up to the St. Elmer that night? If I hadn’t met Jimmie Brown, I might have got pinched for going in there. They’d think I was a dip or something.”

“I apologize humbly,” McArthur declared. “But why not be my sister for a little while?”

A subtle change came into her expression.

“I... I have a brother,” she replied.

“I thought you said you hadn’t.”

“Well, I didn’t want you to know. He’s... he’s in trouble. I’ve got to make money to get a mouthpiece for him. Listen — loan me a hundred dollars so I can help my brother — will you, please?”

“Help him keep on beating the law!” he surmised.

“No, no. He wants to quit the racket — honest. He was framed.”

Before they parted at her door, McArthur loaned her the hundred.

He had allowed the cab to go away, so he walked toward Columbia Street to find another. As he strode along, he became aware of an odd sensation that he was being followed. Twice he glanced back sharply, but could see no one. Finally he noticed a small man on the opposite side of the street, who, however, did not appear to be paying any attention to him.

To make certain, McArthur went into a drug store and asked for a milk shake. While it was being prepared, he watched the stranger through the window. The man walked steadily on, not even glancing across the street; and when McArthur came out he was not in sight.

On Columbia Street he found his old acquaintance, the colored driver, with his delapidated olive-drab taxi. He gave his home address, and the negro left him at his door with a cheery “Good night, boss!”

As the inventor turned to go in, another car stopped directly in front of the walk. He started. The machine was a roadster; and there was a single occupant, beckoning to him.

He approached warily, and caught his breath in surprise. The man was Malcome Steele.

“Mr. Mac, have you forgotten what I said to you the other night?”

“What do you mean?”

“About running risks when it is possible that Harrison’s gang may suspect the truth at any time?”

“Oh—” McArthur frowned, blinking. “By risk, you mean my being with Little Evelyn?”

Steele shook his head. “It is for you to decide what risk you are running in that connection. But when you go into a drug store in that district again, and drink a soda or a milkshake — you watch them mix it. Watch them mix it, Mr. Mac! Do you comprehend?”

Chapter XXXIV The First of the Month

Entering the office of the society on the first day of March, Malcome Steele asked for Sawtell, and was admitted to the tiny inner room where he had conferred upon several occasions with Harold Ward.

“Good morning, Mr. Steele,” said Sawtell stiffly.

“Good morning, Mr. Sawtell. I think this is the date you spoke of in reference to another effort to raid Harrison’s?”

“Well, I did speak of it,” returned the representative of the society, with some spirit, “but my plans have been completely disorganized by your getting out that second ticket. I can’t do anything about it now until I’ve conferred with the president and the directors. There’s to be a meeting to-morrow—”

“Regarding the second search warrant,” the investigator remarked, “I notice that its effect of stopping Harrison’s activities lasted only for a single night.”

“What on earth do you mean, Mr. Steele? The joint is shut down dead at present. I watched that house for an hour twice this week, and not a single person entered or left.”

“Did you watch the back alley, too?” Steele inquired.

“The back alley?” Sawtell repeated, staring hard at him.

“I think your information about the place is incomplete.”

“Well, the fact remains that they did learn of the ticket as soon as you swore it out.”

“Quite true. But I think we should capitalize the fact that they aren’t particularly afraid of the warrant. You say you are positive that a clerk of the court. Charlie Wilton, was responsible for the leak. Would you be willing to tell me how you are so sure?”

“No, I wouldn’t, Steele,” replied Sawtell bluntly.

“Well, I propose, if you are certain Wilton is the one, that we eliminate Wilton.”

“Eliminate him? How?”

“Surely we could contrive to have him absent from the court for a day. We’ll return this ticket while he is there; then take out another in his absence.”

Sawtell again looked at him sharply. “I’ll have to take it up with the directors,” was his answer.

On the following day the investigator did not hear from him. The next afternoon, Friday, he received a letter from the president of the society:

Steele called McArthur, hung up the receiver while the inventor called back, then told him of the development. At McArthur’s suggestion he wrote to the president of the society, asking him if he was sure that his information about the Harrison activities was correct. On Monday the investigator received the following:

“Now, that is strange,” Steele mused to Walter Clapp, as he laid aside the letter. “The president of the society is one of the finest men in the State. I am surprised that he should be so readily deceived.”

As a final move, he wrote to the district attorney. The reply was prompt:

“Well — you see what will happen now, don’t you. Clapp?”

“What?”

“You see what the move is? By the time that Mr. O’Neil is convinced that these gaming and narcotic interests have not been curbed, it will probably be so near the end of his term in office that he will hesitate to undertake a job of such magnitude. I am afraid he has definitely killed all chance of his reelection. And who can say whether the next district attorney will push the matter at all?”

“He’s going to continue the Stone investigation,” Clapp observed hopefully.

“Yes; but it’s my opinion that the one hope of finding his slayer lies in arresting whatever gunmen we might encounter at Harrison’s in a raid, and giving them the third degree. We know that Stone had been in the house shortly before his death — at least, we are sure of it beyond a reasonable doubt — and I am thoroughly convinced that the party at his table in the Canton Cabaret included one or more of the gunmen from inside.”

For a few moments he sat gazing thoughtfully at his desk.

“Well... we’ll have to inform Mr. McArthur—” he decided, as he took up the telephone.

Chapter XXXV McArthur Calculates

“Mr. Mac,” Steele remarked, when the inventor arrived, “it appears that there is not to be any further action against Harrison for some time.”

“You tried the district attorney?” Disappointment was clear in McArthur’s voice.

“I wrote to him. But he has been advised that it is needless to go farther in the matter at present. I would urge him, only it would seem as if we were looking for more work on the case, and might result in his not using our operatives in the future.”

“Suppose that I go to him and lay the matter before him?” the inventor suggested.

“If you do,” Steele replied, regarding him steadily, “if you as much as set foot inside the door of the courthouse, Harrison’s gang will be told of it, and your role will be at an end.”

“I could write, or see him at his home.”

“I have written,” the investigator reminded him.

McArthur nodded, studying the pattern of the rug. He drew a long breath. “It looks as though they have beaten us,” was his comment.

For a half minute he sat motionless, whistling.

“Mr. Steele,” he asked, at length, “doesn’t the law provide that any citizen may appear as complainant against lawbreakers? It doesn’t have to be the district attorney, or the police, or the society, does it?”

“Certainly not. Any person may go to court and complain legally about violations of the law. It’s a fact that many people don’t realize, because it’s so seldom that a private citizen does such a thing.” He looked steadily at McArthur again. “Why?”

“Well — suppose I should go in as complainant, and get a warrant sworn out myself — wouldn’t it have to be served?” Steele smiled. “I am afraid that I detect several loose ends dangling from that idea, Mr. Mac. To obtain an order from the court for action, you would have to produce witnesses other than yourself. And if you should go in as complainant, you may be sure Harrison would learn of it immediately.”

“But why can’t some one become complainant for me? Why can’t I engage your concern to push this case just as Mr. Ward had planned to push it?”

“M-mm. I see what you mean.” The head of the agency hesitated. “Do you know what it would probably cost you to complete it, against the opposition you would face, at the rate which I charged the State for our service to the district attorney?”

“How much?” inquired McArthur, thoughtfully.

Steele took a pad and made a rough estimate. He passed the top sheet to the inventor.

McArthur laughed when he saw the figures. His total capital, including what he held in convertible securities, would cover the amount with a little to spare. A very little. Income from his electric car switch had decreased considerably, and he had not finished his train-stopping apparatus.

It would mean fewer neckties and sport shirts, perhaps even a delay in conforming to some of the latest styles.

“I’ll engage you to carry it through, Mr. Steele,” he said.

“You understand that my estimate is conservative.”

“Oh, yes.” The inventor blinked.

“Mr. McArthur, I’m curious to know why you are so keen about this.”

“It was Mr. Ward’s wish, wasn’t it?” he returned simply.

In his heart McArthur realized that there was another reason, although for days and weeks he had shrunk from admitting it. He had shrunk instinctively from the thought which was becoming so large in his life — an amazing and bewildering thought — that of Little Evelyn.

And of a promoter who backed Harrison’s joint, who had taught her the game she was playing, had promised her immunity from prosecution is she would “line up with his mob.” House of death? Heaven knew that it was well named by Officer Harvey — if only for the way it was withering Little Evelyn!

The private investigator rose, looking out of the window. He shook his head slowly.

“No, Mr. Mac,” he said with quiet decision, “you can’t hire me to finish this job.”

McArthur had seen enough of Steele to know that it was useless to try to sway him. He left the office bitterly disappointed. But he was not defeated. There were many other detective agencies in the city, many with cheaper rates than the National. McArthur went home to make arrangements for turning some of his securities into cash.

His brother. Duncan, caught him poring over documents and figures and demanded an explanation.

Duncan’s proprietory attitude would long since have irritated Dizzy McArthur beyond the point of endurance, had he not realized that his brother meant it all in a spirit of kindness and protection. He told Duncan of the way that the action against Harrison and Muir had been dropped, and confided his intention of carrying the matter through.

“W-well — you colossal fool!” exclaimed the other, flinging himself down into a chair with such force that it creaked, and staring at him. “You continental, absolute, unabridged ass! What in the name of the Lord are you doing this for?”

The inventor started to tell him.

“James Ward’s sake!” scoffed Duncan. “James Ward, rot! I wish to Heaven you had never met the man! But you’re not doing it for his sake. It’s just another of your damned, wild, tom-fool escapades!”

“Well, then — for the good of the community.”

“Bah! Do you think any one will thank you? Good God, they’ll laugh at you! Who do you think cares whether that joint keeps on running or not? No one except some fanatic like James Ward. If a fellow doesn’t want to go to a joint like that he won’t go there — that’s all.”

His brother blinked. “When the drug craze or the gambling craze gets a man, he’s a slave to it.”

“Well, what if he is? It’s better to let him dope himself to death or shoot himself than to burden the rest of society with him. The country is over-populated with people who would be better off dead, and the kindest and sanest thing is to let them get out of the way if they want to. This saving a man in spite of himself is a mistaken policy. But go ahead, if you want to!” he finished, in disgust. “After you’ve busted yourself, or got your head blown open, you’ll probably wake up.”

Kendall smiled, and went on with his calculations.

He did not visit any of the other detective agencies that afternoon. It seemed advisable first to formulate a more definite plan of action. Much depended upon the question of whether he was still unsuspected by Harrison and his associates; and he could learn that only at night. In the evening he dressed with his usual care, took a cab to the corner of Dartnell Street, and walked from Dartnell down Columbia toward Warrington.

His brother’s denunciation followed him. After all, Duncan was probably right. His attitude was the nearer right of the two, the more normal. Of course, the community would not thank him for his efforts to close Harrison’s place — would only laugh at him. Nearly every one whom he had encountered so far, except James Ward, had laughed at him, either secretly or openly.

Steele had not laughed. He had simply looked at him steadily and curiously. But he had declined to work for him.

The refusal had left McArthur surprised as well as disappointed. He had imagined that Steele was a man who would be glad of the chance to keep on until he had obtained his objective. In a way, he had thought of Steele as the greatest asset to his team in the game against Harrison — not as an active player, for Steele had been playing so many years that he was ineligible — but as head coach, as manager.

Perhaps, however, the investigator felt that his particular work was to find the slayer of Wesley Stone.

McArthur passed the Canton Cabaret without meeting any one whom he recognized and continued slowly toward the well-remembered corner of Columbia and Warrington Streets. After a mild week, winter had come back in earnest for a final siege; and flakes were driven against the inventor’s face. Again, as on the last night when he had gone home with Little Evelyn, he had an elusive sensation that he was being followed. Repeated glances failed to show him any reason for the feeling.

At Mountfort Street, the last before Warrington, he paused long enough to direct a youth who addressed him.

“The second on the right,” he told him mechanically.

It occurred to him then that the young man’s face was vaguely familiar. He bore a rather close resemblance to Thompson, one of Steele’s operatives. Sharply McArthur caught his breath and looked back at him. He was Thompson, beyond question — now on his way toward Oliver Street.

Oliver Street—

Casually the inventor took out his notebook. He turned the pages until he found:

“State Street at eleven.”

Steele’s words in his office came back to him. “You can’t hire me to finish this job.”

All at once McArthur blinked in complete understanding.

Chapter XXXVI In the House Again

McArthur’s notebook was so arranged that if it should fall into the hands of the gangsters, it would convey no meaning to them, no hint of his connection with Ward or Steele. On the first page was a simple list of twenty-one names. A close scrutiny of this page could reveal only the fact that all of these happened to be names of streets, also that the names began with twenty-one different letters. The instructions were written on the pages bearing the index letters.

On one page, the letter B, there was nothing written. There was no need of it. McArthur had memorized this sinister signal first of all. It was similar to the seventeen, the “life and death” of the railroad code. If he should be given that signal, it would mean that the game was over, that his purpose had been betrayed to gangland, that his life in the district wasn’t worth a lead dime! B for Beach Street!

Beach Street — connecting the slums of Chinatown with the precincts of the Castle gang — street of a thousand evil deeds and memories!

In the office on State Street McArthur learned that Steele’s plan was the same as his — an experiment to learn whether Harrison’s forces had suspected his part in obtaining the warrants. At twelve he returned to the corner and approached the house. He was watched by Steele’s men, but, of course, he knew that they could not help him once he had entered.

He had envied the men in the West before the coming of law — men who had “gone through” against odds alone, with a gun in each hand spitting flame and bullets. The Great War had brought all his day dreams of this kind into a fascinating and terrible reality. Here was his chance to go through once more; only this time he must go unarmed, in a stronghold guarded by half the bad men in the city.

But at the door McArthur was refused admittance. No explanation was offered to him. He watched, and saw others turned away. He also saw some of these others stroll around toward the alley at the back. The inventor did not make the mistake of seeking entrance in this way himself. That, when he had not been told of it, would show too much knowledge of Harrison’s affairs.

He discontinued for the night, and the next morning he conferred again with Steele. It was decided that McArthur must learn of the “back way in” through a casual conversation with Topper Drohan or some of his friends.

About twenty minutes after the inventor had left the office of the National Detective Agency, Brown pressed Steele’s buzzer.

“Mr. Wallis Sawtell is here, sir.”

The investigator raised his eyebrows. “I’ll see him.”

Sawtell came in smiling. “Good morning, Mr. Steele! Not sore at me, are you?”

“Certainly not. Why should I be?”

“Oh, I was a little abrupt the other day,” the man apologized, “but I didn’t mean anything by it. When I’ve been worrying, I say things sometimes, but I’m all over them in a day or so. I’m sorry the directors feel that we can’t afford to keep on with you just at present.”

“Sit down, Mr. Sawtell.”

“Thanks. I can’t stop but a minute, though. Say, Mr. Steele, there was one little matter — about that second ticket you took out on the Harrison place — do you remember? It was given to McNulty. We’re closing our reports on that case today, and we thought if the warrant was returned we could finish everything right up quickly.”

“I see,” the investigator said.

“I asked McNulty about it this morning, but he said he wouldn’t turn it in until he heard from you. Would you be willing to give me a little note to him this morning?”

“No, I wouldn’t, Sawtell,” replied Steele bluntly.

The other’s face darkened. “Well—”

“Did you ask the district attorney?”

“No, I didn’t want to bother him. It seems to me, Mr. Steele, inasmuch as you swore that ticket out in our behalf, your duty is to help us finish the matter up as quickly as possible.”

Steele made a note on a small pad. “I’ll bear it in mind the next time I go over to court,” he replied.

Muttering something inaudible, Sawtell rose and stamped out of the office.

The next evening. Dizzy McArthur went to the Canton for supper, hoping to meet Drohan or one of his friends.

He was successful. The bootlegger entered shortly after ten, and joined him at his table. If there was any change in his attitude toward him, McArthur could not detect it.

“Evelyn tells me you did her quite a favor,” he remarked. “She was hard up for ready cash; and she had a chance to swing a nice little sale to some friends of hers on West Needham Street.”

“What the devil do you mean?” cried the inventor. “I loaned her that money to help get a good lawyer to defend her brother.”

“S-sh!” returned Drohan. “They ain’t no need to broadcast.”

He looked nervously around the room. “Let me wise you,” he added, laughing. “Little Evelyn hasn’t any brother.”

When they had finished supper, the suggestion that they drop in at Harrison’s followed naturally. One of Drohan’s friends, Duke Andrews, drove them to the house in his cab. He had a mirror above his windshield, and McArthur could see the dim yellow eyes of Steele’s roadster behind. When they left the cab, the bootlegger surprised him by leading the way directly to the front door.

He pressed the bell — once, four times, twice. The bullet-headed individual admitted them without hesitation or question.

McArthur caught his breath in comprehension. Here at last was the correct spacing of the seven rings. One — four — two. “Simple enough yet complicated enough,” Steele had predicted. 142. Patrons would not forget it, for it was in full view upon the transom.

Brick Harrison’s face lighted, his gold teeth flashed genially, when he saw McArthur. He wrung his hand, and they chatted for several minutes in a corner. The gaming room was not crowded, but all who were present were playing without restraint.

The inventor told Harrison that he had been refused admittance.

“Once this week, and once before.”

“We was closed here for awhile.” Harrison admitted. “Takin’ a little vacation. We all have to take a rest, even in this game.”

The explanation seemed natural. It was unlikely that Harrison would tell visitors that his place had been in danger of being raided. McArthur felt sure that none of the men in the room regarded him with suspicion. He was greatly puzzled, however, by the fact that the front door was now being used freely and openly.

“What was it you had on your mind, Mr. Mac? Been thinking over that little proposition I made?”

The inventor thought quickly. The novelty of his legerdemain had worn off, and he could not hope that it would make him welcome indefinitely.

“I... I’ve been wondering about it,” he answered. “You see, I never used my skill with the boards for that purpose. The idea sort of makes a hit with me. But I’d have to practice a little—”

“Practice? Hell, no! You’re a wizard right now, Mac.”

“W-well — suppose I let you know in a few days—”

“Do that,” returned Harrison. He squeezed his hand again.

McArthur stayed for a short time, talking with a few of the others. Many smiled and nodded to him, several greeting him as “Four-Ace Mac.” He found Jimmie Brown at a table with his friend Silk, Dr. Marsh, and others. The physician had been drinking, and was declaiming heavily and somewhat stupidly as he endeavored to play. Upon McArthur’s arrival he poured drinks for all in the group; and after the next deal he repeated the courtesy.

“My friends,” he proposed solemnly, “here’s to our old friend, James Ward — the only good thing he ever did — he kicked the bucket!”

A roar of hilarity and approbation from all around greeted this. McArthur blinked, and laughed with the others.

When the inventor left the house, he — rode home in a yellow cab, with Steele following skillfully at a distance. This time the head of the agency did not approach his door, and they did not have an opportunity to talk until morning.

“The warrant has been returned,” Steele told him.

“Oh! How did that happen?”

“Well, I find that it is contrary to police rules to keep a search warrant more than seven days without service. Some one informed the superintendent that McNulty had been holding this warrant much longer than the time allowed, and he ordered him to turn it in.”

The inventor shook his head as he left the building. The farther he went, the more hopeless his task seemed. Hopeless and thankless. His team was losing ground, not gaining.

“McArthur — you colossal fool!” he mused suddenly, laughing until his sides ached.

Chapter XXXVII “What’s a Gambling Joint?”

Malcome Steele had hoped from the first that two or more of his own men might win their way into the good graces of Harrison’s “mob” to such a degree that they would be welcome visitors at his house; and for this purpose he had transferred two men from the Chicago branch of his agency — Wesley Stone and Arthur Williams. The death of the former, however, had convinced Steele of the futility of this hope, and he had sent Williams back to Chicago, where he was needed. The head of the agency now considered calling him East again.

It was true that Williams had claimed Stone’s effects at the hospital, and that Harrison might have learned of this. But all efforts by other operatives to make friends with members of the gang had failed. Strangers were regarded constantly with suspicion.

Steele had reason to hope, because of the progress Williams had made earlier, that in time he might succeed in entering the house and thus be able to assist McArthur. Of course, neither Bolton nor Marvin, alias the Robinson brothers, could become regular visitors without exciting speculation which might also involve the inventor.

A week after the second search warrant had been returned to the court, the investigator wired for his operative.

Arthur Williams was, in fact, more than an operative, being regularly in charge of the branch in Chicago. He was a young man, with blue eyes and curly hair, one of the last whom a stranger would suspect of being a detective. Upon his arrival, he began frequenting the Canton Cabaret for supper. He had already contrived a slight acquaintance with Topper Drohan, a method similar to McArthur’s — although, as it happened, Williams knew nothing about McArthur.

After a few nights, he met the bootlegger, and found that he remembered him. In artful ways he managed to strengthen their acquaintance.

Drohan was fond of billiards and bowling, and Williams was expert at both. They met upon several occasions and spent an hour at one of these sports. The detective did not attempt to hurry matters, for Drohan was naturally restless, and seldom spent very much time in one place.

One evening in Conlon’s pool room, Williams saw a man whom he recognized instantly, although the man was in plain clothes on this occasion and he had previously seen him in uniform. It was Sergeant Hill, who had been at the hospital on the night of Stone’s death. Williams did not believe that the sergeant remembered him.

The following Monday, he met Drohan again. The bootlegger appeared in a rare humor, and insisted that Williams have supper with him before they went to bowl.

They chose the Canton. When the waiter, whom Drohan addressed as Wing, had taken their order, Williams looked pleasantly at his host.

“Well, how’s the liquor business?” he Ventured.

Drohan met his glance frankly.

“Fine. How’s the sleuthing business?”

The operative caught his breath, stared at him for a second, then laughed.

“I’ll give you credit, Topper. How did you make me, and when?”

“Oh, don’t worry, Artie. I’ve been on to your little game since I first knew you.”

“Is that so!” mused the other, in amazement. “Why haven’t you ever said so?”

“That’s easy. I wanted to get a line on just what you was after.”

Williams chuckled. “And have you got it?”

“Not yet,” his companion admitted. “But I have a pretty fair idea.”

He looked around for the waiter.

“Say, listen, Williams,” he said, turning back. “What is your game? Tryin’ to get the guy that bumped your side kick, eh?”

“That’s it,” the detective told him.

“That, and something else — eh?”

“You seem to know,” said Williams carefully.

“I do know. You from Chi, too, are you?”

“Look here — how do you know Stone was my side kick?”

“Oh, never mind that,” returned Drohan. “I have a hundred eyes in this town. But listen, Artie. What the hell’s the sense in making a lot of trouble for a fellow that ain’t doing nothing but running a gaming joint?”

“No hard feelings?” the operative asked.

“Course not. Detecting’s your business; bootlegging’s mine. But, on the level, what’s the harm in gambling?”

“There’s dope in that joint, too.”

“No, no. Let me tell you something. There’s no dope in that place. That’s all the bunk.”

He paused while the Chinese brought the food and served them.

“Brick Harrison is as good a fellow, as good a sport, as they is living,” he went on a moment later. “Now, mind you, I’ve got no use for this croaking stuff. If I knew who is was that plugged your side kick I’d tell you right this minute. I swear I would. But what harm is Brick doing by keeping a gaming house?”

“Perhaps not very much,” Williams admitted. “But—”

“Yeah — I know. It’s what you’re getting paid for. But ain’t it a hell of a way to have to make a living, Artie — taking a chance every night on getting bumped like Stone was? And what if youse do break into that joint? There’ll be more shooting — some one else will get plugged. What’s the sense of it?”

“You think there’ll be more shooting, do you?”

“Say, listen.” Drohan dropped his voice, emphasizing with his forefinger, and Williams observed two strips of soiled adhesive plaster on the back of his hand. “Listen to this, Artie. They’s five or six men totin’ gats inside that place all the time. And suppose you fellows get the place? That ain’t going to help find the guy that croaked Stone. If I knew who done that. I’d wise you — honest to God I would. What use is it to knock Harrison?”

“I’m not the boss of the job,” the other reminded him.

The bootlegger returned a glance from narrowed lids.

“You’re the boss of your own life, aren’t you? How long will it take you to make ten grand at your game?”

Williams chuckled again. This amused him. “Who said anything about ten grand?”

“That ain’t much money when you know the way to make it.”

“You’re kidding, of course?”

“Kidding?” Drohan leaned toward him again. “I can put ten thousand iron men right in your hand to-morrow night.”

“But I can’t stop the case from going through. Why don’t you try the boss?”

“Say! — do you know any more jokes? Naw — on the level, Artie — I ain’t razzing you. If you want ten grand right now, I can put you next to it.”

The detective frowned, puzzled. “I tell you. I can’t stop the case—”

“No? Well, you can come damn close to it — and I’ll tell you how. They’s only one thing we want to know. We’ll do the rest!” Once more he lowered his tone. “We want to know how they got evidence enough to get them warrants out.”

“I don’t know how they got it.” Williams objected.

“I’ll bet you don’t! Not if I know anything about Steele’s methods; and I figure I know something about them. But you might be able to find out, eh?”

“How?”

“Well, I’ll tell you—”

“Wait,” the other cautioned. “Here’s the chink.”

“Nothing more to-night, Wing,” said Drohan.

“All light, sir.” The little waiter turned away.

“I’ll tell you, Artie. We know the warrants was both sworn out by men named George L. Bolton and Fred A. Marvin. One lives upstate somewhere and the other’s from the Main Burg. Of course we know they both work for Steele. What we don’t know is, how did they get their evidence on Harrison’s? What did they testify to? Who are they, to us? Do we know them under some other names?”

“Why are you so keen to know this?”

“So they won’t get any more evidence!”

“Humph. You’d silence them, also, I suppose?”

“Aw — no, no, no, Artie! Now, here! Now, listen! No one will harm either of those guys. We don’t have to. All we want is to keep them from getting any more on the place — keep them out, if they’ve been workin’ from the inside. They’ll have to bring the evidence up to date if they want to get a new search warrant. All you gotta do is find out how they worked it — and, if you can, how soon Steele’s thinking of trying it again.”

He paid the checks.

“You better jump at it, Williams,” he advised, as they went out. “It’s a pipe for you, compared to a ferret’s job. You ain’t doing no harm by telling us that. If it was anything serious, you might have something on your conscience. But, hell, man! What’s a gambling joint?”

Chapter XXXVIII The Gun-Moll

Steele had managed to obtain a small room in a house at 135 Warrington Street without awakening the suspicion of any one in the neighborhood. From the front window his operatives could keep watch on Harrington’s house at No. 142 throughout the night without exposing themselves to view — or to a possible bullet.

The room, however, did not provide a view of the back alley; and when Thompson and Brown decided that traffic at the main entrance between eleven and twelve was light for Friday evening, the latter slipped out of the lodging house and took a position at the corner of Warrington and Columbia Streets.

On the opposite corner, four tough-looking men were grouped, smoking, and the detective saw that they glanced frequently in his direction. He made sure that the safety catch of his automatic pistol was raised. Across Columbia Street two other men were talking in the darkness of a doorway. Brown watched the alley leading to the back of Harrison’s, but observed no one enter or leave by this route.

A large, red-faced policeman approached, after about five minutes, crossing diagonally from the east side of Warrington Street. He looked at Brown with obvious suspicion, sauntered past, then suddenly squared around.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded heavily.

“Sir?” returned Brown, at a loss for an instant.

“I said, what are you hanging around here for?” the officer challenged in a louder voice, noticing the youth’s rather timid response.

Brown hesitated. He could not show the policeman his credentials, because of the groups of men who were watching.

“I was waiting to meet some one,” he ventured.

“Well, do you think this is a proper time of night to be loafing around corners?”

“But I haven’t been loafing, sir,” the operative protested.

“Go on — I’ve been watching you for the last twenty minutes. If you’ve got any business here, state it. If you haven’t, get out — and if I see you hanging around here again I’ll take you over to the box.”

“All right, sir,” Brown replied meekly.

He walked back the way he had come, and the officer continued up Columbia Street in the direction of the Canton Cabaret. Of course Brown did not immediately go back into the house at No. 135. It was important that he should avoid being accosted again by the policeman, if possible. He had observed the figures 517 on the man’s cap; and he walked rapidly to station five, which is on East Needham Street. A lieutenant at the desk was talking with a sergeant, and both looked at him curiously.

“A few minutes ago,” Brown apologized, addressing the former, “I had to give Officer 517 a false explanation of why I was standing on Columbia Street. I came in to set it right.”

“On Columbia Street, sir?” The lieutenant took up his pen. “What part of Columbia, please?”

“At the corner of Warrington.”

The sergeant, standing by the desk, leaned forward with perceptible interest.

“And you say you gave the officer a false explanation?” the man at the desk asked.

“Yes — on account of several men who were near-by. I’m an operative of the National Detective Agency; there are my papers. I may have to work in, that vicinity for some time. We have a room there.”

The lieutenant handed back the credentials. “All right, Mr. Brown,” he said, smiling. “Thank you for coming in and explaining. I’ll tell the officer, the next time he reports.”

The detective returned to Warrington Street, but found two of the men still on the corner; and it was after one o’clock before he was able to enter the lodging house. Thompson was waiting for him in a darkened room.

“I think they’re wise to us, Brownie.”

“What on earth do you mean?”

“I mean, they’re all looking up. Every party that’s come out of that joint for the last half hour. They’ve been looking up at the windows on both sides of the street.”

“The devil you say!” exclaimed Brown, in consternation.

Meanwhile, Kendall McArthur was in the midst of a trying experience.

He had met Little Evelyn on Columbia Street; and — not warned by the unusual brightness of her eyes — noticing only her face, which seemed whiter and thinner by comparison, he had urged her to go home. McArthur had not had any experience with “snowflowers.”

For that matter, he had had little with any kind of girls, except for one very brief period following the Armistice in France, when his head had been turned slightly by the honors heaped upon him. He had distrusted all young women, had believed that they were deceitful and treacherous by nature. He could not explain his interest in Little Evelyn — only he knew that it had begun with pity.

The girl would not go home. She wanted more money.

“You promised to loan me another century,” she said.

“But there were conditions,” returned the inventor.

“You said if I’d quit for a week. A week!” she scoffed. “Listen — I can make a century in one night. Loan me a hundred, will you, please? Loan me a half century.”

“M-mm! To make another transaction in dope, I suppose?”

She looked at him, her eyes glittering for an instant. “What do you care what I do with it?

“Take me to the Canton,” she commanded, smiling prettily. “I’m hungry.”

But in the restaurant Evelyn would not behave properly. McArthur had not seen her before in a really dangerous mood.

When Wing Shinn had gone for the order, she leaned toward the inventor, meeting his gaze earnestly.

“Listen,” she advised. “You loan me that money, or you’ll be sorry.”

“I’d loan it to you, Evelyn,” he replied quietly, “if I thought you’d keep your part of the bargain. I think, if you’d quit this business for a week, you might quit forever. But I don’t intend to supply drugs for a hop-joint!”

She was still gazing at him. “Listen,” she repeated, her lips twitching slightly. “Loan me the money.”

McArthur shook his head at the horror of it.

“Well, you kite!” said Little Evelyn, mistaking the gesture for a refusal. “You fiddler! You Bible-stiff! You rotten kite! Let me tell you something! You give me that century, or I’ll go to headquarters and tell them you gave me the other! I’ll tell them you told me to buy coke with it, you sky-pilot! I’ll tell them you started me in the racket!”

He smiled. “Blackmail is too risky a game for you, little girl—”

“Blackmail! You call me a blackmailer — you sky-pilot—”

“Evelyn—” he begged.

People at other tables were watching them in amazement.

“Don’t ‘Evelyn’ me! Don’t speak to me again!” In sudden rage she seized her umbrella and smashed the sugar-bowl in the center of the table. She struck another blow at McArthur’s glass, but he caught the umbrella and took it from her as gently as possible.

“Give me my mother’s umbrella!” she cried, snatching at it.

He blinked. “Your — mother’s—”

“Give me my mother’s umbrella!” screamed Evelyn again.

Some one rose from a near-by table and approached. It was Jimmie Brown’s dark-haired friend.

“Give her the umbrella,” he intoned manfully.

“Silk,” replied the inventor, laughing, “keep away from here before you get creased and torn. I’ll give you the umbrella, Evelyn, when we go outside.”

Her eyes blazed at him. “Keep it then!” she returned, fumbling hastily in her hand bag. “And take this with it!”

He lunged sharply across the table when he caught a glimpse of what she held. The girl cried out in pain as he took something from her. He sat back, a trifle dazed by the realization of what she had tried to do.

“Give me my gun!” Evelyn shouted.

People were gathering from all parts of the cabaret, gaping into the booth.

“Give me my gun, you kite!”

“Give her the gun—” ventured the youth with sleek black hair.

The proprietor pushed through the group — then a big, red-faced policeman. “What’s going on in here?” the latter demanded.

He picked up the weapon, a twenty-two caliber revolver, from the corner of the table.

“Whose gat is this?”

“That man owns it!” accused Silk, pointing at the inventor.

“He pulled it on me!” said Little Evelyn.

“It is lie!” declared Wing Shinn, greatly excited. “Mr. McArt’ don’t have gun! Me see lady bring it out!”

Evelyn grew very white. She did not answer. She began to cry.

The policeman bent his gaze to her. “Don’t you know any better than to pull that kind of stuff in here?” he asked fiercely.

“Second time trouble in my place!” agreed Charlie Sang.

“What’s the idea, Evelyn? Mr. Mac’s your friend—” This was Buddy Remick, whose cab stood outside.

“Well, come on out of this!” snarled the officer, yanking the girl roughly from her chair, and pocketing the revolver. “You’ll hear about this—”

“Let go — you’re hurting me!”

“She’s only a child—” McArthur reminded him.

“Eh? That’s too bad! Get out of here, you hop-head” — he wrenched her arm again — “and stay out of here, from now on!”

“I’ll take her home in the cab,” Remick offered.

They marched her, protesting and still crying, out to the street, while most of the patrons followed in curiosity. In Remick’s cab, Evelyn began pounding upon the window.

“I want my gun! I want my mother’s umbrella!” she sobbed bitterly, as the machine moved away.

The crowd in the doorway of the Canton laughed.

McArthur stood alone on the sidewalk, watching the red cab out of sight. It had not gone in the direction of her home, but toward Harrison’s. Toward the house on Warrington Street, house of death, run by promoters who had promised there would be “protection” if Little Evelyn would “line up with the main mob.”

“Damn them!” said Dizzy McArthur, blinking again, his eyes bright and cold.

Chapter XXXIX For Ten Grand

Arthur Williams’s first intention, after his surprising conversation with Drohan, was to report the matter to Steele and learn whether his employer advised trapping the bootlegger on a charge of illegal gratuity. When he arrived at the office on the following morning, however, he found that the head of the agency was in New York.

Steele returned that evening — which was the night of Dizzy McArthur’s disturbing experience in the Canton — but Williams did not know of his arrival; and two days passed before they met.

During this time, the young man had been thinking. He had been amazed at first — later almost fascinated — by the astonishing fact that Topper Drohan’s mob were willing to pay ten thousand dollars for information as to how Bolton and Marvin had obtained evidence enough for a search warrant.

Nothing more than that. Just the one piece of information. True, Drohan had asked him to learn something else “if he could,” but apparently the one fact would be sufficient to earn the money.

What incalculable profits the promoters and the gang must be making from their activities, if they could afford to give that price for protection from a private agency!

And, after all, were they doing any great harm by operating this house on Warrington Street? If a man wished to gamble, wasn’t it his own business? As for the narcotics rumored to be there — would any one go to the place for drugs except those who were already past saving?

Not that Williams had the slightest thought of accepting the offer. To do so would be false to his employer. But the wasted effort involved in the problem impressed him. A heavy expense, a big risk to lives — all to control a group of men who really weren’t committing serious crimes.

Suppose, for an instant, that he should accept Drohan’s offer.

No — he would not even think of it.

Yet suppose that he should—

What great wrong would it be? It would be dishonest, of course; it would be grafting — but many, many people were grafting. Some evidently regarded it as one of the privileges of their office. In the present case, would his giving Drohan the information he desired have any effect upon Steele’s effort to find the murderer of Wesley Stone?

Williams could not conceive of its having the slightest influence upon that investigation.

It would disrupt Steele’s plans for raiding Harrison’s. But, when one came right down to the truth of it, wouldn’t such a failure really be safer, better for every one concerned? A raid, Drohan had assured him, would result in more fatalities. Perhaps — just perhaps — this was a case where a bribe should be accepted in order that good might come.

Not a bribe. That was such a distasteful word. A favor in return for a favor.

As far as Marvin and Bolton were concerned, it could bring no danger to them. Williams knew that Drohan did not know — that the evidence which they had already obtained was valid for six months. It was not necessary for them to obtain more. The gangsters did not ask to be told where they could find Bolton or Marvin; merely the method by which they had worked.

And, as a matter of fact, neither was in the city. Marvin had been sent back to the headquarters of the agency in New York, where he was regularly in charge; and Bolton, who specialized in scientific matters, had gone to Chicago with Walter Clapp.

Gradually Williams began to think of the effect that the money would have upon his own life. He tried to count the number of years before he could possibly save that much — if, indeed, he ever could. And with it he could have so many things that his wife, Doris, longed to have, could do so many things that she had hoped they might be able to do. For instance, they could buy a big, high-powered car like Fred Marvin’s.

When Williams finally did talk with his employer, he received his instructions without mentioning Drohan’s proposition.

A few days later, while in New York on a special case, he had luncheon with Marvin. They were intimate friends.

“Do you think it likely that the boss will call you in on that Harrison dope and gambling job again?” he ventured casually.

“Oh, I suppose so,” his friend replied. “Bolt and I have the important evidence. I hear we’re going through with it.”

“A ticklish piece of work, I think.”

“You bet it is. Those gangsters are ugly customers. I hope we do finish it, if only for the chance of landing the rotter that shot Stone. Terrible thing, that. A mighty nice chap. I suppose the boss is still using you on the job?”

“Yes. He wants me back there day after to-morrow. But, by the way, that kind of case was a little out of Bolton’s line, wasn’t it? What do you and he know about gambling, anyway?”

“Oh, we didn’t have to know,” laughed Marvin. “All we needed was a little sleight of hand.”

Williams was puzzled. “What do you mean? Did you go inside the house?”

Now, Marvin had strict orders not to talk upon the subject, even to those whom he trusted implicitly.

“You’ve seen the boss perform, haven’t you?” he evaded.

Williams was wise enough not to attempt further inquiry. On the following night he left New York by boat. Almost exactly twenty-four hours later he slipped into a telephone booth in a cigar store, looked around carefully, and called a number.

A woman with a harsh, crackling voice answered.

“Is Mr. Drohan there?” Williams spoke very quietly. She did not hear. “Mr. Drohan?” he repeated.

“Naw — he ain’t in now. What do you want?”

The young man drew a breath, lowering his voice again. “W-well — tell him Williams called. Tell him to meet me tomorrow night. The place we agreed. He’ll understand what you mean.”

Chapter XL A Case of Grippe

For a week following the incident of the umbrella and revolver at the Canton Cabaret, McArthur watched vainly for Little Evelyn. He received no response when he rang the bell at her home; and. although he looked sharply at passing taxicabs and private automobiles, as well as at pedestrians, he did not see her when he walked through the South End at night.

He wished to talk with her, to assure her that he had not intentionally been responsible for her rough treatment at the hands of the policeman. He also wanted to make one more effort to induce her to give up her miserable way of existence, to go away and rest, and to “take the cure” for the drug habit. But, although he watched frequently at night, he did not find her. He hoped that she was not as bitter against him as she had seemed.

His efforts to bring about the raiding and closing of Harrison’s joint on Warrington Street appeared to be as far from success as at the beginning.

He had never seen as much traffic there. People passed in and out, in and out — singly, in pairs, in couples, in groups — all night long, by the front door, evidently without the slightest concern about possible spies in the neighborhood. And to McArthur, this brazen attitude had but one meaning: that Harrison and his associates, for some reason, were sure that their house could not be raided!

As for the matter of spies, there had been a difference of opinion at the National Detective Agency when Thompson and Brown had reported that their room at 135 Warrington Street had been discovered. Malcome Steele apparently had felt that they were jumping at conclusions.

“I cannot agree that the mere fact of the parties glancing upward as they came out is an indication that they knew you had a room in the vicinity,” he had told them. “You state also that they seemed to be looking on both sides of the street. It is quite possible that they were looking to determine the quarter of the moon. Gamblers are unbelievably superstitious.”

“Then — shall we use the room again tonight, sir?” Thompson had asked.

“We shall not,” his employer had answered. And the room had not been occupied since.

There had been one encouraging development — only one. It had involved Officer Harvey of division four, the policeman with glasses whose route ended at Columbia Street, and who had spoken once to McArthur.

Harvey was decidedly unpopular. More than once he had been warned that his “day” was coming, that gangsters had sworn to “get” him. One night, while standing at his corner on the north side of Columbia Street, he had observed three men acting suspiciously in a doorway across the street. He flashed his light upon them, and walked rapidly over to investigate.

The men had every appearance of toughs. They did not retreat as he approached. It was not an inviting situation for Harvey. But he was a conscientious man, as well as courageous, and he walked straight up to the group.

“What are you men doing in this doorway?”

The three continued to look at him. One, the tallest, spoke:

“Aren’t you a little outside of your district, officer?”

Harvey returned his glance sharply. “That’s my affair,” he stated. “Now, you fellows get a move on and keep going.”

Then all at once he caught his breath in recognition. “Oh,” he said. “It’s Mr. — Mr. Steele, isn’t it?”

The tall man nodded. He was disreputably dressed. “I hope you’ll pardon my remark, Mr. Harvey. I was surprised at seeing an officer go outside of his division under such circumstances.”

“Well, it’s plainly my duty,” defended the other.

“Oh, yes. I know it is. But now, if you should hear a disturbance some night in that alley” — he pointed a few yards farther down the street — “would you consider it your duty to investigate that also?”

“I certainly would, sir,” replied the policeman, looking him in the eye, “unless there was a man from station five already doing so — and even so I’d probably join him.”

“Good,” replied Steele, shaking hands with him and glancing at his watch. “I’m glad to have met you again, Mr. Harvey.”

The investigator had explained to McArthur wherein this conversation was encouraging, but the latter could not see that there was real cause for hope. Of what use was it, he reasoned, when the difficulties connected with obtaining a new search warrant and serving it were still insurmountable?

It seemed definitely proved that a warrant could not be sworn without Harrison’s being immediately informed about it. He had too many friends. Precisely who had been guilty of sending this information, neither Steele nor McArthur knew. Both had heard that Charlie Wilton, a clerk of the court, was to blame.

Steele had made a tactical error in telling Wallis Sawtell of his plan to “eliminate Wilton,” and he now admitted it frankly. He had made the suggestion to Sawtell in order to observe its exact effect upon him, not realizing that he might desire to put the scheme into actual use afterward.

Another disappointment had come when Steele had appealed to the Commissioner of Public Safety, asking him to order action from the State police. The commissioner had explained that the State officers never interfered with matters in the city, their work being confined to smaller communities where the local police were not equipped to deal with existing conditions.

In Dizzy McArthur’s eyes, the prospect had never appeared so hopeless. He was afraid that it was only a question of time before Steele would decide that the case could not be completed, and would give up the matter, leaving him the forlorn chance of finding other detectives whom he could trust.

But the inventor did not for an instant consider abandoning his purpose. In his experience he had found that it is sometimes out of the darkest situation that the puck bobs free at one’s feet.

On Wednesday afternoon — the Wednesday following the inventor’s last meeting with Evelyn — Clerk Charles Wilton of the central court went home complaining of chills. The next morning he was ill with grippe, and a substitute took his place at the courthouse.

McArthur was called at once to Steele’s office.

“Are you going to try it?” he asked, when he heard the news.

“Not immediately,” replied the head of the agency. “But we should be ready to act at an hour’s notice. I hear that Mr. Wilton cannot be expected back for at least a week, but one never knows.”

“You’ve made up your mind positively that he’s the guilty one, then?”

“No, I haven’t,” said Steele, in his expressionless manner. “But one fact is certain: he cannot be blamed for it while he is ill at home.”

He sent a telegram to New York for Marvin, and another to Chicago for Bolton.

Chapter XLI Williams Keeps a Date

Topper Drohan was in a strange and savage humor. He had threatened two of his friends when they had invited him to supper at the Canton, and he had knocked down his landlady because a leaking gutter had spoiled his ceiling. These actions were so unlike Drohan’s usual manner that his associates were deeply puzzled. They were much concerned, too, for the bootlegger had a transaction of the gravest importance to complete.

John Castle and his brother, Ed. both argued with him, telling him that he must be “feelin’ tough,” and that it would be wiser to let some one else keep the appointment and obtain the promised “info.” Drohan retorted angrily that he had made the bargain possible, and that he was “going to handle it,” or there would be strained relations between his forces and the Castle gang.

Neither John Castle nor Ed could afford that. The bootlegger brought his sedan out, giving vent to foul and ferocious language when he heard the rattling, labored sound of the motor.

“She’s dry, Topper.” one of the gangsters offered, solicitously.

“All right! I’ll get more oil.”

“It’s the radiator,” John Castle ventured, picking up a can.

Drohan rocked him with an uppercut, almost knocking him off his feet.

“Get t’ hell out o’ here!” he commanded glaring.

He got into the car and started in the direction of Columbia Street. He knew that he was late, and he drove recklessly. Halfway to his destination, his machine side-swiped a small touring car, but he continued without stopping. There was big money upon his person, and it wouldn’t pay to take chances. At Dover Street he narrowly avoided running down a woman and a child.

It was ten minutes after the appointed hour when he pulled sharply to the curb in front of Conlon’s pool room. A young man wearing a cap and a light gray overcoat was standing in the doorway. He recognized Drohan at once and came forward.

“I don’t want to get in here,” Arthur Williams said nervously. “Some one might see me. Drive up to Albion Avenue and Danforth, and I’ll take a cab up.”

“All right, make it snappy,” returned the other.

The detective signaled a taxicab, wondering at the peculiar way that Drohan had stared at him. He rode to the designated corner, and found the bootlegger waiting there.

Drohan flung open the door. “Well — have you got the dope? Got the info? Got it straight?”

“Yes; I’ve got it,” Williams replied, instinctively glancing around the square. “But we mustn’t sit here and talk. Drive out of town a little distance.”

The bootlegger slipped in his clutch and turned up the avenue.

“You say you’ve got it?” His voice was eager and tense.

“Yes. But what about the cash?”

“Don’t worry. I’ve got the cash right on me.”

“You’ve got ten thousand here?”

“Sure. Ten grand is nothing.”

Williams sniffed. “What’s burning?”

“It’s this damned motor,” explained the other.

“I thought so. Better be careful or you’ll burn a bearing.”

“Aw, to hell wit’ it! Now, we ain’t got no time to lose, Artie. Might as well get busy and spill the works.”

“Oh, but how about the money first?”

“Nothing doing.”

The detective looked at him. There was something in Drohan’s manner which made him a trifle uneasy.

“Well, what about half first and the other half after I talk?”

“How do I know you’ve got any info at all?” the bootlegger countered.

This was a delicate point for Williams. He wasn’t sure that he had enough to satisfy the other.

“I can tell you what you wanted to know,” he assured him. “I can tell you how Bolton and Marvin got their evidence.”

Drohan appeared thoughtful, and they rode in silence for a minute.

Albion Avenue runs far out into the suburbs, but at this time a section was closed for repair. It was barricaded, and a sign pointed to the left. Drohan made the turn, but found himself on a dark street leading past the Meganset bridge. He stopped, turned the car, and crossed to the opposite side of the avenue. Here, owing to the melting snow from the hill, the street was flooded. He turned again, quite hastily, and drove back the way they had come.

He looked behind twice; and suddenly Williams understood the strange expression in his eyes. It was fear that he saw there, unmistakably. But fear of whom? Of what?

The detective began to notice a high, thin rattling from the motor. The burning smell was stronger than before.

“We’d better stop,” he cautioned. “You’ll start a bearing.”

There was a small service station on the right. Drohan turned in. applying his brakes. An attendant in uniform came out.

“Oil,” said the bootlegger.

“Oil? Yes, sir. How much, please?”

“I don’t know. It’ll take plenty, I guess.”

The attendant raised the hood and investigated.

“No, sir; it’s full of oil. Must be the radiator—”

“Never mind the radiator! Give me another quart of oil.”

The man looked at him doubtfully. “It’s full already—”

“Well, then, put in a quart of extra heavy.”

In an uncertain manner, the attendant obeyed. He took up a can from beside the gasoline pump. “I think your trouble is in the radiator, sir—”

“Get out o’ here, you stiff!” roared Drohan. “Here’s your money. I said I wanted oil, not advice!”

He drove on, and left the man gaping.

“Now, Artie, we ain’t got all night,” the bootlegger urged again. “Come on — spill the works. What you got?”

“No — I want half of the money first.”

“Oh, all right, all right! Have it your way!” And once more Drohan put on his brakes.

The avenue was nearly deserted. Taking a thick roll from an inside pocket, he counted off fifty new hundred-dollar bills, while the detective watched closely.

“There you are — take it. And now come across, or you won’t get the rest.” Williams thrust the money out of sight.

“What I know is this,” he stated rapidly. “Bolton and Marvin, our men, got the evidence against Harrison’s by doing some sleight of hand, some magic. Something the boss taught them—”

“Ye small gods!” ejaculated Drohan.

“Why — does that help you?”

“Does it help me!” shouted the other, staring at him in the light from the dashboard.

“Ssh!”

“Well — that doll-faced spalpeen!” the bootlegger cried. “The dirty, double crossing stool pigeon!”

“Who? Bolton?”

“Not... not Bolton! Not Marvin! The rotten, smooth, sky-piloting kite! By God, they’ll cut his heart out!”

Williams shuddered. A twinge of remorse gripped him. Had Drohan deceived him about his intentions, after all?

“See here — you promised not to harm either of those fellows!”

“Harm them? Hell! It ain’t them—”

“Well, you’d better not harm any one, Topper. The boss has been told you know a lot about Stone’s death.”

“Told I know a lot?” Drohan gasped. “Say — I wasn’t even there! Where does he get that stuff? Well — by the sweet saints! That rotten stool pigeon again!”

He broke off, choking. The motor was still running, and the car was filled with fumes of burning oil.

“You’d better see that there isn’t any violence, Drohan, or—”

“Yeah — or what? What’ll you do, with five grand in your vest?”

“What about the other five, then?”

“Try and get it! Five grand is plenty for queering that dirty snitch! Give me more info later and you’ll get the rest.”

He started the car again, laughing in a devilish way.

Williams considered swiftly. He was bitterly disappointed. He thought for an instant of taking the other half of the money by force. But he abandoned it as too dangerous. The bootlegger was undoubtedly armed.

A complete loathing of himself, of what he had just done, rushed over the youth. It had made a wretch of him, a coward.

Gradually he became aware of a pattering overhead. The sound grew louder.

“Oh, my God!” screamed Drohan, in terror.

With a sob, he stopped the car once again, and flung himself toward the back of his seat, clutching at it convulsively.

Amazed, Williams drew out his flash light and turned it upon the other’s face. He recoiled in horror.

Chapter XLII What Drohan Feared

Patrolman Barnes, of division ten, was on his way to pull a box on Albion Avenue when he saw a sedan stop suddenly in the middle of the street. He was hurrying, for it had begun to rain heavily, and at first he took little notice of the car. Presently, however, he saw the interior illumined as if by a flash light; and a man wearing a cap and a light gray overcoat stumbled out. The man looked around wildly for a moment.

He caught sight of Officer Barnes, and approached, running. His face was white.

“Good heavens, officer — get a doctor! The... the man in that car—”

Without waiting for further explanation, the policeman hurried to the machine. He found a man in a state of collapse in the driver’s seat, apparently suffering from convulsions. A passing automobile stopped at his signal; but it seemed inadvisable to convey the sufferer in a private car, and Barnes sent word to the station for a police ambulance.

Returning to the scene in haste, intending to question the young man in the gray overcoat about the circumstances, the officer could not find him. Other machines had stopped, and curious people stood in the downpour looking at the sedan, but the man he sought was not among them.

As soon as the ambulance arrived, the stricken motorist was lifted gently inside, and was rushed to the city hospital, leaving the spectators wondering what had happened.

At the hospital, the sufferer was identified as Charles F. Drohan, who resided in the South End; and the officials were mystified upon discovering five thousand dollars in new currency upon his person. He was still in a semi-conscious condition, and physicians of the hospital conferred to determine the nature of his illness.

Topper Drohan knew nothing of this. He scarcely realized that he had been taken from the car. His mind was filled with fantasies of a most terrible kind.

At times he thought that he was adrift upon a river, a swift river which swirled around him, dragging him inexorably along. At other times he believed that he was imprisoned at the foot of a precipice, over which hideous streams of water were pouring in silver cascades — tumbling and gurgling around him, while he fought in mad frenzy to escape. And there were other moments at which he realized the futility of struggling — for all about him was a deep, cold pond, horribly dark and still.

Through it all, in the midst of the swirl of water, he could see Arthur Williams’s face, startled, questioning, always at hand. In vain he tried to drive it away.

“Damn you — you’ve got enough, haven’t you? Five grand is plenty for queering that dirty snitch!”

The haunting face did not leave him.

“What’ll you do,” Drohan challenged again, “with five grand in your vest? That doll-faced spalpeen! The dirty, double crossing stool pigeon! Playin’ the good fellow with me an’ Evelyn — then bringin’ them ferrets down there to do their stuff! We’ll show him some sleight of hand! We’ll cut his heart out!

“Not Bolton! Not Marvin! Four-Ace Mac, the rotten, sky-piloting kite!

“Steele says I know who bumped Stone, does he? Say, Artie — where does he get that stuff? I wasn’t even there!”

But Williams never answered.

“Damn you, Artie, ain’t you got enough? Get out o’ here!”

Not until the very end did Drohan realize that Williams’s face and the tumbling water were all of his fancy. When the tumult of the rivers had begun to drift away, he became aware of other things. A room, a window, a bed, a woman in white. A doctor with gray hair who sat beside his bed and gazed at him with grave, quiet interest. A table with a white cover, with strange instruments, small bottles, a glass of water—

With a shriek of dread, he turned his face away.

After a time his struggles became less revolting, his outbursts of delirium less frequent and prolonged. And finally the nurse arose and composed his arms; and with the physicians in attendance she quietly left the room.

“Doctor,” she ventured to the man with gray hair, “while you were out a few hours ago, he made some strange remarks, some of them quite lucid, which he kept repeating. It occurred to me that they might have to do with criminal matters, as in the Forbes case.”

“Yes?” he returned absently, as he made a notation at his desk.

“I had some of them taken down,” she added. “We couldn’t get all of them, but there was something in reference to the money they found.”

He nodded. “That was very thoughtful of you,” he commended.

“And, doctor, shall I have the paper sent to the police this forenoon?”

“The — er — paper?”

“The paper with the remarks which were taken down.”

“Oh, yes, yes,” he said uncertainly. He was not quite sure of the exact procedure in such cases.

“Er — to the district attorney, I think,” he added, reaching for his coat and hat.