Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 1, September 17, 1927
- Автор: Valentine, Corley H. W.
- Год: 1927
- Язык: английский
- Год: The Red Star News Company
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 1, September 17, 1927». Краткое содержание книги:
“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.