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:
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.”