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:
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.