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:
“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.