Adventure stories; Detective and mystery stories; Missing persons -- Fiction; New York (N.Y.) -- Fiction
I stowed away the two diverse weapons which the Chief had sent me, in
my pockets where I could lay my hands on them. Then I went to bed. And
I only remember my head hitting the pillow, for I was dog-tired.
Besides, I was a good deal relieved to have reënforcements present and
on the way. I had already realized, in a vague way, that the thing I
was up against must be pretty huge and pretty cleverly organized. It
was no sort of a proposition for one man to tackle.
Pride woke me the next morning. He had a paper with him, and he sat
commenting drolly on the news of the day, while I bathed and ordered
my breakfast. My face and hands were pretty sore that morning and I
was not very good-tempered, but Pride did not seem to mind that. And
presently my own temper improved.
I interrupted his soliloquy finally. “Look here, can’t we get hold of
Captain Peters or somebody and have this charge against me quashed?” I
demanded. “How can I get out and do anything in these duds and with
the police looking for me?”
He shook his head. “Can’t be done, Clayton. You see, if we exercise
pressure and have you cleared, the police force are bound to know
about it. We know that some of the officers at least are hand in glove
with this gang, though we don’t know which ones. And then they’d know
at once—the gang, I mean—that you were either part of the Secret
Service or under its protection.
“Then you’d be a worse marked man than you are now. You couldn’t do a
thing then. For we know that they have organized an intelligence
service that’s damned near as good as our own. They know every move we
make almost as soon as we make it. We’ve had ample proof of that,
though they don’t know the details of course. The Chief has his
suspicions as to the leak in the Department and I don’t believe it
will last much longer. But until it stops, clearing you through the
Secret Service would be just about the same as signing your
death-warrant, unless you went right away and gave the case up
entirely, and we don’t want you to do that.”
“All right,” I answered, making a wry face. “I’ll be hunter and hunted
at the same time for a while longer then.”
There was a little pause. “By the way, Clayton, have you called up
your man this morning?”
“No, by Jove, I haven’t. Why?”
“Well, this is a so-called afternoon paper, although it’s only about
eleven o’clock now. But I’m surprised they haven’t any news in it of
the return of the girl you rescued.”
I stared at him. “Why should they?”
“Well, let’s call him up anyway, shall we? I want to meet him.”
His words made me vaguely anxious, and I dressed quickly and went
downstairs to the ’phone. I called Larry’s house and asked to speak to
Tom O’Dowd. Evidently it was his landlady at the other end, for the
answer was short and to the point. “He’s not here—and he ain’t been
here sence yestiddy. Nice goings on fer a respectible house!”
“Do you mean to say he didn’t come home last night?” I shouted.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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