：： | ___----------- ſae ******~*~*=~~~==+）（-）, „ , ·：： -- *-*== ==+==~：：~~=++~~~~）. : & 2 3 A/6 = *// A DAGGER in the DARK A DAGGER ſm f/he DARK by WALTER F. EBERHARDT NEW YORK 1932 WILLIAM MORROW & COMPANY COPYRIGHT - - - 1932 By Walter F. EberHArdt PRINTED in the u. s. A. ev cuinn & BoDEN company. Inc RAHway. N. J. z. A. 22, 7 z < f" zº e < *s ºr 7 A DAGGER IN THE DARK 107 They were swerving in and out under the elevated pillars as Clague flashed her a quick look of admira- tion. “You’ve recovered all right, haven't you?” “Meaning up there?” “Yes.” “That was different. I’d never been up against anything like that before. Did you know Pantigras has false teeth? They click when he gets excited. And you’ve never had him try to kiss you.” “Not yet, sweetheart,” Clague said fervently. “I think he must live on muskrats,” she added. Her anger had died as quickly as it had arisen. So had Clague's admiration. “Just the same, you’ll talk when we get home,” he reminded. “I won’t and you can’t make me,” she retorted. A traffic light held them up at 145th Street. Then they crossed over the viaduct, dodged the ar- ray of oncoming headlights and swung to the right around Grant's tomb. As the silhouetted outlines of the Soldier's Monument rose above and before them, Clague asked: “Want to talk any more?” She replied earnestly, “If I haven’t convinced you by this time that there's nothing I can or will say it’s useless for me to try any further.” They swung off Eleventh Avenue at Fifty-seventh Street. There was a policeman standing at the corner of Tenth Avenue as they made a right turn. Clague said: “Want to call him?” 108 A DAGGER IN THE DARK “You’re not fooling me,” she said. “You don’t want him any more than I do.” “Brave girl,” Clague mocked. But his thoughts were grim. He had little taste for the job ahead of him. Somewhere in the distance a clock struck. Clague's watch was slow for it still lacked five min- utes of one when he pulled up in front of his house and shut off the engine. The girl offered no objection as Clague waved her ahead of him up the three steps. He fitted the key in the lock and threw the door open. “Won't you stay a few minutes?” he asked. “This time by invitation? I might.” CHAPTER X ASPER came slipping down the stairs in his white service jacket. - “Any callers?” Clague asked. “The doorbell rang several times this evening.” “Who was it?” “I don’t know, sir. I didn’t let them in.” He turned and bent to make certain the door was shut tightly. As he stooped Clague saw an anto- matic protruding from a rear hip pocket. He gave Jasper the ignition key. “Telephone the garage to send a man around for the car,” he ordered. He was inside the living room before he was aware that his guest was still marooned in the hallway. “Come in and make yourself comfortable,” he called. - She entered slowly, tossing her hat on the couch as she came near him. Her hair glowed in the light; her eyes were softened. Automatically Clague's arms closed around her. He crushed her to him and his lips pressed against hers. Her hands slipped from his shoulder and circled his neck, drawing his head down. They stood so for a min- ute, until Clague unclasped her fingers and released himself. “Take off your coat?” he asked. She hesitated. 109 110 A DAGGER IN THE DARK “Let me wait a minute. I'm . . . still out of breath.” “How about a highball?” “No . . . yes. A stiff one.” “Scotch or rye?” “Rye . . . if you know its parents.” “Gingerale or White Rock?” “The last.” Clague called to Jasper to bring ice and White Rock. With her coat still on the girl continued to stroll aimlessly about the room. She stopped in front of the piano and toyed with the keys. “Play?” Clague asked. “Yes. Do you?” “Chop sticks. The funny part of it is I really like good music. It rests me more than . . . than anything else I know of.” Jasper appeared carrying a tray. Clague opened a wall cabinet, inspected three bottles and finally selected a half empty container of Golden Wedding. He poured the drinks, and carried them over to the piano. “Here's yours,” he said, “with White Rock.” “To crime?” she asked as she raised it to her lips. “To our better understanding,” Clague replied. They drank, their eyes clashing in anticipation of the duel ahead. Under other circumstances Clague might have regretted the wheedling and bullying that lay before him. This girl, however, promised to be a worthy opponent and the necessity 112 A DAGGER IN THE DARK She shuddered in silence. “Bernard,” she pleaded. “You’ll talk,” he replied. “Who gives you your orders?” “That I don’t know.” Clague unfastened his tie and loosened the collar button. “I’ve got the whole night and Jasper will serve breakfast, lunch and any other meal that's neces- sary till we get down to cases.” “I tell you I don’t know.” “You’re dumb?” - “Sometimes.” Instinct was too strong and she smiled mockingly. “Too dumb to know why those pearls are valu- able?” “Why not ask Pantigras?” she replied sweetly. Clague tried another tack. “How long have you been on this racket?” There was no answer. “Want me to look up your Park Avenue lease?” Miss O'Malley chortled delightedly. “But I haven’t any. You see my grandmother—” Clague was getting angry. To cover it he rose, took off his coat and vest and laid them across the piano top. Then he remembered his automatic. He removed it from the coat pocket, put it in the wall cabinet and locked the cabinet. “Take your own time,” he said. She raised pensive eyes. They were very close to Clague's. A DAGGER IN THE DARK 113 “Must you?” she asked. “Not this time,” Clague replied brusquely. “That won’t get you anything.” For the second time that evening she snapped at him: “Oh, go to hell.” In reply Clague sat her down on the couch so hard she bounced. Then he sat next to her. “Now, let's start at the beginning,” he said. “You’re sitting in your luxurious Park Avenue apartment. You've just had your morning bath and breakfast. You've made up your mind you’ll motor in the country and have tea at the Ritz. But you can’t. You get an order instead. By the way, how do you get that order?” The girl sat mum. Clague went on. “Let’s say it comes by telephone. How do you know who it is?” He glanced at her but her face was expressionless. “A name? A password? Or do you recognize the voice?” She rose from the lounge. “Must we go into this now, Bernard?” “Now, darling, or any time you choose. But you’ll stay here till we do.” “Wait.” She crossed to the piano and sat down. Clague, who knew good music, listened with growing amaze- ment as she played the opening bars of a Chopin “Nocturne.” Suddenly he saw this girl's one real passion in life, a love of fine music. All the sadness and mockery were gone from her face. 114 A DAGGER IN THE DARK Her slim fingers moved with compelling certainty. She played intently, with the ardor of a born artist, oblivious to everything else around her. When, after five minutes, she had finished, Clague broke into involuntary praise. “Some more?” she asked. Clague looked at his watch, then said, “Please.” “‘Moonlight Sonata’?” she asked, but she added quickly, “It’s too long. I don’t know it all, any- way.” Her fingers moved unfalteringly and the notes that sounded were the sonorous tones of a church organ, the opening bars of Grieg's “Buona Notte.” Then the music quickened to the lighter, livelier pealing of many chimes in harmony, first in lower octaves, then higher, and finally descending again. She was playing the last phrases, a reversion to the pedantic organ chords, when the interruption out- side began. At first it seemed almost an echo of the organ chords. Then the barking sounds grew sharper and the difference too alarming to be over- looked. The piano stopped playing. The crescendo outside continued a few seconds longer. Clague was on his feet with the first realization of what the disturbance meant. It was going on right in front of the door. He raced for the win- dows as the girl, frightened, backed against the wall. A motor roared into action as a car raced away. It was out of sight by the time Clague peered through the front window curtains and it had rounded the corner before he could open the door and look out. A DAGGER IN THE DARK 115 An inanimate form lay huddled on the steps under the vestibule light. Clague, accustomed to death in all forms, recognized it in the stiff, unnatural posi- tion of the body. The knees were doubled up so that they almost touched the chin and one arm was thrust out from under the body at a distorted angle. Clague moved fast, knowing the police would be on the spot soon. He straightened out the inert form. The clothing was of good quality and clean, except for the dirt it had accumulated dragging over the pavement. The victim was a gray haired man past middle age. His face was serene and delicately modeled. The open eyes were blue and mild. Clague became aware of a motion at his side and saw a pajama-clad Jasper standing there. The man looked down at the unheeding face and gasped. “Th-that's him,” he stammered, panicky. “Who?” “The man I gagged . . . and changed places with.” - Clague rushed inside, dragging Jasper along. Lila O'Malley had already put on her coat. Clague grabbed her arm and dragged her into the hall. “Take her downstairs and out the back way,” he told Jasper. To the girl he said: “There's an alley in the middle of the block that goes into the Ave- nue.” They needed no urging. Clague watched them disappear around the head of the steps before he returned to the doorway. Heavy footsteps were 116 A DAGGER IN THE DARK pounding along the pavement. He was bent over the body when the officer came up. The policeman's first move was to cover Clague, but he pocketed his gun when Clague drew himself erect. Clague told the story as he knew it, omitting, only, all reference to Lila O'Malley. As he was speaking Jasper reappeared in the doorway. “My man,” Clague explained. “He had gone to bed and I was sitting alone in the parlor when the shooting started. Some poor devil who was taken for a ride, butchered and dumped out here.” Small groups of late stragglers had gathered in front of the building and were staring pop-eyed. One or two whispered in hushed voices. A coupé driven by a man in evening clothes came to a stop and a none too sober woman companion screamed: “My God, he's been killed.” “G'wan. On your way,” the cop ordered. The car stalled, then slid away. The spectators drew off in a widening semi-circle. Many stayed to watch at a distance. The policeman bent over the dead body. Then he said what Clague already knew. “He may have been dumped out here but he's been stiff more than an hour. And if so what was all the shooting for?” Clague kept silent. There were several answers in his mind but none that he wanted to put into words. The officer's flashlight gave character to the dead face and made him draw back, startled. “Holy Moses! It's Gentleman Jeff!” A DAGGER IN THE DARK 117 Jasper's lip trembled. Clague shot him a quick, unspoken warning to silence. Gentleman Jeff had been a power in the prohibi- tion racket right after the war. Clague had heard of him often without ever having met him. Report had it that Gentleman Jeff had retired more than five years ago. “Pretty old to be mixed up in this, wasn't he?” Clague asked. “Sixty if I'm a day,” the cop replied. “Maybe he was trying a comeback. Even the best of them are suckers when they leave their racket. Where's your telephone?” “I’ll show you.” Clague led the way inside after ordering Jasper to keep everyone off the steps. The telephone was on the baby grand. While the policeman leaned over the piano to call the pre- cinct station, Clague took advantage of his turned back to clear one of the glasses out of sight. He emptied the ashtrays, dumping the red-tipped ciga- rette stubs into the waste basket. He looked around for forgotten compacts and lip sticks without find- ing any. Then he remembered his coat and vest on the piano and put them on. The officer hung up with a grunt. “They’ll be here soon,” he said. An idea struck him. “Say,” he demanded, “was that stiff dumped in front of your house on purpose or did it just hap- pen that way?” Clague shrugged his shoulders questioningly. 33 CHAPTER XI T was four in the morning, half an hour after Clague's place had been cleared of the corpse and several detectives. Clague sat on one side of a mahogany desk and leveled his Colt .38 at the Gargantuan figure on the other side. The man grunted. “Yuh got your nerve,” he said, “sticking me up in my own place.” But he sat down and kept his hands on the table. He was a mountain of a man. His evening clothes merely accentuated the brutality of his huge, square head. Under bushy brows his close-set eyes squinted, almost lost in the wads of flesh that were his cheeks. When he spoke, his whole face pushed itself at one. Clague tossed aside the automatic he had just removed from the giant's pocket. “I don’t want you to go off half-cocked until you’ve heard all my story,” he said patiently. Outside dawn must be tingeing the sky. Clague was nervous and irritable. The detectives had dick- ered around his house interminably, trying to con- nect him with the crime. When they couldn’t do that, they had wanted Clague to explain offhand why the corpse should have been thrown at his door- step. - 118 A DAGGER IN THE DARK 119 When they had finally gone, Clague had hurried to an apartment house on Fifth Avenue. He had given his name and demanded to see John Bree. He was with Bree now in a room about fifteen feet square whose cream-colored walls were wholly un- adorned. He waited until the Boss had resigned himself to a comfortable acceptance of the situation. Then he said quietly: “Gentleman Jeff was bumped off early this morn- ing.” As far as his listener's face indicated the news might have been meaningless. Clague want on: “His body was dumped in front of my house. I didn’t know about it till then. I’d never seen him till then.” Bree kept his hands on the table but his face shook with silent laughter. “An' yu're rushing to tell me.” Clague realized his words were being misunder- stood. “I’m not rushing, at least not the way you mean it,” he said, “but I’ve got enough trouble of my own without begging for more.” Bree shook his head disparagingly. “Listen,” he reassured, “Gentleman Jeff ain’t meant a thing to me. Not since the day he retired, five years ago.” “But . . . you succeeded him . . . he gave you his business . . . did a lot . . . I thought . . .” “Say!” The boss thumped a paw and the table 120 A DAGGER IN THE DARK shook. “Everything Gentleman Jeff done for me I’ve paid back. For five years he's been getting a swell cut without a lick of work, or risk. Nothing- Ain't that square? I ask you?” Clague got up but his gun was still pointing. “That's up to you,” he replied, “but I'm not in it and I don’t want to be. I’ll admit I was worried a while, having him parked with me. But he'd been killed an hour before that. That's a matter of record in the Medical Examiner's books. And I had no part of it.” Bree's expression suddenly changed. The laugh- ter died. His eyes became thoughtful. “That's straight—about him having been dead an hour?” “On the level.” Clague pocketed his gun. Bree said, “I believe yuh.” Then he raised his head and shouted, “It’s all right, Mike. You can beat it.” From above a voice called, “O. K., Boss.” Clague's eyes turned in the direction of the voice. A small piece of wall, close to the ceiling and above the entrance door, had suddenly opened up. Behind the opening the nozzle of a machine gun pointed ominously. From that elevation it could rake every square foot of the room. Bree was chuckling to himself when Clague turned back. “Not as smart as you thought, eh?” he triumphed. “I had you covered all the time.” Clague forced a smile. “You’re protected, but—” A DAGGER IN THE DARK 121 “No but to it,” Bree answered. “This room is sound proof, specially treated. That little oper- ator's booth upstairs was built by my own men after I moved in. The people that run this place have been told I’m a dealer in antiques.” His chuckle became dominant once more. “If they think different now they’ve never let on to me. They understand I sometimes get heavy shipments in my business. One of the clauses of my lease is that, whenever I need it, I’m to have the private use of one of the service elevators. Get the idea?” Clague asked, “Why tell me?” “What's the harm?” Bree answered. Clague turned to go but Bree grabbed his arm. “Sit down,” he said. “We ain’t started talking yet.” When Clague was seated Bree resumed his chair at the opposite side of the table. The fact that Clague was armed, that his own automatic lay on a lounge seemed inconsequential to him. “You had me wondering, hotfooting up here,” he began. “I guess it was sense at that. I’d have thought worse later if I’d heard about the body being at your door.” His tone suddenly became serious, almost somber. “I lied to you, kid, about Jeff,” he went on. “He was all in the world to me. He yanked me from the gutter as a tramping punk and put me in his home. When he got ready to quit, he turned every damned thing he had right over to me.” With grotesque disregard for sentiment he asked 122 A DAGGER IN THE DARK abruptly: “Know what I'm cleaning up every year?” When Clague refused to guess he answered him- self: “Six figures and yuh can make the first one high.” Clague asked, “Was Jeff missing?” “I’ve been half crazy for three days,” Bree an- swered. “I hadn’t been seeing the old boy much of late. Rush of business. Then the first thing I knew he'd disappeared. He'd been gone three days before his damfool housekeeper thought of letting me know. We found a note in his place demanding fifty grand. Jeff wouldn’t have taken no notice of nothing like that. I arranged to turn the dough over. All I wanted was the old boy back. I'd take my chances of catching the dough again later.” “What happened?” Clague asked. The end of Bree's flat, bulbous nose quivered. “I don’t know,” he replied. “I’ve been sitting here three days expecting Jeff to show up or call. When he didn’t do it right off I gave orders to spot the city. It's too big, though, to cover on short notice.” “They welched?” Clague questioned. Again Bree answered, “I don't know. I told their messenger I’d cut their hearts out if he wasn’t free a minute after they got the money. I even had a man tail the messenger but he bungled. He won’t do it again. “Maybe they got wise he was being tailed and be- came panicky. Maybe they quarreled. Maybe they took my words too serious. And when they failed to let Jeff go right away it was like holding dyna- A DAGGER IN THE DARK 123 mite. They didn’t dare hang on. They didn’t dare let go. They solved it this way. Perhaps if I’d kept my can shut—” His mammoth head dropped. Then, without warning, his cheeks swelled and he exploded: “Dirty, double-crossing, two-timing criminals. Blackmailing, holding guys for ransom and that stuff. I wouldn’t touch their racket. You’ve heard of them?” “There’s been some loose talk,” Clague answered. “Know them? Their names? Their hangout?” “No.” “I’ll find out.” The momentary explosion was over. Again the boss became, like Clague, a big man who swung into action without seeming to put on extra steam. “You’re in on it, or they wouldn’t have delivered at your door,” he summarized quickly. “What's your chief interest these days?” “Pearls,” Clague answered frankly. “Pantigras' Samurai string?” “Yes,” Clague replied, wondering. Bree's face contracted. “Them illegal rackets allus bring trouble. Liquor's my business. I stick to it.” He reverted to the pearls. “Pantigras' are saf- fron, sixty and beautifully matched. They’re the Nautilius pompilius you’ll find at their best in the Sulu Archipelago. Out there the natives think yel- low pearls bad luck; but you can’t tell the rulers that cephalopodous like them’ll blind you. Old 124 A DAGGER IN THE DARK Sultan Buderoodius had some—stole 'em, I guess. He used 'em to pay his way to Mecca.” His coarse cheeks wrinkled in the grin of a de- lighted schoolboy. “Didn't know I worked five years for a manu- facturing jeweler, did yuh?” he chuckled. “The boss fired me 'cos I wouldn’t be sap enough to meet a steamship steward smuggling in a batch of ice for him. They’re both seeing Atlanta now, but not much of it.” His voice suddenly sharpened to business. “Yellow pearls don’t mean so much cash, here, though. And Pantigras' string can’t measure up to the caliber this gang's been setting for itself.” “You can’t tell Pantigras that,” Clague retorted. “He thinks a lot of them?” “Just listen to him yelp for them.” “Does he?” “Twenty-four hours a day, every day.” “What’s his rush?” “Says he promised them as a present.” “Who’s the skirt?” “His wife.” “Yeah?” Bree smirked. “When’d he tell you that?” “Tonight, rather last night was the latest. He's been telling me every day.” “You don’t read out of town papers, do you?” He answered Clague's questioning stare by pressing a service bell. To the servant who appeared Bree said: “Bring me yesterday's Montreal papers.” To A DAGGER IN THE DARK 125 Clague he explained: “We got to keep posted on foreign news in my business.” When the man had brought the papers and retired again, Bree opened the paper to the shipping news. He pointed to the departures on the Empress of Britain. Listed there Clague read: “Mme. Georges Pantigras.” “Funny how these red hot playboys always think of their absent missus,” Bree grinned sardonically. Clague's pupils contracted to pinpoints. “Panti- gras also told me the pearls were stolen from his coat pocket,” he said. “But he couldn’t tell me whether they were in a box or wrapped in paper at the time.” “And you believe him?” “He lied about one thing,” Clague said. “The chances are he's lying about this.” Bree wagged a bloated, jeweled index finger. “Unless you like being made a monkey of,” he warned, “kid, that guy's wrong. I wouldn't say he's crooked. But he ain’t come clean with you and if he can’t do that with the man he hires to help him, you can be sure something's all wet.” “You’re telling me?” Clague asked. “Shut up,” Bree replied. “I’m thinking.” He buried his burly head in two enveloping paws. After a few moment's silence he looked up and said: “I wouldn’t bother with them damned trinkets except for Jeff. The moment the two separate, we do. But I got a hunch they’re going to work out to- gether. Hadn't you better tell me all you know?” 126 A DAGGER IN THE DARK Clague, amazed by the personality of the man, de- cided to throw in his lot with him. He told his story with reservations. He sketched the girl in very hazily and he omitted all reference to Jasper's cap- ture and escape. When he had finished Bree sat in abstracted meditation. His enormous fingers toyed with a paper cutter. The gleam from diamond studs and ring settings sparkled in Clague's eyes. Finally Bree reached in the cabinet under the table and pulled out a bottle and two glasses. Without asking Clague, he filled them to the brim and shoved one actoSS. “I always do this when I don’t know what else to do,” he explained. He swallowed his in one gulp and motioned Clague to do likewise. In answer to a ring Clague had not heard the butler reappeared. Bree ordered: “Send Dick in.” Except for the ceaseless twitching of his eyes and the paleness of his pupils Dick might have been down from Williamstown for the week-end. He was almost six feet tall, and broad shouldered, with a perfectly proportioned physique. Bree looked at Dick's eyes. “Cripes, yuh’re burned up to go tonight.” The boy's eyes twitched. He made no answer. “Heeled?” the boss asked. The boy nodded. “Mr. Clague,” Bree said to Dick. “He’s a friend of mine. He's leaving. I don’t want him to have no accidents on his way home.” Bree was squeezing out of the door, returning to A DAGGER IN THE DARK 127 the main part of the apartment. He stopped at the entrance and turned musingly to Clague. “I got to think over what you told me a little while before I’m sure of what to do,” he said. “I’ll let you know. You keep me posted.” Clague mumbled an indistinct answer. As an afterthought Bree added: “You did a smart thing, coming here, kid.” That was his good-by. He was through the door and out of sight. Clague was left alone with his newly found bodyguard. CHAPTER XII LAGUE wanted to catch up on overdue sleep, but the telephone wouldn’t let him. He and Lila O'Malley were racing over a concrete road in the country at sixty-five an hour. Lila was in the driver's seat. The valley was behind them. Ahead lay the summit that was to be crossed. Then, just as they were riding the crest, a tire blew out with a terrific explosion. The scene suddenly shifted. Clague was engaged in a marathon endurance dance with Felicia as his partner. He loathed the touch of her hands and Lila was beckoning him from the dance floor entrance to come to her. But he couldn’t. Nito and his guns were lined up along the railing waiting for the moment he quit the floor. A bell rang in his ear; and it was only eight o'clock. Automatically he reached for the clock and shut off the alarm, but the bell kept on ringing. “I’m sorry, old man,” Clague said over the tele- phone. “I’d like to oblige the Post; but I don’t know any more than you do why the stiff was parked at my door.” He listened some more. “Why was the house peppered if the body’d been dead an hour or so?” he answered. “That’s one you'll have to ask the . . .” Two short phrases interrupted him. 128 A DAGGER IN THE DARK 129 “You’ve already asked the police? Well, if headquarters can’t tell you, you certainly don't ex- pect me to know, do you?” He replaced the re- Celver. His eyes blinked sleepily. The telephone rang again. “The Graphic wants a photograph of Mr. Clague?” Clague repeated. “I’m sorry, he's already left and there's not a picture of him around the place.” Five minutes later as Clague was still stretching, trying to make up his mind what he wanted to do, the bell jangled once more. Clague grabbed a bath- robe and made a dive for the shower as Jasper tip- toed in. “If any more afternoon papers call, I’ve gone,” he shouted back, “and no matter what they ask, the answer is No.” Half an hour later after a bath, shave, hair mas- sage and clean clothes Clague was remade. Down- stairs Jasper had fruit, toast, coffee and ham and eggs ready. Clague remembered the half-empty bottle in the cupboard and poured himself a stiff drink before eating. After breakfast he was ready to face the world. Dingy, irrepressible as ever, greeted Clague at the office by bending his head down and shoving both hands in a thicket of motley hair. “See, boss, not a nick,” he said. “You’d never know I got cracked.” “Been to a doctor?” 130 A DAGGER IN THE DARK “Naw. What for?” Dingy demanded. Clague picked out a ten-dollar bill and shoved it in the boy's hand. “This is for what ails you,” he said. “Chees, with that for medicine I could stand a sock every day,” Dingy remarked appreciatively. “Any word from Pantigras?” “No. Morello called. That’s all.” “What’s on his mind?” “He says you should let him know whether you want him to mail you a check or wait till he sees you.” Saying, “Wait till I see him,” Clague stepped into the inside office. He picked up the telephone re- ceiver, got the number of Lila O'Malley's apart- ment house from Information, and called it. “Miss O'Malley, please,” Clague asked the switchboard operator. “She’s gone to the country,” the boy replied. “Did she leave any forwarding address?” “I don't know of any. Maybe the superintendent does. I’ll transfer you to him.” “Never mind,” Clague interrupted hastily. “Any idea when she’ll be back?” “She won’t,” the boy answered. “She’s tele- phoned orders to sublease her apartment.” Clague hung up. The old felt hat that he had shoved upwards while he was telephoning was still cocked at a rakish angle as he passed Dingy on his way out. Outside he caught a subway and got off at Fourteenth Street. He walked through long A DAGGER IN THE DARK 131 blocks thronged with bearded, chattering men in battered derbies. Finally, he came to a section of dusky, olive-complexioned people. The building he was looking for stood wedged between tenements littered with food-filled fire escapes. Even the building without the contrast of its sur- roundings would have attracted notice by its quiet, stately lines. It was of white granite, two and a half stories high. Raised letters above the entrance proclaimed it the “Morello Trust Company.” Clague walked between the polished brass lamp posts that guarded the doorway. He presented his card to one of the uniformed attendants and asked for Mr. Morello. Two minutes later he was con- ducted into the president's office. If he had expected that his appearance at the trust company would arouse irritation, he was dis- appointed. Mr. Morello, flawless in costume and in courtesy, rose at his entrance, motioned him to a seat and offered him a Corona from the desk hum- idor. Clague declined it. “I am indebted to you, Mr. Clague, for saving me the trouble of a letter or a trip to your office.” Morello spoke in the clear-cut voice and pure Eng- lish accent that had impressed Clague at their previ- ous meeting. “I was in the neighborhood and took the liberty of dropping in,” Clague said briefly. “The boy gave me your message.” * Morello opened a desk drawer and extracted a large check book. His right hand reached for a pen. 132 A DAGGER IN THE DARK “As I recall it, Mr. Clague, we had not settled upon any fixed sum.” “Five hundred as a retainer,” Clague said, “and I’ll send you a bill of expenses later.” The banker accepted the figure without remon- strance. He wrote out a check silently and passed it over to Clague. “My own bank,” he said with quiet humor. “You’ll find it good.” Clague nodded. “You’d be surprised how many do bounce back in this business.” He folded the check in a wallet and replaced the wallet in an in- side coat pocket. Morello's fine-cut features remained immobile. “Interested in hearing the progress I’ve made?” Clague asked. “Er—” Morello hesitated—“yes.” “You seem to be in some doubt about it,” Clague remarked, perplexed. Morello leaned back and gazed out of the window pensively. For all their thoughtfulness, however, his eyes lost none of their piercing quality. “You know, Mr. Clague,” he said finally, “I sometimes wonder if I have the Christian right to pursue this matter further. When I came to you the other day I was in a nervous, highly excitable state.” “Not so anyone would have guessed it,” Clague grunted. “It is good of you to say that; but I know better. A DAGGER IN THE DARK 133 At the moment it looked as if calamity were thrust- ing itself in my face. My brother's memory, the security of this institution and my own reputation seemed to hang in jeopardy. Nothing mattered ex- cept that I should avert those ruinous disclosures, regardless of what it involved. Since then I have come to feel that perhaps my viewpoint was exag- gerated. After all, what can this miserable man do? The matter which he threatens to expose has been buried for years. My brother is no longer alive. I have met all obligations in an honorable manner. I feel certain that should the facts become known, no one would reproach me for what has occurred. Any fair minded jury must be convinced that I have made amends, not for any crime that I have com- mitted, but for one of which I was entirely ignorant at the time it was executed. I have paid to a degree that should exonerate not only myself, who was never guilty, but my brother as well. And because of this shadow that I fancy lies over my head should I prosecute and perhaps send to jail a man whose whole life would be ruined thereby?” . Clague listened unmoved. Then he reached over and took the cigar he had previously declined. He shrugged. “You’re footing the bills,” he dismissed, “only it's not you alone, Mr. Morello. A blackmailer's a menace to every decent citizen.” “I see. My debt to society,” Morello nodded. “I haven't located him yet,” Clague reported. 134 A DAGGER IN THE DARK “Naturally not. You have had only two days.” “But I feel safe in promising you that before the end of the week we’ll know where he is.” Morello accepted the news without show of emo- tlCIl. “That is good, Mr. Clague. For the present, at least, we will continue along the lines of our agree- ment.” He rose to signify the end of the interview. “I shall be interested in hearing how you make out.” Clague paused at the doorway for another look at this man whose manner could so effectively evoke admiration and discourage intimacy. Then he hur- ried off through the large main floor. At the corner drug store he remedied an oversight and called the garage to inquire about the missing chauffeur. Sam was out, however. Clague left his name, saying he would call back later. A taxi took him to the house on Twenty-second Street where Leah Klotzman lived. The same work- weary soul opened the door. She recognized Clague and returned to her work without a word having been spoken. Clague noted the position of the pay telephone on the wall and peered into the small, darkened parlor at the left of the entrance before he climbed the three flights of stairs. There was an immediate answer to his knock and the door opened a few inches. The check-room girl, fully dressed, but with swimming eyes and bloated cheeks looked out hostilely. “Whasha want?” she asked. A DAGGER IN THE DARK 135 Clague looked at her wrinkled skirt. He decided she hadn't undressed at all before lying down. “Called to see what the word is from your boy friend.” “T'hell wish him. Tº hell wish all men.” “If you say so,” Clague replied. “But it's cost- ing you fifty bucks not to know where this one is.” “Whashash to me? Shink you can buy my ver- shoo wish your filshy jack?” Clague grinned. “Sister, it’d take me four nights of steady drinking to collect one like that. Whoever paid for yours got off cheap.” “Whashash to you, you crummy—” Clague smothered her lips before she could finish. “Well, if you don't know where your boy friend is, I do,” he said and withdrew his hand. The door slammed in his face. He walked downstairs and hid in the dark parlor waiting to see if she would try to telephone or fol- low. After fifteen minutes he concluded she really didn’t know where Martinez was hiding and left. He let a nameless cab go by and hailed one with five and fifteen painted on the door. A twenty-minute drive took him to Lila O'Malley’s apartment house. Giving his name as Mr. Dunlop, he asked for the superintendent and requested to see the apartment for sublease. “Seven rooms and three baths,” the superintend- ent announced skeptically. “That may be more than I want,” Clague ac- knowledged, “but I’ll look at it anyway.” 136 A DAGGER IN THE DARK The superintendent was disappointed. “It’s forty-two hundred a year. On the tenth floor,” he said wearily. When Clague refused to be discouraged he took a ring of keys from his pocket and followed Clague into the elevator. Everything in the apartment reflected adequate luxury. The sunlight streaming in through spacious windows, shone on warm rugs and lustrous furniture. One bedroom gleamed with aluminum—dressing table, bed, and chairs were all made of the shining metal. On the wall hung a German reproduction of a Picasso. Clague poked in drawers and opened closets, but the superintendent following every move he made with hawkish eyes, made a thorough search impos- sible. The inevitable conclusion was that the mov- ing had been done leisurely and thoroughly. All that Clague could find was a pile of newspapers at the foot of the aluminum bed. They were a month's back issues of the same morning paper. All of them were opened at the second page. “Whose furniture?” he asked. “The furnishings go with the apartment,” the superintendent replied ambiguously. Clague's inspection was as detailed as he could make it under supervision. When he had gone through every room without finding a clew, he gave it up: “Mrs. Dunlop's out looking at some places now. If she seems interested in this, I’ll come back.” The superintendent was noncommital, but when A DAGGER IN THE DARK 137 they came downstairs Clague saw the switchboard boy pointing at him and knew that he hadn’t de- ceived anyone. He turned South on Park Avenue, uncertain of his next stop. Less than half a block further, a tall, rawboned figure in slouchy clothes and a shape- less felt hat fell in at his side. Clague recognized his companion with a shade of annoyance. “Cripes,” he protested, “can’t you guys ever realize there are times when a man wants to be alone?” “Don’t be like that,” the other piped in a high melodious voice. “You didn't come over just to talk with me?” Clague said. “No, the Commissioner wants to do that.” Clague stiffened. “You got a warrant?” he asked. “Naw,” the man said disgustedly, “I’m telling you he only wants to talk to you.” “How long has the word been out?” Clague asked. “I got the relay less than twenty minutes ago.” Clague swore but accepted the situation philo- sophically. “Might as well have it now as any other time,” he said and hailed a cab. His companion stepped in with him. “Not taking chances, are you?” Clague asked. The man’s demeanor was unruffled. “Just routine, buddy,” he replied good naturedly. “No use getting sore about it.” - CHAPTER XIII HE detective told the desk lieutenant outside the Commissioner's office: “Mr. Clague to see the top sergeant by appointment,” and laughed at his own sense of humor. The desk lieutenant said: “Have a seat, Mr. Clague,” and reached for the inter-office telephone. The detective gave Clague a side glance. “No hard feelings, buddy,” he called, and retraced his steps through the entrance. Five minutes later the desk lieutenant's buzzer sounded. He listened a second, and turned to Clague: “You can go right in.” Clague opened the doorway marked “Police Com- missioner.” In the center of a large room sat the Commissioner, flanked by Dunlop and Greavy. The office held an oak desk and a dozen chairs distributed along the walls. The Commissioner was an unosten- tatious-looking man, with colorless face, sandy hair and olive-tinted eyes. Except for his chin he might have passed for a nonentity. His chin was square and forceful. It was responsible for the legend that the Commissioner got what he went after. Without offering to shake hands, the Commis- sioner indicated a chair and asked Clague to sit down. “We’re up against it, Mr. Clague,” he began, “and my men seem to think you could help us out.” “In what way?” 138 A DAGGER IN THE DARK 139 Dunlop's taunting face was raised. “Don’t you know?” he asked. Clague ignored the question. The Commissioner continued talking: “I don’t have to tell you that there's a blackmail ring operating. They got Ormsby despite the protection we gave him. We don’t want them to get any more of the people who've appealed to us.” “Who are they?” Clague inquired. Dunlop scowled; but the Commissioner went on unheeding: “Monday night you had an appointment with a man who was murdered before you got to the meet- ing place. Last night another murder victim was left on your doorstep. Naturally we’re curious. Our suspicion has been aroused as to whether any relation exists between these killings and the black- mail operations and if you can put us on the right trail.” - “Right as to facts,” Clague said, “but I still don’t see where it gets us.” “It gets us almost anywhere if you can link up the two and show us the reason,” the Commissioner an- swered. “The only connecting link I see is that Schlem- born was murdered with the same kind of knife that gave Ormsby his. But that's offset by the fact that I was also attacked with the same kind of knife, and no one’s blackmailing me, that I know of.” The Commissioner thought it over silently. “You haven’t traced the knife, have you?” he asked. Clague replied bluntly: “That’s not my job.” 140 A DAGGER IN THE DARK “We’ve tried to,” the Commissioner volunteered, “but it got us nowhere. They haven’t been made or sold around here.” “Which still leaves us nowhere.” Clague planked a flat palm on the chair rest. “How about the man last night,” the Commis- sioner suggested, returning to his theme tenaciously. “Considering the time he was dead it doesn’t sound reasonable that the murderers should run the risk of perforating your wall with a machine gun volley, unless it had some personal significance for you.” “Or unless they were rod drunk.” Clague pon- dered over the question. “If I knew who they were, I might answer that. As far as the dead man was concerned, I’d never seen him alive, didn’t know who he was until the cop told me.” The Commissioner opened a card index file and looked over a series of cards. When he spoke again it was with arched eyebrows. “Is that all you have to tell?” he asked. “Except that a Chicago gangster, Nito Calloni, is heading the mob that’s invaded my office and home, trying to get hold of those pearls. What connection, if any, they have with blackmail, I can’t tell. I identified him from your photo files and told your men about him.” “The word's been out two days to bring him in,” the Commissioner stated. “He’s hard to locate.” Clague sat idly waiting for the next question. The Commissioner droned: “Anything else?” Clague replied irritatedly: “That's all I can tell.” A DAGGER IN THE DARK 141 The Commissioner looked at Dunlop and Greavy. “Oh, yeah?” Greavy chirped. Dunlop asked: “How about your cigarette case?” “I’ll ask. How about it?” Clague replied. The Commissioner's eyes flickered questioningly. “I haven't heard about that,” he interposed. Dun- lop recited the facts briefly. After he had finished the Commissioner echoed what Dunlop had said two nights earlier. “I think that needs some explaining, Clague.” “You’re not telling me anything,” Clague replied bitterly and added, half truthfully, “I still don’t know how it got there.” “And won't tell,” Greavy chimed in. “Don’t be an ass,” Clague snapped. “My men seem to think you're holding out,” the Commissioner remarked. “So they’ve let me understand,” Clague retorted. Dunlop took up the questioning. “Why should the same gang that got Ormsby have killed Schlemborn? And why are they after you? If they are?” Clague overlooked the insinuation. “I haven’t anything that says it's the same gang—except the knife.” Dunlop swung upon Clague. “Why don't you come clean?” he snapped. “Quit stalling. What's behind it all? Who's running it?” Momentarily Clague lost control. “If I knew that you don’t think I'd be wasting time yapping with you, do you?” A DAGGER IN THE DARK 143 degree? If so, let me know, because I’ve never been through one before.” The Commissioner interrupted quietly: “Hadn't we better sit down?” Dunlop returned to his chair. Greavy, who had started to get up, flopped in the same place he had occupied, dissatisfaction written all over his face. “What about the escaped convict you’ve got work- ing for you, Clague?” the Commissioner asked plac- idly. Clague froze. “What about him?” “He’s escaped from stir. Five more years to do plus what they add for the break when he's returned to Illinois. You know all that,” the Commissioner said tartly. “I didn't till two days ago,” Clague replied. “How did you find out?” “He told me.” “Just sort of came and confessed because his con- science was hurting him,” Dunlop sneered. Clague shoved his chair back so that it tipped over and crashed to the floor. He saw Dunlop's fists clench. He also saw red. “I’m tired of this pussyfooting,” he barked. “If you think that you’ve got anything on me or that I'm holding out on you, swear out a warrant. I’m not looking for trouble but if you force this on me I’ll fight it out sooner than submit to this kind of browbeating.” He went on, addressing himself directly to the Commissioner: “As far as my man is concerned, I 144 A DAGGER IN THE DARK hadn’t any idea until Tuesday he was on the lam, and that's straight. He's worked for me for two years and everything he's done in that time has been on the up and up. I can’t stop you from sending him back; but I’m convinced that if you do you’ll be sending him right back to every crooked trick that's ever been cooked up whereas now he's earning his own living and keeping out of trouble. And that’s that.” The Commissioner said quietly, “Sit down.” Clague picked up his chair. “You claim there's no connection between these pearls and blackmail?” Clague repeated his story wearily. “What I said was that if there is, I haven’t been able to prove it.” “And you don’t know any reason, outside of theft, why they should have been stolen?” “No.” “Or who stole them?” “Er—no.” Dunlop looked at the Commissioner, got a nod and took up the questioning: “Not sure of that one, eh? ‘Not that I know of,’” he quoted sneeringly. “How is it they decide to bump Schlemborn off the night that he had an appointment with you?” “I don’t know.” “Coincidence?” “If you say so.” “And a stiff was planted at your door—by coinci- dence?” “Maybe.” Dunlop snorted. A DAGGER IN THE DARK 145 “You’re good,” he howled. “I suppose you're going to tell me your cigarette case got there by coin- cidence.” - “No,” Clague said firmly. “I think that was planted.” Dunlop assumed a wise air. “Holy Smokes,” he said, “this guy is getting so he actually thinks now. Now we’re getting somewhere.” But the Commissioner asked in a low voice: “What makes you think that, Clague?” Clague thought, laughed and said, “Because I can’t stretch coincidence that far.” He had the satisfaction of seeing a smile spread over the Com- missioner’s cheeks. The smile angered Dunlop even more than Clague's answer. “Now why should anyone want to do that to you?” he asked sarcastically. “Probably,” Clague answered, “because some wise guy figured you'd think I'd had a hand in the mur- der.” Dunlop's temper stumbled badly. “Why are we wasting time with this guy?” he demanded. He was accustomed to sweeping obstacles brusquely out of his way and he was prepared to do so now. “All we get from him is ‘I think,’ ‘As far as I know’ and ‘I can’t prove different.’” Clague spoke evenly: “Of course I’m not such a sap as to believe that there isn’t some chain between all these events. But I haven't been able to figure out what it is.” 148 A DAGGER IN THE DARK Clague had a chair raised to protect himself but the Commissioner saved him the trouble and stopped Dunlop. “Sit down,” he ordered. “Get me straight, Dunlop,” Clague went on. “I’m not making charges against you, Greavy or any- one else. All I know is that a drive was planned and word got out. “What I have to say consists entirely of circum- stantial evidence and opinions that ought to be well weighed over before being made public property. I’m not saying you oughtn't to hear them. What I am saying is that one person alone—the Commis- sioner—ought to hear it first and then decide how much should be passed along.” He stopped talking and waited for the Commis- sioner's reaction. It was quick in coming. The Commissioner turned to Dunlop and Greavy with a contagious smile. “There's something to what Clague says, boys. I'll be seeing you later.” - He waited until they had closed the door behind them and then swung his chair so that he could listen attentively to everything Clague said. CHAPTER XIV LAGUE talked. His momentary resentment against Dunlop's roughshod methods had worn off. He needed no explanation to tell him that Dunlop's attitude was entirely natural in an atmos- phere where strong-arm methods were the only ones respected. He understood, too, that the Commis- sioner's support of his men was an essential part of departmental morale. But, in the innocuous, un- blinking eyes before him, Clague fancied he recog- nized a different type of law enforcer, one who valued brains above brawn and who held to the tenets of square dealing because he felt it was good business to do so. And so Clague talked freely. What he told was the truth and if he erred at all it was in the matter of omission. He did not men- tion Boss John Bree by name and he made no refer- ence to Jasper's kidnaping and escape. He saw possible consequences there that he was unwilling to assume until it became absolutely necessary. And, for vague reasons that he was unable to analyze fully, he limited Lila O'Malley's rôle in his recital to that of an unwilling, somewhat weak and wholly innocent victim of circumstances. The Commissioner listened to the story in silence. When Clague had finished he nodded approval. “I’m glad you decided on this course, Clague,” 149 150 A DAGGER IN THE DARK he said. “We could have made things unpleasant for you, but I realize that that wouldn’t have gotten us as far as your voluntary coöperation. Working together this way we can probably fit the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle and arrive at a solution that will be to our mutual advantage.” Clague was skeptical. “I hope so.” The Commissioner understood his doubt. “We haven't any desire to interfere in your affairs unnecessarily,” he assured. “And you’ll find that we shoot straight as long as you do and as long as you’re not violating the law.” Clague wondered a moment, then said “Oke.” “Finish up the story,” the Commissioner con- tinued. “You’ve told us what happened. Now what do you suspect?” Clague threw up his hands. “Everything,” he said. “Everybody, to some degree. As far as the relation between your blackmail and my pearls is concerned I can't avoid the feeling there's a hook- up. It hits me in the face every time I turn: Schlem- born's murder, the attack on me, the attempts to get the stones, the topsy-turvy situation by which I find people who aren't supposed to know each other in each other's laps. Most of all, though, it’s the elab- orateness of the network spread to corral baubles that, at most, aren’t worth more than fifty grand.” The Commissioner replied gravely: “I’m afraid we can’t escape the fact that there is a connection.” “But what it is gets me.” The Commissioner brought Clague down to earth. A DAGGER IN THE DARK 151 “Let’s get at facts. What can we surmise about this ring?” “It’s well organized,” Clague snorted. “No piker racket. And brains is running the show.” The Commissioner nodded agreement. “And how well it's being run I doubt if even you know.” “Maybe not,” Clague retorted, “but even a blind man could read that they’re thorough. Look at some of the jobs they’ve pulled—and gotten away with. Look at the standing of the people they’ve gone after—and gotten something on. You don’t get that way rubbing toes with punks in Bowery flops.” Again the Commissioner nodded. “There's some- one behind it who knows what he's doing. A master mind?” “Call it what you want. Some guy with brains. Baby Face—” “That’s Calloni?” “Yes. He couldn’t have done it. He hasn’t the patience. Too quick on the draw. Too ready for action to be bothered planning things in advance. He’s just the muscle man.” “Any suspicion whom he's working for?” the Commissioner inquired. “No.” - “Pantigras fill the bill?” Clague snorted contemptuously. “Can you im- agine the guy responsible for this natural having to wrestle on a parlor floor to make a girl?” he asked. “What's his game, then?” - Clague answered frankly: “I don’t know. He 152 A DAGGER IN THE DARK lied to me on one thing, I know, probably on others. But I can’t figure him as a master mind. He's too panicky, hasn’t the guts.” The Commissioner had never moved his unwaver- ing eyes from Clague's face. “Any other candi- dates?” “None I can put a finger on.” “Let’s go over the people you’ve mentioned, one by one,” the Commissioner suggested. “The dancer?” “Felicia? She's just an artist with her profes- sion written all over her,” Clague snorted. “She can’t stay with any one thing long. And she can't plan for more than just her immediate needs.” “Nicky?” Clague frowned. “Both he and the check-room girl—Leah Klotz- man—are onto the racket and I’m quite sure that at one time the Golden Pheasant was a sort of hang- out for the gang's gunmen. I’m not sure that either of them are actually in it, though. In any case Nicky's yellow and the girl's dumb. You can’t make a master mind out of that material.” “Supposing we sweat them?” “Perhaps,” Clague admitted. “More likely, though, you'd simply be tipping off your hand.” “How about Jasper?” “I’ll vouch for him,” Clague asserted. “Miss O'Malley?” “I doubt it. She's the come-on lure but I don’t think she’s in on the motive. I’m not sure she’s even guessed.” 154 A DAGGER IN THE DARK “What is there about it that's outside of this man's regular line?” the Commissioner asked. “Taking money illegally?” He read the answer in Clague's eyes. “Murder?” Clague stammered, tried to speak, stopped. “You wouldn’t swear to that,” the Commissioner answered for him. “What reason is there that this man couldn't fill the bill, then? He's got brains?” “Of a sort.” “This sort?” Clague was compelled to nod a hesitating agree- Iment. “And the organization?” “I imagine so.” “What else do you want?” the Commissioner de- manded. “Brains to plan, an organization to execute, no scruples and a readiness to acquire money by any means. The only thing you’ve advanced in his favor is that he's never thought of this way of making money before.” He paused to watch the effect on Clague, then added: “And he probably realizes that that's the very mask that’s covering him up.” Clague tried to reason, tried to think of argu- ments that could eliminate John Bree as a suspect. He failed miserably. It was entirely plausible that the bootleg boss, with manpower, brains and inclina- tion could successfully operate a huge blackmail ring. He thought of Bree's many unknown and powerful contacts and of the man's gift for sensing A DAGGER IN THE DARK 155 the profit to be made from a knowledge of other peo- ple's missteps. Against that reasoning, Clague could only oppose his intuition, an intuition guided partly by his own interests and partly by the feeling that Bree was a one line man. In accordance with his custom when he lacked a convincing argument, he dropped his quiet manner. “I tell you blackmail’s not his racket,” he shouted, “and I’m sick of this twisting and twining. I came of my own accord and talked willingly. More than that I can’t do and you can’t make me. If my help means anything, you’ve got to leave my lines alone. Hang your washing elsewhere and take my word for it when I say a thing will do more harm than good.” He was determined to maintain the offensive now that he had started. “What makes you so cocksure you can pin it on one of the people I know?” he de- manded. “I’m not,” the Commissioner admitted noncha- lantly. He rose and walked toward Clague until they stood face to face. Then he turned away, flick- ing a cigarette. “You’re sure he's not the man?” “Yes. Positive,” Clague declared. He expected an argument. Instead the Commis- sioner said casually: “I’m going to put a tail on the rest of the people you've mentioned and see what that gets me.” “Leave Pantigras to me,” Clague said belliger- ently. The Commissioner nodded assent. “And about this man whose name you want—” t A DAGGER IN THE DARK 157 silent so long that it angered Clague. For a mo- ment he was impelled to repeat what he had once said to Dunlop: “Just an old flatfoot trick, asking for information and refusing to give any.” Something on the Commissioner's face stopped him. A ruthless police officer would have sent Clague packing. The Commissioner worked on the theory that it was better to invite confidence and coöperation if it could be done. “I’m sorry you asked that, Clague. It's one of the few questions I can’t discuss with you just now. And I’d like to feel after dragging you down here and securing your confidence that you can go back saying we’ve been equally frank with you. “I assume you’ve got a good reason for wanting to know. I’ve got to ask you to accept my judg- ment that there's an ever better reason why that question shouldn’t be answered. It's not just put- ting it before you like this and saying, ‘Take it or leave it.’ Right now there's a purpose in not an- swering your question, not at least until we see how things develop in the next twenty-four hours.” Clague thought it over and then asked stolidly: “Decoy money?” “Yes.” • “How have your traps been working out?” The answer was obvious; but Clague wanted to hear the Commissioner's own version. “They haven’t,” he admitted frankly. “None of 158 A DAGGER IN THE DARK the packages we’ve left have been touched except one.” “And that one?” Clague asked. “They got away with. It had real money in it and was left unguarded.” Clague whistled. “You realize what that means?” The worried look appeared again on the Commis- sioner's face. “I hate to admit it,” he said in a low voice, “but that's one reason why we're going slowly. We're checking up on our own contacts before we plan any grand rush.” The candid admission stopped Clague. It liqui- dated his resentment, kindling a feeling of sympathy for this man who could be so patient when betrayal was undermining his own official life. He wondered abstractedly if real ability was hidden behind this placid, unassuming demeanor or if the diplomatic air was merely a mask for mechanical incompetence. So absorbed was he with the idea he hardly noticed the Commissioner’s words which terminated the in- terview. He was still toying with the thought as he walked slowly through the marble-walled lobby. Clague had dealt with the Commissioner frankly. Never before had he spoken so freely about his af- fairs to a police executive. If he had misjudged the caliber of the man, his own future was liable to ab- rupt and drastic curtailment. If there were any like- lihood that advantage would be taken of his revela- tions, he had talked too much for his own good. The thought bothered him as he climbed into a A DAGGER IN THE DARK 1.59 taxi outside. He gave his office address and, through dull, unobserving eyes, watched the driver throw in the clutch. A limousine had pulled up across the street to discharge a mountain of a man whose orang- outang head was partly hidden under a huge flap- ping fedora. He had crossed the road and was climbing the steps when Clague suddenly became aware of his identity. “Hold up a minute,” he shouted to his driver. And he sat motionless in the cab while Boss Bree passed through the doorway of police headquarters. CHAPTER XV AITING always irritated Clague. He reached the office by four, asked Dingy if Hogan had left any word and was told he hadn't. Sam had called, but when Clague telephoned the garage Sam had gone out. Clague left a message for him to call back. At five Pantigras stamped in, displaying all the outward signs of a typhoon. A jaunty gardenia was in his buttonhole; he swung a malacca cane. With every gesture he exuded nervous energy. Clague, suppressing a desire to smile, eyed him expectantly. “I have been waiting for a report from you,” Pan- tigras began. He spoke austerely, an indication of the graciousness he was evidencing in speaking at all. “Sit down,” Clague said good-naturedly. “How'd you get back to town?” Pantigras, on the point of taking a chair, stiffened. “Mr. Clague,” he said reprovingly, “I did not come to discuss my personal affairs.” Clague, still good-natured, retorted, “No? What then?” “I came to ask you when I shall get my pearls back.” Clague cocked a hand over a listening ear. “Oh! Your pearls?” 160 A DAGGER IN THE DARK 161 “Mr. Clague,” Pantigras scolded, “I am not at all satisfied by your attitude toward my interests.” “What's the kick?” Clague asked. “First of all you intrude yourself unwarrantedly in my affairs.” “You sent for me. You can’t blame me if I’m not deaf, dumb and blind.” “I did not ask for your interference.” Clague shrugged his shoulders. “Furthermore, Mr. Clague, the activities you are concentrating on are not those for which I am pay- ing you. You also refuse to give me information I ask for. I think you misunderstand the business for which I have engaged you.” The temptation was too strong. Clague raised one weary eyebrow. “Not monkey business, then?” Crimson flooded Pantigras' thin cheeks. He sput- tered until he was able to recover a semblance of dignity. “Mr. Clague, your remark and your actions last night might prompt me to dispense with your services immediately; but I do not want to be hasty. If I overlook your conduct, however, I want some assurance that you will not offend again.” Clague raised his voice with brutal directness. “Let’s quit stalling,” he said. “You’re in a jam and know it. So do I. As long as I know where the pearls are you can’t get along without me.” The effect on Pantigras was magical. “You know, then?” he asked, his mood turning to child- ish delight. “I shall within twenty-four hours,” Clague stated. 162 A DAGGER IN THE DARK “When do I get them?” Pantigras demanded. Instead of answering the question, Clague asked: “What’s the rush?” “I have promised them . . . as a gift.” “So you’ve told me.” “You do not believe me?” Pantigras was amazed. “Perhaps. To whom?” “My wife, of course.” Clague rose and swung his right leg over the edge of the desk, puffing thoughtfully. “Some day, Pantigras,” he remarked, “you're going to learn that it pays to play ball. If you en- gage a person to clean up your dirty linen don’t hold out on the Sapolio. Give him your confidence com- pletely. You'll find it costs less in the long run.” “But I have told you that I bought them for . . .” “Quit lying,” Clague thundered. “Who was it? The Spanish fancy?” “Certainly not.” Pantigras denied the charge with unusual vehemence. His dapper figure bounced in the chair as the result of his emphasis. Clague raised a doubting eye. “To watch her the other night, you'd think she had a mortgage on you.” “Mr. Clague,” Pantigras protested, “that woman was a mistake.” “Where'd you get that line? Reading a divorce case?” “I assure you it is so,” Pantigras insisted earnestly. A DAGGER IN THE DARK 163 “I regret ever having met her. I have had nothing but unpleasantness out of that meeting. I can as- sure you that as far as I am concerned I have no de- sire ever to see her again. She is common, despi- cable. I loath her. She is—” His gestures pictured unmentionable filth with such vehement realism that Clague was impressed. “She must have nicked you badly,” he said un- feelingly. “Mr. Clague—” “Known her long?” “I do not see what that has to do—” “You’ve answered,” Clague accepted grimly. “Where does she live?” Pantigras mentioned an address on West Fifty- fifth Street and Clague wrote it down. “By the way,” he remarked, “I’d be interested in learning how and where you met Miss O'Malley.” Pantigras recognized the name immediately. Clague had been curious on that point. The Greek mentioned a Park Avenue hotel. “I was lunching there Monday.” “Last Monday?” “Yes. Why?” “Was that the first time you saw her?” “Yes.” “You work fast,” Clague commented with grim irony. “She came in after I was seated and took a table close to mine. I do not know how well you have studied her. She is such a sweet, clean-looking girl 164 A DAGGER IN THE DARK ... or so she impressed me at the time. Lovely, wistful eyes. Such energy. Well-shaped hands and the delicate shade of hair.” “Sure,” Clague agreed. “She’s got what every other woman has that you’ve wanted to chase. Let's cut out the trimmings.” “After several unintentional glances in her direc- tion I could no longer avoid the feeling that I had attracted her attention.” Clague could only stare in amazement at this bombastic, overdressed, sallow little man who spoke with such disregard of the im- pression his manner and words were bound to create. “I finally felt certain that she was as anxious to meet me as I was to meet her,” he continued, un- abashed, “so I asked the head waiter to take a note to her. They don’t usually do that there, but I told the head waiter that I felt certain I recognized an old acquaintance from Europe whom I had not seen in several years. He believed me.” “Naturally,” Clague agreed. “And so she joined you at your table.” “She seemed quite delighted to. She told me how lonely it was for her in the city with only an aged grandmother for a companion. When I suggested, after luncheon, that we take a drive, it seemed to brighten her up considerably.” “And then you made an appointment with her for Tuesday night?” - “I had lunch with her first Tuesday noon. That evening we had a late dinner and were going for a drive. First I asked her to wait a few minutes while * A DAGGER IN THE DARK 165 I kept a business appointment at the Golden Pheas- ant.” Clague laughed out loud. “If I had your gall,” he mourned. “From what I saw the business ap- pointment was a bust.” The remark, and Clague's laughter, irritated Pantigras. “Not at all,” he denied. “I had an ap- pointment with Miss Florente and asked Miss O'Malley to wait outside. As you have remarked, Miss Florente has a misapprehension as to what con- trol she has a right to exercise over my movements. After my business with her was over she asked me to remain.” “Which was impossible, sinte a much more at- tractive girl was waiting outside,” Clague argued. “That had nothing to do with it,” Pantigras snapped. “I refused. She insisted. Naturally I had to show her she could not dictate what I could or could not do. At the same time I am not un- familiar with the Latin temperament.” “I’ll bet not.” “I realized she might create an unpleasant scene. I left the place and hurriedly explained to Miss O'Malley that unusual circumstances would prevent my seeing her home. I asked her to understand and she said she would, and I drove off, hoping in that way to spare her any embarrassment.” Clague asked: “Did you know that her chauffeur and a car with her grandmother in it were waiting at the corner?” r 166 A DAGGER IN THE DARK The Greek's eyes opened wide in amazement. “No,” he said. The statement puzzled him. “How about the meeting yesterday . . . at Har- mon?” “I suggested a little holiday . . . away from the cares of the city . . . at my country home . . . a pardonable falsehood.” Pantigras was grinning sleekly. Clague grunted. “It didn’t occur to you that the grandmother might want to get away from the city, too, did it?” he asked mischievously. But Pantigras took the remark with dull literacy. “It didn’t,” he said simply. “In fact, the reason that Miss O'Malley did not drive up with me was that her grandmother was visiting some friends in Carmel. She explained that she would leave her grandmother there and then drive over to my place. I gave her explicit directions.” “She explained?” Clague repeated. “Yes.” “And you still think she's a nice, sweet, trust- worthy, homeloving girl?” Pantigras’ brow was clouded with doubt. “Mr. Clague, I do not know what to say,” he an- swered. “Her actions were not what she had led me to expect. She fooled me, I must admit. At the same time I see no reason she might have had for misleading me. She did not want money. She told me she had plenty of it.” Clague grunted: “Gee, you're good. You know she had her own car and driver?” A DAGGER IN THE DARK 167 “Yes. She hired them to take her grandmother to Carmel.” Clague gave up. The man's utter naïveness where women were concerned had him stopped. “Have you got her toy cannon with you?” he asked. Pantigras reached into his right hand coat pocket and produced a nickel-barreled, pearl-bordered .22. Clague swung it by the trigger, then tossed it into a desk drawer. . One thing still bothered him. “Had you told anyone where you were going to lunch last Mon- day?” “I do not think so. Why?” “I’m curious to find out how they work.” “They?” Pantigras questioned. “I do not think I understand.” “I didn't think you would,” Clague replied dully. “You lunch at that hotel often?” “Yes.” “Frequently alone?” “Yes.” Clague sprawled in his desk chair again and tapped the glass surface with a paper cutter. His silence made Pantigras remember what he had come for. “Mr. Clague, can you give me definite assurance when I shall see my pearls again,” he demanded. Clague's bland, blue eyes gazed at his client kindly. “I’ll give you all the assurance you want,” he said. “You’ll never see them as long as you try to play both ends against a wobbly middle.” Sud- 168 A DAGGER IN THE DARK denly his voice rose to a shout: “Think that over. If you feel you're getting away with anything, stay away a week. And if you come back begging, make up your mind you’re going to come clean. That's all.” The telephone rang as Pantigras began to argue the matter but Clague refused to listen to him. He removed the telephone receiver and held it against his chest as he waved Pantigras out of the office. When he saw the cane swish for the last time on the far side of the outer door, he transferred the re- ceiver to his ear. A torrent of gibbering, unidentifiable but appar- ently Jewish, answered his “Clague speaking.” He listened uncomprehendingly for thirty seconds and then placed the receiver on the desktop. Half a minute later he picked it up again. The voice was weakening. Inside of another minute the high, nasal whining had subsided to the point where Clague could recognize the language as English and could make out the words: “And who is it pays for it, Mr. Clague?” Clague recognized Sam's voice. “The insurance company,” he chanced. “It usually does.” “The insurance company?” the voice shrieked. “When I ain’t got nodding to show them, even. Talk sense, Mr. Clague.” “I might,” Clague replied, “if you'll tell me what it’s about.” “The car . . . wot with a driver you should send A DAGGER IN THE DARK 169 on some damn fool errand into Godknowswhere into the city or elsewhere.” “Smashed?” “How should I know?” the voice screamed. “Smashed or maybe any place and a car wot I tell you, Mr. Clague, for which I put down five thou- sand dollars a year ago as a special custom built for extra de luxe taxi service for which even under present conditions you couldn’t get for a cent less. Mind you, Mr. Clague, even a Mr. Rockefeller might not be willing to send out goods on such terms but as a favor for you I do it and I ask who is to pay?” “What's happened to the car?” Clague de- manded. “I don'd know. For twenty-four hours now it's gone and when you ask 'wot's happened' I wish you should tell me.” “How about the driver?” “That's what, for ten minutes, I been telling you. No phone call. No word. Noddings. And a nice boy, too, even if he did have a bit of foreign in him.” All the drowsiness left Clague's head. He buzzed for Dingy while Sam continued talking. With the receiver and mouthpiece against his chest he asked: “Been reading the papers lately?” Dingy nodded. “See any story about a murdered taxi driver or an abandoned cab?” Dingy shook his head. 170 A DAGGER IN THE DARK Clague asked sharply into the telephone: “What’s your driver's name?” “Pete.” “Pete what?” “Pete . . .” Sam hesitated. Clague swore. “Your most dependable man and you don’t know his name!” “But, Mr. Clague,” Sam protested, “Moe don'd know you’re going to call so he ain’t around. The spare drivers in the office hear. This boy jumps first.” At the moment Clague would have seen Sam hung gladly. A dumb driver and a ready made trap. He feared the worst. His voice cracked like a lash. “Come on over. I want the license numbers, a description of the cab and all you know about the driver. Also a photograph of him. As soon as you get here we’ll send out a general alarm. Maybe I'll call up the Commissioner himself.” “But, Mr. Clague, who is it is going to pay?” Sam insisted. “Come over first,” Clague demanded. “Won't you be disappointed ff we find your cab all right and you can’t collect.” CHAPTER XVI LAGUE seldom became excited; but he man- aged to get enough earnestness into his ex- planation to convince the Commissioner of the im- portance of locating the missing taxi and its driver. The way was paved before Sam reached the office. Before he had time to draw his breath he was wheeled about and sent to Headquarters. That accomplished, Clague gave his attention, to a matter that he could attend to personally. He walked to the address on west Fifty-fifth Street which Pantigras had given him. It was a ram- shackle apartment building without front lights. The only attendant was running the elevator and incoming calls were buzzing unanswered on the switchboard. Clague waited until the elevator came down and gave the operator—a colored boy—time to clear his lines. Then he asked for Miss Florente. “She ain’t living here no mo',” the boy answered. “She jus’ moved out this morning.” “Got her address?” “No, Sah.” Clague snorted. “It’s getting to be an epidemic. The post office department must have a lot of un- claimed mail.” 171 172 A DAGGER IN THE DARK “What's dat, sah?” the boy asked, but Clague walked out without answering. Eight thirty! It was between shows at the Golden Preasant and Clague remembered that his stomach was empty. He had no appetite for quail or chatter. Instead he walked to a speakeasy on Forty-eighth Street and ordered a hot roast beef sandwich. He ate it on the glass bar, looking down into an aquarium of turtles and two baby alligators. At one time there had been live trout there but they had died of suffoca- tion. Highballs were a dollar a piece but the place was crowded. The bartender serving Clague was a gray- haired man with a prison jaw who had mixed cock- tails at Considine's in the days before prohibition. Clague waited until orders slackened and the man was lounging against the bar close to him. “How's business?” he asked. “Fine,” the man answered, then looked up and recognized Clague. “It’s good, considering . . .” he said. “We’re not hit as bad as most of them. There's some places selling two for one. For every drink you pay for, someone with you can get one free. But the stuff they sell . . . they can afford to cut rate.” Clague sniffed his glass. “They know what they get here is good,” the man continued earnestly. “That's why we get the crowds.” From the dining room doorway a passing waiter A DAGGER IN THE DARK 173 shouted, “One sherry flip and two Martinis.” The bartender yelled: “Coming up,” and dug under the mahogany top for his shaker. Clague continued eating and waiting. When the man was free again he asked: “Racketeers hang out here?” The bartender answered, “No, sir. Look this crowd over”; but there was a worried look in his eye. Half the customers around the bar were in eve- ning dress; but that didn’t mean anything. “Heard anything new?” he asked the bartender. “You don’t hear much down here.” “I’m trying to trace a stolen car,” Clague re- marked. “How would you get rid of it?” The man looked up stoically. “Put it in cold storage until I’d changed the numbers and given it some new paint,” he replied. “You wouldn’t let it swim in the river?” Clague asked. “And toss off several centuries?” the bartender protested indignantly. “Money don’t mean anything to this gang,” Clague explained, “and they don’t want any traces left.” - “I’d cremate it, then,” the bartender emphasized. “That's what I thought,” Clague agreed. He finished his dinner with a shot of straight Irish, paid his bill, nodded to the inquiring eyes that followed him and walked out. On the sidewalk he turned toward the Golden Pheasant. The crowds 174 A DAGGER IN THE DARK § were still in the theaters and only casual loiterers were drifting northward. Clague took his time. A huge figure was supporting the building next to the Golden Pheasant entrance. He guessed that the Commissioner's words had been put into effect. Clague was well ahead of the theater trade as he plunged into the basement arena. He knew every detail of the cabaret; the curtain of purple plush drapery, the haze of dimmed blue lights from inside, the scurrying of ghoulish figures, the beacon light from over the check room and Nicky's thick, leering lips. Nicky, already aware that the place was under observation, mumbled at him from the doorway of the private office. In his mind he associated Clague with the unwelcome attention. “Please, go away. Take your boy friend with you.” His greeting was none too cordial. Clague simulated stern reproval. “That's what you get for keeping bad company.” “Please. Go now.” Clague tried to look hurt. “Anything to please you, sweetheart. As soon as you tºl me where Felicia is.” “She’s nothere,” Nicky replied. “And there ain’t going to be no one else here if you keep that corpse planted there.” He pointed a pudgy finger up the stairs. “How can I draw trade if the place looks as if it's raided before it's opened?” Clague asked abruptly: “Where is she?” “Ain’t I got enough trouble without worrying ar A DAGGER IN THE DARK 177 chestra platform and retraced his steps on the other side. Halfway down he found her. He recognized Felicia in the familiar, vivid yellow dress. He paused beside the table. “Having fun?” he asked. Felicia squealed with well-affected delight. “It is Mr. Clague?” The man with her was Pantigras. He had the air of a baffled bull, interrupted in a cloistered pasture. Clague almost guffawed aloud. “You change your mind quickly,” he remarked. “Mr. Clague,” Pantigras replied stiffly, “there was a misunderstanding. It is over. Miss Florente is one of my best and dearest friends. Do you have to follow me everywhere?” “I wasn't looking for you. In fact, I’m surprised to see you here,” Clague said meaningly. He stared at Felicia, who was trying to read in his eyes the unspoken purpose of his call. Pantigras started to speak, but Felicia interrupted hurriedly: “Do not ask Mr. Clague how he knew we were here. It is his business. He knows everything. Now that he is here he will sit down with us.” Clague had tossed his hat on the bench opposite them and squeezed in before Pantigras could voice an objection. There was an uncomfortable silence before Pantigras thought of asking Clague in an un- willing, perfunctory manner, what he would have. Clague declined an offer of food but asked for a rye highball. Clague started in as soon as the waiter had gone beyond hearing distance. 178 A DAGGER IN THE DARK “I warned you once before, Pantigras, to come clean. I hadn’t intended to nose into this but find- ing you here together alters matters. What was the quarrel you had with Miss Florente?” As Pantigras maintained an obstinate silence, Clague turned to Felicia. “You didn’t know he was planning to give you the by-by, did you?” Felicia turned her head upward and stroked Pantigras’ chin with a ringed hand. “My big boy would never do that to me,” she cooed soothingly. Pantigras struggled to contain himself. “Mr. Clague, those little affairs are of no moment. They do not concern what you are interested in.” At that moment the highball appeared. Clague gestured a wordless toast to Felicia. “Can you beat this guy? He's lost a beautiful pearl necklace he bought for his wife and wants it back in a rush be- cause Madame Pantigras has to have it right away but he holds out on everything that might help me find it.” He studied the effect of his words as he spoke. Pantigras’ face was slowly coloring. Felicia merely giggled, “How foolish,” and snuggled her head closer on Pantigras' shoulder. “Personally,” Clague continued, “I’m of the opin- ion he bought these pearls for some other dame and he's afraid his spotless reputation will be ruined if anyone knows about it.” Pantigras could stand it no longer. “Mr. Clague, I do not see that these affairs are of any interest to Miss Florente.” A DAGGER IN THE DARK 179 “Possibly not,” Clague countered dryly, “but if you keep holding out on me I’m going to cable Madame Pantigras to take the next ship back.” The color surged slowly to Pantigras’ cheeks. Felicia watched him with the amused air of an on- looker slyly enjoying a culprit’s exposure. When Pantigras spoke it was a gasp: “You would not do that.” “Why not, you cheap penny schemer?” Clague barked. “All this time you’ve thought you were so goddamned clever—hiring me with a few dollars to look just where you wanted me to and patting your- self on the back because you’ve been so smart in covering your dirty tracks. I’ve told you before and I’m telling you again, Pantigras, if you lie to me once more you’re never going to see those pearls again.” Pantigras blanched. Felicia giggled. “Mabee Madame Pantigras would not come back, eh?” “She would with the kind of cable I’d send,” Clague retorted. Pantigras said slowly: “I bought the pearls as a slight gift of appreciation for Miss Florente. She had often admired them. She either lost them or they were stolen from her dressing room. She is not certain and I did not want to make any unjustified accusation. Neither did I see any point in bringing her name into the investigation.” Clague turned to Felicia. “Is that true?” he asked. “It is so,” she murmured, “an' I am so un'appy.” A DAGGER IN THE DARK 181 The man grinned understandingly. “Sure,” he agreed. “I’ve had those boys try to crash my own game sometimes. What did you say his name was?” “Pantigras,” Clague repeated. “P-a-n-t-i-g-r-a-s. It rhymes with—hell, it don’t rhyme with anything. You'll just have to remember it.” “O. K.,” the man said. “What do I tell him when I get him on?” “Nothing,” Clague replied. “Just hang up.” “That's the way I like them,” the man said ap- provingly. “Short and snappy. As soon as I get these suckers safely in.” He turned with military strides to a cabriolet that was just drawing up to the curb. CHAPTER XVII SOFT-VOICED page boy slid noiselessly down the carpeted aisle. “Telephone for Mr. Pantigras,” he called looking into each booth as he passed. Felicia's arms were twined about Pantigras. He disengaged her hands at the boy’s words and shook himself free. There was a puzzled expression on his face. “No one knows I’m here,” he remarked suspi- ciously to Clague. Clague, who had been gazing abstractedly into a fresh highball, jumped to his feet. “I’ll take it for you,” he volunteered. Pantigras beat him to the aisle and shoved him back on the bench. “I can answer my own telephone calls, thank you, Mr. Clague,” he said in his most formal manner. He threw a smug, self-satisfied look at Clague, then turned on his heel. Clague waited until he was several yards off be- fore he turned to Felicia: “Now, you talk.” “What shall we talk a-bout?” “Addresses. Places where we can talk without in- terruption.” “I will talk with you here.” “There isn’t time,” Clague countered. “Tell me where you live and I’ll see you there.” 182 A DAGGER IN THE DARK 183 But Felicia was obdurate. “I am not sure I should talk with you.” “Better talk,” Clague warned. “Baby lose plenty sugar papa if not.” Felicia studied his eyes to see if he meant it. “You haven’t got all night. He'll be back any second.” Felicia mentioned a West Side apartment hotel. “No phony?” Clague questioned. “Cross my heart.” “I’ll take a chance. See you there in thirty min- utes.” “Thirty,’” she exclaimed. “Mister Clague, how am I to tell heem to go packing so queeckly?” “That's your business.” Clague was watching from a corner of his eye. “Sh-sh. Here he comes.” They were sitting in wordless thought when Pantigras reappeared, slight traces of bewilderment still on his face. Clague, watching him squeeze laboriously into his place, was sympathetic. “The wrong name I suppose?” Pantigras checked him up sharply. “On the con- trary,” he stated, “a business associate has been try- ing to trace me all evening. It is very fortunate for me that he succeeded in finding me.” He turned to Felicia, “Darling, do you mind?” She made a moue of disgust. “Your business,” she exclaimed. “That is what gives me my headaches.” Clague fancied he saw relief on Pantigras’ face. “I shall see you home anyway, darling,” Panti- A DAGGER IN THE DARK 185 Felicia was seated in an armchair smoking a ciga- rette, a salmon-colored dressing gown drooping from her shoulders. It was a different Felicia from any Clague had known. Her eyes were calm and her face thoughtful. She pointed to the cigarettes, bottle and glasses on the table and motioned to a chair. Clague yanked open the closet door and scrutinized the dark interior. Then he looked in the bathroom. Felicia watched him with disdainful amusement. “Maybe you would like to try the connecting doors,” she said, pointing to the room on each side. “They are locked.” Nevertheless Clague tried them. When he was satisfied her words were true, he went to the table, poured himself a stiff drink and took it back to the chair with him. He sat there silently for several minutes. His eyes roved from the walls to the ceil- ing and then back to the walls again. Felicia watched him, catlike, steadily tapping the floor with her left foot. Clague suddenly asked: “Who stole the pearls?” “But, Mister Clague,” Felicia protested, “I have told you I do not know they were stolen.” “Who was it? The gigolo?” “Mister Clague. That poor, unhappy boy!” “Quit lying,” Clague barked. Suddenly he toned down. Understanding softened his voice. “Maybe you’re right at that. Maybe they weren’t stolen.” “What is it you mean?” “You always were a fall guy for a flashy face. 186 A DAGGER IN THE DARK What did you do? Give them to him? Or did he wheedle them out of you?” “Mister Clague, listen—” “Shut up,” Clague barked. “I’m tired of lies.” He parodied Felicia's voice: “Interested in his art. Afraid of his public . . . ze public zat loves heem.” Felicia began to cower in her chair. “What do you want me to do?” Clague barked, his voice cracking like a lash. “Tell Pantigras you’ve played him for a sucker and let a dancing gigolo get away with pearls worth fifty grand?” There was no answer. Clague subsided. “How much have you pulled his leg for, anyway?” “I have not pulled his leg,” Felicia protested in- dignantly. “I have taken only what he gives me.” “And that's plenty.” “It does not matter. Mr. Pantigras has so much money.” “So much that I suppose that he'd be delighted to know he's been aiding a worthy charity,” Clague added vindictively. “Building up the career of a promising young artist . . . his rival and your lover.” Felicia leaped from her chair and flung herself on Clague, her hands beating impotently at his face. “You must not say that,” she screamed. “He is your lover.” “Rodriguez . . . of course he loves me.” Clague flung her off and sent her careening against the wall. His drink, by a miracle, had survived the A DAGGER IN THE DARK 187 mêlée. He gulped it down, rose, walked to the table and poured himself another. “Yeah,” he sneered, “loved you so much that the minute he got his paws on the pearls he walked out on you.” Felicia's voice was low but vehement: “It is a .” Then she crumpled up in her chair, sobbing. Clague towered over her. “That's why you sneaked into my office and tried to pay me with a measly five hundred to find him,” he stormed. “Not because you thought he'd run away from his art. Oh, no. It was because you knew you were through the minute your sugar daddy found out you had two-timed him, two-timed him and let a goddamned hoofing pimp get away with the jewels he gave you.” Clague stopped to see the effect of his words. Slowly Felicia turned until her face was visible. “Well,” Clague said finally, “what do we do? Do I tell Pantigras or not?” “You will not tell him?” “That depends on you.” Felicia sat erect in her chair and straightened out her rumpled dressing gown. “What is it you wish me to do?” “Talk,” Clague said. “What is it you wish to know?” “How'd Martinez get them?” “I showed them to him,” Felicia stammered. “He admired them so much. He had such appreciation of beautiful things.” lie A DAGGER IN THE DARK 189 had backed out on the deal was another thing. Maybe he had lost his nerve. Or perhaps he had decided he could bargain better elsewhere. Clague opened another line of questioning. “Any idea at all where he might be?” Felicia shook her head. “Has he any friends to turn to in a fix like this?” There was no answer. “I didn’t think you'd know.” Clague balanced a spinning coin on the back of his hand. Then he said lightly: “You knew Pantigras was going to give you the air, didn't you?” Felicia was indignant: “My big boy would never do that.” “Maybe not,” Clague agreed. “But he had his mind fully made up to it this afternoon. And you know it too. What was the big jam about?” Felicia raised both hands in protesting ignorance: “I do not know . . . I can not tell.” “So,” said Clague, “we’re back at that again.” He picked up his hat and started for the door. Be- fore his fingers could even turn the knob Felicia had run to his side and grabbed his arm. “You must not. You are not to go to him, I tell you.” She led him back to the chair and pushed him into it. Then she seized his glass, ran to the table, refilled it and brought it back to him. “Let us talk sensible . . . like friends . . . why not?” “Why not,” Clague echoed. “Go ahead.” “Mister Pantigras is a very impatient man. 190 A DAGGER IN THE DARK Many little things go wrong, he wants to end one big love right away. And those pearls worry him much.” “Why?” Clague demanded, eyes lightening. “It is not the money. He has so much. But I have been careless so often. He is angry. He gets a mood. Perhaps he decides I shall be punished.” She clasped her hands dramatically. Then she added: “But I, too, have some arguments to say he is wrong. See!” Clague's glance showed his skepticism. “You do not believe?” Felicia asked, surprised and hurt. “No.” A sudden mood of determination came over her. “Then what do you think of this?” she demanded. She ran to the closet, disappeared for a moment and, returning, placed in Clague's hands a string of shin- ing, beautifully matched yellow pearls. He stared at them spellbound. “Gorgeous,” he finally managed to stammer. Instinctively he started to raise them to the light, but before he could complete the motion Felicia imprisoned his arms. Her exultation over the pearls had vanished. Releasing him, her hands dropped dejectedly at her sides. “You must not,” she said tonelessly. “You would know.” Clague gazed at her, not understanding. “They were made by the same jewelers who sold him the string,” Felicia explained. “They know every stone in it. The stones are exact in every de- A DAGGER IN THE DARK 191 tail and they have sworn to me never to tell him I bought this.” She sighed defeatedly. “It is no use. Not now. He is too critical. In this mood he would examine. Then he would know they are not real pearls.” •. Clague's breath broke sharply. To cover his stu- pidity he bellowed at her: “Say, what kind of a game is this, anyway?” “You know Madame Pantigras?” Felicia asked simply. “No.” “She is very jealous. There are letters, and other tokens. I have persuaded him it is cheaper not to pay a million dollars or more for a divorce settle- ment, so he do not give me the gate.” Clague let his fingers run over the pearls. The thin gold clasp at the back was welded so tightly to the nearest pearl as to be separable only at the risk of ruining the string. Clague marveled at the workmanship. “You’re good,” he commented finally, “so long as you don’t pick 'em too young.” “You think so?” Felicia asked, flattered. Clague turned to the pearls. “Just like their dad- dies?” “Yes. It cost me plenty.” Clague shoved them carelessly in a pocket. “I’ll keep them. They may come in handy later,” he said. Felicia was standing before him, her dressing gown falling open. Her eyes flashed Clague a mes- 192 A DAGGER IN THE DARK sage too obvious to be misunderstood. Deliberately she moved closer. Less than an inch away she stopped and raised her lips. Her head was bent back; her throat looked soft and warm. Clague's arms went out instinctively. Felicia's hands rose on his shoulders. “You will not tell him, Bernard?” she pleaded. It broke the spell. “I’ve told you not to call me that,” Clague raged. “God knows I'm old enough to be one of your money guys, but I’m damn well not going to be.” He grabbed his hat and broke for the door. “I’m leav- ing while I’m still pure.” Felicia's voice followed him. “You will not tell ?” “I won’t,” Clague promised, “though God knows what you see in him.” He slammed the door behind him, furious. What right did that woman have to think she could weaken him with her time-worn bag of tricks? The fact that she had almost succeeded never entered into his mind. It irritated him that he should still be con- sidered a gullible victim. Not until he was in the elevator, halfway down to the ground floor, did his mind revert to the pearls. The imitation string was beautiful enough to attract attention. He could understand how the real string might lure one man to risk anything for it—even the chair. But for a gang to go to such persistent, organized effort to ac- quire stones worth, at the most, fifty thousand—that was something else again. Ponder as he might, Clague could make no sense out of it. CHAPTER XVIII T was half-past one when Clague, sleepy, wild- eyed, and muddle-headed, slumped through the doorway of his own home. Jasper, true to custom, was sitting up, but the guilty surprise on his face as Clague entered the lighted living room indicated that there had been lapses in his watchfulness. A tea- kettle was still boiling on the stone slabs in front of the fireplace, but Jasper, who knew Clague's moods, had also placed a White Horse bottle on the end-table near the couch. The day had been long, and it had followed with little respite on the day before. Clague kicked vaguely at the tea-kettle without touching it, and seized the whiskey. He cursed the stream that poured slowly from the non-refillable bottle, and shifted a second glass under the bottle as he gulped the contents of the first. When he had finished both, he started for the doorway upstairs, staggering with exhaustion. “Put the lights out and close up,” he told Jasper. “As usual?” Jasper asked meaningly. Clague nodded. He never even heard the chain put in place. Clothes seemed to drop from him the minute he reached his bedside, lying where they fell in neglected disarray. He had a hazy recollection 193 A DAGGER IN THE DARK 195 Instinctively Clague shook his head. “We won’t,” he emphasized, “and you don't get in till it goes.” He heard her high heels scrape down the stone steps and was at the living room window in time to see her hand the cab-driver a bill. If there was any change coming to her she didn’t stop for it. She raced back to the vestibule. Clague waited until the car had shifted into high. He wanted to be certain that it wasn’t going to stop after a few yards. The hallway was still in dark- ness when he bawled through the closed door: “You alone?” “Yes. Please hurry.” Clague unhooked the chain, unlocked the door and pulled it back. As it opened he sheltered himself be- hind it. Lila O’Malley rushed in, stumbled and fell. She had tripped over a wire drawn taut about five inches above the floor between the opposite wall and the rear of the door. Clague darted a quick glance outside. Satisfied that no one was there, he pulled the girl over the wire, closed the door, locked and chained it again. Then he switched on the hall light and lifted her to her feet. “Sorry,” he said, as he removed her coat and hung it on the rack. “After all, you can’t blame me.” There was no answer. Either something really had happened or she was a better actress than Clague had suspected. The careless poise and impudent smile were gone. Disillusion and despair had taken their place. 196 A DAGGER IN THE DARK Clague remembered Jasper at the stair-top. “Better go by-by,” he called up. “I’ll yell if I need you.” He piloted the girl into the living room and turned on a lamp. The whiskey bottle was lying where he had left it. He picked it up and forced the neck between her lips, tipping the bottle high. She shuddered at the first swallow, but the warmth revived her. “It’s murder,” she gasped. “You’ve got to pre- vent it.” Clague cocked an eyebrow. “Yeah?” he drawled, unbelieving. . He walked leisurely to the table, picked a cigar from the humidor and took a seat on the piano stool. He sat there watching the girl’s face. His lack of interest intensified her excitement. “Don’t you understand?” she begged. “They're going to kill someone.” “They shouldn’t do that,” Clague replied reprov- ingly. “Stop being cynical,” she snapped. “While you sit here they’re planning to commit murder.” “Who are ‘they’?” Clague asked coldly. He got a venomous look in reply. “I’m no rat,” she said. Clague barked: “And I’m no sap.” “But you don’t get it. It's murder.” “I shouldn’t think a little thing like that would bother you,” Clague answered suavely. A DAGGER IN THE DARK 197 The girl braced herself. She strove grimly to convince him. “I’m not trying to pose as little Miss Purity,” she said. “I told you before I was in the game because I saw a chance for independence I couldn’t get by years of slaving. But murder wasn’t in my calcula- tions. If it had been, I’d have kept on starving at the manicure table. And that's straight.” Clague shrugged. “Why come to me? I’m not the police.” “You know I can’t go to them.” “Why not?” Clague asked. “Oh, well,” he said, “you can still put on a swell act, precious.” Her lips trembled. “Please, Bernard,” she begged. “I’ve never lied to you.” Clague laughed caustically. “You’ve got to believe me,” she urged. He said agreeably: “All right. Let's get at this from the beginning. How and where did you hear of it?” “I got an earful I wasn’t meant to,” she explained. “I was in the ladies' room at a night club. They were talking outside the entrance.” “No, no, babe.” Clague was firm. “Whose apartment was it and where?” She remained silent, making a half-hearted at- tempt to straighten her disheveled hair. “Won't talk, eh?” Clague said, rising. “Whom did you overhear?” “You might guess but I won’t tell.” “That's too bad,” said Clague. A DAGGER IN THE DARK 199 “Got money?” “I’ll get by.” Clague snatched her handbag and opened the purse. A few coins clicked. Otherwise it was empty. She had neither the strength nor inclination to resist when Clague led her back to the couch and made her sit down. “Know who the party's for?” he asked huskily. “Yes. A man named Morello.” “Morello,” Clague shouted. “Who? Which one?” “He lives in Brooklyn, Prospect Park section. He's a banker. And he's a very fine old gentleman,” she said wearily. “You know him?” “Yes. Oswald Hatton introduced us.” “Cripes, you haven’t missed one of them,” Clague said cynically. His mind reverted to the matter at hand. “Why bump Morello off?” “I don’t know. I only heard snatches. Some- thing about ‘stalling too long and ‘it’s time to give someone a lesson.’” “I don’t believe it,” Clague shouted excitedly. The next moment he had control of himself. “We’ll find out soon enough,” he said. He darted behind the piano and came back with a Brooklyn telephone directory, thumbing the pages until he found the name: MoRELLO ANTHONY FoR- TUNo. He called the number and finally heard the buzz on the other end of the wire. 200 A DAGGER IN THE DARK “When was this to happen?” he asked out of the corner of his mouth. “They were starting any minute.” The operator's voice interrupted. “Keep on ringing,” Clague said. After another ninety seconds he hung up, took off the receiver as soon as the line was clear and called headquarters. He got the desk lieutenant, gave his name and asked where the Commissioner could be reached. He was told that the Commissioner had left his home but would telephone in later. Clague left his name and number. “Ask him to call me when he does.” From Information he got the precinct station near Morello's house. He called it and asked for the desk Sergeant. “My name's Clague,” he said. “I’ve gotten a tel- ephone tip that a man named Morello is to get the works. He lives in your territory. I don’t know how good it is but I thought I’d better let you know.” He listened half a minute, then hung up and turned to the girl, a look of perplexity on his face. “They got the same tip fifteen minutes ago,” he said. “Now who the hell could have done that?” She gestured helplessly with her hands. “Theirs really came by telephone,” he added. He turned for the stairs, ready for action. “Where are you going?” Her words brought him back. He saw the utter weariness of her posture and the rings of exhaustion under her eyes. He shoved her toward the stairs. “Left at the top,” he said. “It’s marked ‘Strictly A DAGGER IN THE DARK 201 Private.” The light switch is right inside the door. Everything you need except a permanent wave. Beat it.” She started to go up, but came running back and threw both arms around Clague's neck. “You’re not so bad, Bernard,” she said quietly. Clague waited until she was out of sight. “I may be the damnedest fool you ever knew,” he said to himself. He switched off the living room lights, went up to his bedroom and started to dress. While he was dressing the light in the room opposite was switched off. He was still adjusting his tie when the tele- phone rang. He took the call on the bedroom extension and heard the Commissioner’s even voice. “All right, Clague. You'd better hop over. There's been an attempt on Morello. He's your client and there are some things that might interest you.” Clague started to ask a question but the Commis- sioner cut him off. “You’ll get it all soon enough. How quickly can you be here?” “Twenty minutes,” Clague answered. CHAPTER XIX DROWSY night attendant brought out Clague's car and swore because he received no tip. Clague picked the Manhattan Bridge as the quickest route to his destination. Once across, he had to stop twice and ask for directions. Toward the end of his journey, however, the path was pointed out for him. Despite the hour lighted cars lined the curbs and idle loiterers were gathered out- side the cleared area. Three-fourths of the block consisted of sand lot, shrubbery and tree clumps. The other fourth was Morello's quarter-acre on the corner. The house it- self was a large brick structure with wide gables. It was set back about twenty feet from the street under the protecting shade of two huge elms. A three-foot iron fence surrounded it. Lights gleamed from every room. Occasionally passing figures could be glimpsed between the bro- caded curtains. The police cordon, the cleared street and the furtive throngs created an atmosphere of sinister activity. Clague found a parking place two blocks away and walked back. Evidently he was expected, for the officer at the gate let him in the minute he gave his name. At the doorway a sergeant admitted him immediately, at the same time shoving back a tall, 202 A DAGGER IN THE DARK 203 rangy individual who tried to force his way in with Clague. “The Commissioner told you boys all he can right now,” the sergeant declared. “He’ll see you later at Headquarters.” Clague didn’t wait for the argument that ensued. Inside he found Dunlop, his voice strangely sub- dued, giving orders. The detective broke off as he saw Clague. “The Commissioner's busy a few moments,” he greeted. “He said for you to go right up to Mor- ello's rooms.” Through half-opened draperies Clague had a bird’s-eye view of the ground floor as he climbed the angular oak staircase. What he saw was a sweeping living room whose full-length windows opened ap- parently on a terrace. A small doorway led prob- ably to a study. Across the hall was the dining room, a bay-window at one end. The walls were smoothly paneled and bare of ornament. A long table gleamed with the rich luster of carefully- tended wood. On the second floor, Clague was assailed by the reek of an anesthetic. The door and the murmur of voices led him to a huge bedroom. Windows were wide open. Half a dozen men were grouped around a vast four-poster bed. Clague, shoving his face into the circle, saw Mor- ello's gasping countenance against a background of white linen. He looked worn and exhausted. His head lay limp against the pillow, incapable of mo- 204 A DAGGER IN THE DARK tion. The man at Clague's left turned. It was Greavy. He moved back to give Clague a chance to draw closer. Morello's eyes flickered, then opened. He recog- nized Clague. “Mr. Clague,” he gasped feebly, “I hardly ex- pected to see you here.” “Why, I–’’ Clague started to stammer and felt a tap on his shoulder. The physician gestured with his thermometer for silence. “Rest is the saving grace,” he pronounced sonor- ously. “As soon as the air clears he will sleep.” Morello's eyes were shut. The crowd broke up and left the room, one by one. A solitary policeman re- mained, awaiting the arrival of a nurse. Clague found the lighted hallway a relief from the dim room and caught up with Greavy. “Who did what to whom and why?” he asked. “We just saved him,” Greavy said with pride. “How?” Clague repeated. “Ether.” “Ether!” Clague repeated senselessly. He couldn’t understand it. Just then the Commissioner emerged from one of the other rooms. His face seemed more commonplace than ever but it was intensely serious. Behind him came two servants, a man and a woman. The woman was a bent, graying Celt in whose eyes traces of tears still gleamed. The man was a stolid, un- emotional Eurasian. They were both in various stages of undress. The woman was swathed in dress- A DAGGER IN THE DARK 205 ing gowns and the man wore a coat over his pajamas. “You can both go about your business now.” The Commissioner dismissed them and they disappeared downstairs. He turned to Clague. “I want to talk with you. Come in.” They reëntered the room they had just left and closed the door. Outside there was a sudden com- motion of voices and the sergeant's roar was audible above the din. “Not wan of yez kin get in. 'Tis the Commissioner's orders.” The Commissioner smiled grimly. “I had to keep the press out this time.” Clague said: “No wonder they're howling.” The Commissioner was wasting no time on pre- liminaries. “Take the run of the place,” he told Clague. “Look things over. See if we've missed any bets.” Clague flopped down on a chair and sat motion- less. “Supposing you tell me what's happened first?” “The precinct station got the word anonymously and called me. It’s only ten minutes' drive from where I live. Maybe we saw some of them rushing away. Maybe it was only some drunks. We were set on getting inside before it was too late. It didn’t occur to us until after that they could have only been gone a few minutes, maybe seconds. We found the old man bound in bed. An etherized gag was tied on his face.” “What does he say?” “He can’t talk much and doesn’t know much. He 206 A DAGGER IN THE DARK was awakened and found himself already gagged. Then he went back to sleep. He thinks there were three, maybe four. We know there were several of them.” “They got in easily?” “The living room windows. The lock's been forced and there's a pane smashed. That may have been accidental. But here's what gets me. We’ve had two men patrolling the place for a week. They were drawn off by a fight down the block. It broke up before they got there. All they had to do was scatter the cheering section. Old stuff—and they'll know it,” he complained bitterly. “Morello's one of the four you’ve been protect- ing?” “Yes. We set a decoy package for him this eve- ning. That was why I couldn’t give you names this afternoon. With the mess of duds our decoys have turned out to be I didn't trust anyone on this.” “What happened?” “A sixteen-year-old kid blew into the store and asked for the package. We jumped him. He claims he was given four bits to call for the pack- age . . . and I believe him.” Clague screwed his lips together. “What's on the old man?” * . “Nothing,” the Commissioner retorted. He low- ered his head until the one shiny spot on the top was visible. “And the threats he gets don't hint at anything. Just plain extortion.” “You’ve got the letters?” A DAGGER IN THE DARK 207 “At the office. Want to see them?” “Perhaps; but I don’t think so. How about these servants?” “You saw them. They say they slept through it all. By God, I’m convinced they did. Figure that out.” “Doped?” suggested Clague. “I’ve had the doctor look at them. They seemed all right to him.” “Who else has appealed to you?” Clague asked abruptly. “Hatton?” “Yes.” “How'd he trip?” “Girl. Not a pretty story. Violation of the Mann Act, corrupting the morals of a minor, breach of promise and enough in writing to make most of it stick. Hatton admits it himself.” “But unless the girl is willing to testify—” “That's the point. She's disappeared. The threats Hatton receives say that the gang has her under ‘protection.” Either way it's ripe cheese for his Park Avenue society friends.” “Who else?” Clague demanded, hooking one leg over the bed end. “Thorley Morton, the lawyer. He admits having lost trust"fund monies but claims it was a perfectly legitimate investment. Maybe it was. It won’t help him, though, when they discover the money's gone.” “Who else?” “Cotton Mattox, race track plunger. Old stuff, 210 A DAGGER IN THE DARK wasting his time on work that the police were paid for. His search was perfunctory, but it covered es- sentials. The dining room sideboard contained table linen, silver, and a pint of rye. Clague pock- eted the rye and returned to the living room. It was easy to see how the attackers had gotten in. The wooden frames of the living room windows were splintered on the outside where a heavy wedge had forced the lock. The terrace flagstones had been dry for hours and it was too dark to search in the shrub- bery. Clague, returning through the windows, stopped to look at the keyhole. If there had been a key in it earlier in the evening, it was missing now. He wasted little time in the living room. Music scores didn’t interest him. Neither did books. Spitefully, Clague turned a copy of Resurrection upside down, but no hidden papers floated out. The study, too, was almost bare of possible hiding places. Relics of sporting days adorned the walls—a moose head, stuffed mallards and a muskie. Lamps, chairs, and an ebony desk table without drawers, completed the furnishings. Two small blotters were wedged in a corner of the blotting pad on the desk. Clague picked them up and tried to find some decipherable writing on them by reversing them and holding them to the light. As he put them back, he noticed that the blotting pad wasn’t flat on the desk. Lifting it up, he saw some steamship circulars with several sailing dates circled in red crayon. He was about to exam- A DAGGER IN THE DARK 211 ine them closely when a shuffling of feet made him look up. The Eurasian servant was standing in the doorway, wordless and motionless. He stood there as long as Clague stayed in the room, watching as he thumped the walls and looked behind paintings. When Clague left he followed. The Commissioner was returning from his open- air conference with the newspaper men as Clague passed through the hallway. “Well, Clague?” he asked. “Well nothing,” Clague replied and looked around to make certain there was no one within hearing. “Does it make sense?” “I’m not that kind of an interpreter,” Clague re- plied conservatively, “but there are several things I’d like to be able to do.” “What are they?” “I’d like to have a look at Morello's checking account and see if he's been paying this gang money on the QT.” “Right,” the Commissioner nodded. “I’d like to have access to the audits of the State Superintendent of Banks and see just how Morello's institution stands.” - “That’s public property,’” the Commissioner said. “And I’d like to know where Morello has ac- counts and what he's been banking, if anything. And after I’ve found out those things there are still some questions I’d be wanting to ask about tonight.” 212 A DAGGER IN THE DARK “Such as?” the Commissioner inquired blandly. “Who tipped off their hand to you—and why? How could a small army get in here without waking up two perfectly healthy kitchen mechanics?” “That all?” “And why ether?” Clague was almost shouting. The Commissioner motioned him to lower his voice. “You’re trying to put two and two together,” he told Clague. “Do you think it'll make four when you do?” “It may and it may make five hundred,” Clague barked. “Or maybe when we get through we may find that we’ve had to add six and three and sub- tract five. Don't ask riddles. What we're trying to do is solve them.” The Commissioner eyed Clague studiously. “I’ve told you before,” he said, “that this racket is being engineered by someone we don't suspect because it's far and away from his regular line.” “Yes?” Clague questioned meaningly. The Commissioner echoed “Yes,” with equal meaning. Then he said hurriedly: “You’ll keep in touch with us, Clague,” and dashed upstairs. Clague ducked through the door, found his car, and drove home at breakneck speed. He left the car outside his door as the first faint glimmer of day was cutting across the sky. The prospect of another twenty-hour session was highly discouraging. He was tired but wakeful. Underneath his restlessness was a resentment at the Commissioner's undisguised skepticism. Added to that were his own growing A DAGGER IN THE DARK 213 suspicions. He had a hunch and no proof, but the hunch was strong and it played havoc with his peace of mind. He walked through the doorway, carefully avoid- ing the wire, and trotted upstairs. For an inter- minable period he stood in front of Lila O'Malley's door arguing with himself. She was a waif who had come to him for shelter. On the other hand, she wasn't a baby and she had come of her own free will. His scruples annoyed him, but they persisted. Finally, smiling ruefully at himself, he turned away and opened the door of his own room. Switching on the lights, he stared in amazement. The clothes he had shed negligently over every square foot of floor had disappeared. The room was immaculately clean. He whirled around, seeking an explanation. He found it. A mop of tousled red hair lay against the whiteness of the pillow. He was carefully retracing his steps to the door when the girl's eyes fluttered and opened. “You got there . . . in time?” she asked. “We did, but the police were there first and saved his hide. You were right, precious,” he admitted. She smiled and yawned sleepily. “You were so long. I thought you were never coming back.” Clague's voice hardened. “I thought I gave you your own room,” he said. The eyes closed, reopened and a shadow of a smile flitted over the sleepy face. “I liked yours better.” 214 A DAGGER IN THE DARK She had turned on her side and was watching him, laughing. Clague walked to the door and snapped off the lights. “Move over, precious,” he said. “Do you want the whole bed?” CHAPTER XX HE morning papers shrieked headlines. One story read: POLICE SQUADRON FOILS MURDER PLOT ANONYMoUs TELEPHoNE TIP SENT To PRE- cINCT STATION SAVEs ANTHONY MORELLO WEALTHY HEAD OF PRIVATE BANK FOUND Bound, ETHERIZED IN BROOKLYN HOME Acting upon an anonymous tip a little after midnight last night, the police broke into the Brooklyn home of Anthony Fortuno Morello and undoubtedly saved his life. The well- known financial figure, head of the banking in- stitution that bears his name, was discovered bound in his bed with a heavy, etherized gag over his face. The police surgeon stated that the effect would have been fatal except for the timely intervention. There is reason to believe that the anxiety of the police to make the rescue permitted the criminals to escape. The available evidence in- dicated that they had left the house only a few minutes before the police arrived. 215 216 A DAGGER IN THE DARK Entrance was forced through the living room windows. Two servants on the third floor slept through the attack. The remainder of the story described conditions as the police had found them. Morello's account of the episode was quoted, as well as the statement in which he professed ignorance of any possible motive for the attack. Clague read the accounts lying in bed and smiled grimly at the Commissioner's handiwork. All men- tion of blackmail and of the fact that two men had been guarding the place was carefully suppressed. None of the papers laid much stock in the theory that robbery had been the object of Morello's assail- ants. Imaginative tabloids hinted at an Italian feud. One journal, digging for a motive, went so far as to revive memories of the Camorra and the Black Hand. As Clague dressed, the odor of percolating coffee and sizzling bacon drifted up. Downstairs, he walked directly to the kitchen and found Lila scram- bling eggs with a fork. “Hello, precious.” She raised her face for his kiss. “Stole a march on me, didn't you?” “I’ve been up an hour,” she protested. “Where's Jasper?” “He’s dispossessed. I told him I was going to get breakfast.” “I’ll bet that pleased him.” A DAGGER IN THE DARK 217 “It didn't. You're his private worry. I don’t think he likes the idea of my being here at all.” “He’ll get used to that.” “Why? Has he had to before?” Clague raised an objecting eyebrow. “Now, precious,” he grinned. “So early in the morning.” Lila laughed. “Go inside and be comfortable. I’ll bring you food soon.” But it was Jasper, refusing to be denied his rights any longer, who served the breakfast and Lila sat at Clague's side as they ate. When he had finished, he shoved his plate forward. “And so the fairy tale's come true,” Lila re- marked when she had Clague's undivided attention. “Which one?” “‘The Prince Chap,’” she quoted. “He turns out not to be a horrible old guardian after all, but a very fine gentleman to whom the little girl becomes tremendously attached.” “Maybe she was a not-quite-bright little girl to become attached to him when she could have found so many more attractive men,” Clague suggested. “Not any more she isn't,” Lila objected. “I’ve had my eyes opened and I’ve stepped down from the driver's seat. Which, I may remark, is why I came to you last night—and why I told you everything.” “That's just the point, beautiful,” Clague said seriously. “What is?” “You haven’t told me anything.” A DAGGER IN THE DARK 221 Morello took a seat on the couch. Clague and Lila found chairs facing him. “I have had some difficulty escaping the newspa- per men,” Morello admitted, “but I feel that I owed you an early visit.” - “Yes,” said Clague. “In the first place to thank you for your timely in- tervention,” Morello continued, “without which I should probably not be here now.” “The police got an anonymous tip,” was Clague's reply. “But you were there, too.” “I also got a tip—anonymously. Any idea what's behind it all, Mr. Morello?” Morello made a gracious gesture of admission. “Mr. Clague,” he said. “Let us not pretend. You know just as well as I do the cause of this murderous attempt. That is why I am here.” He paused to clear his throat. Clague watched him closely. “I am not entirely familiar with the ethics of your profession,” Morello went on, “but I feel that per- haps I have been guilty in engaging you for one ser- vice and failing to explain other difficulties in which I have been involved. My point of view is simple. I felt that the one was a public, the other a private matter. The threats which were directed against my brother's memory and which affected my bank were distinctly a private matter. The threat of black- mail was one for which I had previously appealed to the police because I felt it was their province to de- A DAGGER IN THE DARK 223 country. Of late we have been victimized by fraud- ulent letters of credit coming to us from the Middle West. We feel that the headquarters is in Chicago, although the trail may extend farther west. We need someone who is astute and discreet to go out there and trace these fraudulent credits to their source. It may take two weeks, maybe two months.” Clague said “No.” “If it is a matter of money,” Morello explained, “we are ready to meet your terms.” Clague again said “No.” His refusal amazed Morello. “May I venture to ask why you are unwilling to accept this assign- ment?” Clague's reply came briskly: “Simply because I’ve got enough important work here that requires my personal attention. Unless you want me to send one of my men,” he added. Morello raised two hands disparagingly. “Un- fortunately this is a matter we should be willing to entrust only to someone with whose discretion we are familiar. Perhaps later, in a week or two,” he suggested. “Perhaps,” Clague conceded. Morello rose and picked up his hat and cane. “In any event, I am still deeply grateful to you.” Clague accepted the point. “Take good care of yourself.” Morello turned. For a second his penetrating eyes rested upon Clague. A DAGGER IN THE DARK 227 ward, either. That is what makes me fearful there may have been an ulterior motive.” Clague ceased being mildly interested. “Stop making speeches and come to the point,” he barked. “I have, perhaps, been romantically foolish.” Pantigras was edging into a discreditable admission through a sentimental detour. “Don’t be a martyr,” Clague urged. “What did you do to whom and why?” “I had the string made up as a gift in token of a very dear friendship. The clasp locket had an em- bossed photograph of two people and a rather en- dearing inscription.” Clague snapped out of his doze. The veil of mys- tery had been swept away. “And you had the gall to let me stumble about in the dark for five days.” “But, Mr. Clague, it was only a friendly senti- ment.” “Of all the damned saps—” “And it was supposed to be a secret between us.” “Secret as the ocean,” Clague jeered. He could picture the photograph Pantigras would have em- bossed in gold. Himself the protecting hero! Fe- licia the despoiled ewe! Everything the divorce courts needed except dates and places. Clague wanted to swear, laugh, cry. Instead he said: “So you think someone is getting ready to chisel.” “It is merely a possibility,” Pantigras insisted. “Possibility nothing.” Clague was relieved. The problem that had puzzled him since Schlemborn's 228 A DAGGER IN THE DARK death was cleared up. It didn’t help him toward re- covering the jewels but he knew now what he was up against. “How much could Mme. Pantigras collect?” he barked. º Pantigras professed not to understand. Clague became more specific. “How much could she col- lect if she knew what you, I and the other people who are after these pearls know? Millions?” Pantigras spread out his hands disparagingly. “Mr. Clague, I am not a poor man, but—” “A million?” There was no reply. Clague answered himself. “Depends upon how good a lawyer you had. And you thought you were clever trying to buy your way out of this mess for a measly twenty grand? You thought you could hold out on me and still get away with it. Or maybe you didn't think at first. And when you began to worry you had the missus sail for Europe. That cleared things up, eh? But you didn't have the guts to stick it out. In the end you had to come whining for someone to clean out your sewage.” Squirming, Pantigras protested: “But, Mr. Clague, I do not think this is going to happen.” “Stop thinking then,” Clague said coldly. “You know what I promised if I ever caught you holding out on me again.” Pantigras showed his distress plainly. “I can explain my viewpoint,” he expostulated. “Don’t.” A DAGGER IN THE DARK 229 “It was just a supposition, Mr. Clague. We may get the pearls back for the reward.” Clague assumed an expression of bland innocence. “You honestly believe that? You wouldn't kid me?” “It is possible, Mr. Clague. Why not?” Clague accepted the statement amicably. “Then there's nothing to worry about.” He turned to the papers on his desk. Pantigras leaned forward excitedly and clutched Clague's arm. “But I must be protected against even such a far-fetched contingency.” Clague wheeled in his chair. His look burnt. His tongue lashed. “Quit faking,” he thundered. “It’s so little far- fetched that you’re writhing now at the thought of the checks you’ll be signing to keep the missus from seeing that locket. It's bringing out the yellow in you, too. You'll be sunk for several hundred grand at least and you know it. Let's figure on that basis.” Pantigras asked: “What do you want me to do?” “You’ve never seen such a locket and you’ve never had anything to do with it.” “You mean the one I bought?” Clague swirled his chair to face the desk again and said, with bent head: “We’re not going to get any- where that way.” Pantigras sputtered. “I don't understand.” “I can't illustrate it for you. Let's try it like this. As long as Mme. Pantigras doesn’t see those pearls you don't care if you ever do again or not. Right?” 230 A DAGGER IN THE DARK Color surging to his irate face, Pantigras jumped to his feet screaming: “It’s an outrage. I’ll go to the police.” “Do that,” Clague encouraged. “They'll get the newspapers to help find them for you.” The color ebbed from Pantigras’ face. He sat down once more. Finally he managed to muster up a ghastly smile. “Let us try again, Mr. Clague. Perhaps I am beginning to understand.” In the dull monotone of a text-book recitation Clague prompted him. “You deny ever having bought or owned such a string of pearls.” “Absolutely.” “Or having offered a reward for their return?” “Mr. Clague, if I never owned them, how could I?” Clague beamed: “You seem to have learned that lesson very well. Let's go on to the next one. You wish to retain my services to protect you against blackmail. At the usual retainer, I suppose?” Pantigras leaped to his feet, shook his fists in Clague's face and shouted: “It’s robbery. You're a thief.” “Well,” said Clague dully, “it’s all fish hooks to me. You've let me run circles while you've played fast and loose. Now if you want to get out of your stew alone, I’m perfectly willing to let you.” “But you can't—” “Yes, I can,” Clague reminded him mercilessly. “Just remember I was supposed to be sweating in your interests. And you've been hugging yourself A DAGGER IN THE DARK 231 for being so damned smart as to leave me holding a million-dollar bag for a piker's fee. Well, I’ve held the bag. Now you have to come yelping for help. Don’t blame me for wanting to write my own terms this time.” Reluctantly Pantigras extracted a checkbook. His eyes drifted to Clague. “What is your retainer, Mr. Clague?” “My usual retainer is five hundred,” Clague said. Pantigras unscrewed a pen. Clague added: “For you it's going to be a thousand.” “Swindler!” Pantigras shrieked. Clague was unmoved. “Take it,” he replied, “or leave it.” Pantigras scribbled with feverish anxiety and handed another pink check to Clague. He opened the drawer and shoved it inside disinterestedly. “Just to give you a break,” he said, “I won’t make you put up a cash advance for expenses. Not a cent,” he declared righteously. “You can pay that when you're satisfied you've been protected.” It was the final touch. Pantigras screeched and raved with blasphemous profanity. Clague listened to all he could stand. Then he stood up, opened the . inter-office door and shoved Pantigras into the front office. Having no other place to go, Pantigras hurled a departing curse at Clague and vanished into the hallway. Dingy watched the performance from his desk, open-eyed, but silent. “Chees, it sounds like an operating clinic.” 232 A DAGGER IN THE DARK 32 “Nothing painless about it, either,” Clague agreed. “It’s the ones who expect everything for nothing that yell the loudest.” He remembered the check in his drawer and brought it out. “Put this through at once.” The moment he was alone in his office he reached in his pocket and pulled out the imitation string of pearls. He pried the locket open with a knife blade. An attempt had been made to emboss a picture in the imitation locket, but it was a crude one and the faces were unrecognizable. Perhaps no duplicate photo- graph had existed. The inscription, however, was plain enough. It read: “To dear Felicia, from Georges.” The telephone rang as Dingy returned. Clague took the receiver. It was Jasper calling. Lila O'Malley had disappeared from the house. She had received a telephone call and had held a long conver- sation that he hadn't overheard. When he went to look for her afterward, she was gone. “Her coat's missing, too. That's what makes me sure about it,” Jasper concluded. The wire had hardly been disconnected when Hogan rang up, his first call in several days. “I’ve got him located,” he reported. “Where?” “You told me to start in the Village. I found him two blocks away from where he'd been.” He gave an address on East Eighty-second Street. “You’re sure?” “The landlady recognized the photograph.” A DAGGER IN THE DARK 233 “Is she on to you?” “I don’t think so. I said I was looking for an old friend. She said she was glad to hear he had any friends. She was beginning to doubt it. She hasn’t seen him out of his room since he moved in. What's more, he won’t let anyone in his room.” “Hm-m,” Clague grunted. “What kind of a dump is it?” “Typical Yorkville lodging house. Brick, three steps from the street and anything from a closet up goes as a room. This boy’s got the second floor rear parlor at the head of the stairs. I got that much out of her.” “Good boy,” Clague approved. “Stick to it and don’t let him slip away before I can get there. I’ll let you know when I come—then you can clear out.” “Say, boss,” Hogan warned as an afterthought, “if you’re thinking of making the place there's been a guy hanging around the block ever since I’ve been here that doesn’t look right. I think he's a spotter.” Clague said: “All right,” and hung up. A minute later he rang Information, got the telephone number of the house, called it and asked for the landlady. He announced that the Rev. Ernest Dunellen from Minot, N. D., was in the city for several weeks and had had her place recommended by a former lodger, Mr. Hoskins. Did she recall Mr. Hoskins? Clague knew that she didn't but she said she did. Owing to a sudden influx of new lodgers there was only one vacancy, a parlor on the third floor at ten 234 A DAGGER IN THE DARK dollars a week. Would the Rev. Dunellen be inter- ested in that? Clague assured her that he would be and asked her to reserve it. He would be up in an hour. After receiving explicit directions, he hung up and dashed from the office. He stopped for ten minutes at a theatrical cos- tumer's on Forty-eighth Street, and came home to find Jasper cleaning up the living room. He was going away for a while, Clague announced. Maybe four hours. Maybe four days. No one was to be admitted. Nobody was to be given information by letter, telephone, or word of mouth. Half an hour later the Rev. Ernest Dunellen emerged from the house. One hand clutched a bat- tered suitcase; the other a breviary. His Reverence was a fine figure of a man, six feet tall and stalwart of carriage. A bountiful blond beard half concealed his shining clerical collar. If his eyes, worn in ser- vice, needed the assistance of metal-rimmed glasses, his legs were unimpaired. He walked briskly to the corner and ran out into the street to hail a taxi. Jumping in, he gave the driver an Eighty-second Street address. As the cab jounced along, the clergyman tried to scribble a message on a torn envelope, using the win- dow pane for support. CHAPTER XXII LAGUE could be profane in seven different languages, including the deaf and dumb; but he merely swore inwardly. The driver had brought him to the Eighty-second Street address. Clague was trying to give him instructions for the delivery of the scribbled note to Hogan, browsing over an afternoon paper behind a brownstone stoop half- way down the block. Clague didn’t dare deliver the message himself. His height, blowing beard, and clerical garb were too conspicuous. Instead, he stood on the curb, head bent towards the driver's seat. Clearly and concisely he told the man how and where to hand it over. When he had finished, the chauffeur raised a carbon streaked paw against the windshield. “Him?” he said, pointing toward Hogan. Clague decided a dollar tip would be too much of a shock. He handed out fifty cents. “Better drive around the block first and wait a minute or two before coming back with the mes- Sage,” he said. The man's eyes opened with awakening suspicion. Clague delivered the rest of the dollar. “If he can find me, let him,” he explained, “but I'd rather have a day in this city by myself first.” The driver gave Clague a lewd look. 235 236 A DAGGER IN THE DARK “O. K., Reverend. You can trust me.” He Smirked understandingly, shifted into gear and Clague watched him crawl by Hogan and around the corner. The house, when Clague got inside, lived up to his worst expectations. Despite a veneer of cleanli- ness it showed the wear of transient feet. Rugs were frayed, walls spattered and chairs chipped. The rooms were barren of all but the most necessary furniture. The landlady was a brisk little Cuban, well-mean- ing but garrulous. She was particularly impressed by Clague's clerical manner. She bowed and scraped before him, addressed him as “Father” and unbosomed herself of a lifetime of boarding house woes. Lodgers came and went. Sometimes they arrived at twilight and departed at midnight, leav- ing only a flimsy canvas suitcase stuffed with news- papers behind. In this respect, though, she had been more fortunate than her neighbors. Most of her lodgers were dependable in financial matters. She emphasized the adjective, and then, remembering Clague's cloth, bowed as if in apology for her im- plied indifference to matters of the soul. The turnover was always large. A handsome dark-haired young foreigner had taken the second floor rear parlor several days ago, despite the fact that the twelve dollar rent seemed to be more than he could afford. But it had been the only vacancy at the time. How the young man lived and ate she didn’t know. He hadn’t been seen out of his room A DAGGER IN THE DARK 237 since the night he moved in. If he sneaked to the bathroom it was at moments when no one else was around. He had even refused to let anyone clean the room. Through the keyhole he said that he was busy writing and couldn’t be disturbed and that he would look out for the room himself. Since then three rooms had suddenly become va- cant, one on the second floor opposite the parlor oc- cupied by the young foreigner and two on the third floor. The landlady had asked him, through the door, if he cared to move to one of the cheaper rooms upstairs. He had replied, also through the door, that he was busy and couldn’t be bothered. A nice young lady who had come to the city to study music had taken the second floor vacancy that very morning. One of the third floor rooms had found a male tenant. The only vacancy was the room reserved for Father Dunellen at the head of the third floor stairs. Clague listened to the monologue as they climbed upstairs. As they reached the first floor landing, he looked around him. The landlady put a finger to her lips and pointed to a door on the right. He nodded his head in understanding. A straight stair- way led from the second to the third floor and Clague's room was right at the top of the stairs. From it he had an unobstructed view of the second floor rear. The arrangement suited him perfectly. He paid a week's rent in advance and watched the landlady as she fluttered about straightening a soiled lace curtain and re-arranging the chipped chinaware A DAGGER IN THE DARK 239 of roasts and the clatter of dishes filled the air. Clague read by daylight until his eyes ached, then lit the small gas-lamp on the table. For the next two hours the house creaked with activity. Lodgers were returning from work, wash- ing off the day’s dust, preparing to leave for dinner, for the movies, or for an evening's fortune hunting. The sound of moving feet and pounding doors con- tinued intermittently for two hours. Shortly after eight the noises stopped abruptly. Those who were going out had left and the remainder were appar- ently settled in their rooms for the evening. Clague waited another fifteen minutes before he got under way. He had already considered the ad- visability of changing into his own clothes but he had decided against it. There seemed no reason for making identification too easy. For five minutes, he stood poised on his doorsill looking downstairs, a serious-minded clergyman engaged in earnest re- flection. Both hallways were deserted and dark, lit falteringly by the low burning gas-jets. Satisfied at last, Clague reëntered his room and donned coat and vest. He jammed his automatic in a side pocket, felt with both hands to make certain he had everything he needed and stole silently into the hall. He left his door wedged but not closed, to guarantee a speedy retreat if necessary. At the foot of the stairs he went on as if to go down another flight, saw no one about, reversed his position abruptly and faced Martinez' door. There was a faint ray of light sifting through the keyhole A DAGGER IN THE DARK 241 the lair of a hunted animal. Clothes, cigarette butts, ashes, papers and furniture had been heaved about indiscriminately. Opened sardine cans, pre- serve jars and cracker boxes revealed how Martinez had existed during his self-imposed imprisonment. The wrinkled bedclothes were piled in disarray. It was obvious no one had attempted to make the bed in days. Fear and neglect had done their worst to the tenant of the room as well. The dancer's face was streaked with grime and shriveled with terror. His shiny hair straggled in uncombed disorder. Clague strolled to the foot of the bed. “You know what I'm after,” he said calmly. Martinez was unable to reply. “The pearls,” Clague explained. Martinez, too terrified to think of anything but his own skin, pointed mutely to the wardrobe. Clague threw open the door, felt in the pocket of the coat that hung there, and brought out a string of pearls. Walking back towards the bed, he opened the clasp locket. Despite himself he gasped. The pictures of Pantigras and Felicia were easily recognizable and the inscription was equally plain. “The damn fool,” Clague muttered to himself. Martinez, from his bed, eyed Clague anxiously. “You will not hurt me?” he begged. Clague paused thoughtfully. “No,” he said drily. “I won't hurt you.” Martinez whimpered a bit. “How did you get these?” Clague asked. “Felicia—she let me have them.” 242 A DAGGER IN THE DARK “She didn't know you were going to run away with them, did she?” “No.” “That's why she let you have them?” A ghost of a smile flitted over Martinez' drawn COuntenance. “I think she likes me.” “Yeah?” Clague retorted. “Well, maybe you can kid her into liking you again.” “You think so?” Martinez asked hopefully. Clague snorted contempt. “You were going to turn these over to Schlemborn?” “Yes.” “Where? At the hotel?” “We were to meet in a park.” “How'd you know he was after them?” “I hear. Such things get around.” Clague didn’t argue that point. “It was Sunday night you skipped, wasn't it?” “Skipped?” Martinez repeated, puzzled. “Vamoosed, dug out, beat it,” Clague explained with a two-handed gesture. “Yes.” “By Monday night you had arranged to meet Schlemborn?” “That is right.” “Christ,” said Clague to himself. “I didn’t know he was that good.” Aloud he added: “Did he keep the appointment?” Martinez said: “I do not know. I did not go there.” A DAGGER IN THE DARK 247 Everything seemed calm outside. He picked up the key and turned it in the lock. Then he surveyed the room. It was smaller than the one he had just left. A curtained window looked out upon the first floor roof. He circled the room quickly, peering into the closet. Sheets of music were scattered about but all the clothing he saw could have been put in an overnight bag. “Talk quickly,” he said. “What's up?' “I was sent—” Lila stopped, at a loss what to say. Clague gripped her arms and shook her. “I thought I told you to stay put.” “I was going to,” Lila replied, “but my grand- mother called up. She was so sweet about it.” “She knew you were at my place?” “Why, yes. She must have guessed.” “Wait,” Clague checked her sharply. “When you overheard the plot against Morello, did they know you were within hearing? Could they tell just when you were coming toward them so you could hear?” “Why—I don’t know.” Lila was puzzled. She could not see the point to the questions. “All right.” Clague spoke hurriedly. “What did your grandmother say?” “She said they understood perfectly how I felt about things. They had never intended going as far as I seemed to suspect and they certainly hadn’t meant to let me in for anything unpleasant. And she told me that since they realized how distasteful 248 A DAGGER IN THE DARK all this was to me, they were ready to release me from any further obligations.” Under other circumstances Clague would have scoffed, but the crisis was too pressing. “Go on. Why didn't they?” he asked impa- tiently. “They will, but you see, Bernard, when I came to you I didn't have a cent. I couldn’t ask you to look out for me. And there was a large sum of money owing me, money rightfully mine. About ten thousand. They not only offered to release me but also to pay every cent of it. All I had to do was keep watch for one evening.” Clague jerked his head toward Martinez' room. “Him?” he questioned. Lila nodded. - “They had him spotted, then?” Clague said dully. “Yes. They said they trailed him through a taxi driver.” “Sap,” Clague ejaculated. “I should have thought of that.” Lila was gay. “Ten grand, Bernard. It means freedom for me. And all I have to do is watch over a harmless door for four hours.” “Why you?” Clague demanded, unsatisfied. “They knew you came to me.” “Must you spoil it all?” she demanded. “Must hell,” Clague barked. “Can't you see it looks phony?” “Just try to understand,” Lila argued. “They 250 A DAGGER IN THE DARK “They've never let me down before,” she argued. For want of any other argument Lila lost her temper. “What's it to you?” she demanded. “I ought to ask what you were doing in that room. Maybe you’ve been trying to get something that they’re willing to buy.” “Maybe,” Clague replied indifferently. “But why pick you for it?” Lila clawed for his cheeks. Clague seized her wrists firmly. “Stop it, precious. You're playing against a time fuse.” She denied it in desperation. “But I tell you there’s nothing to it. All I have to do is sit here unless something happens in that room.” Clague's hands fell to his sides. His eyes closed to slits. He was too impressed even to shake a warning finger. “And then what?” he demanded. “It’s up to me. If it sounds as if action is needed I’ll go in and see that no one gets away with any- thing.” Somewhere in the distance the church chimes were striking nine. “You were to go in? How?” Clague asked quietly. Lila ran to the table, opened her purse and took out a key. “They gave it to me. It fits his room.” Clague's mind raced as his gaze swept the room, A DAGGER IN THE DARK 251 searching for something tangible which would prove to her that his suspicions were justified. His eyes rested upon a small .22 on the bed. He picked it up. “This isn't yours,” he said. “Yours is in my desk at the office.” “No . . . they gave it to me . . . for an emergency.” Clague broke the barrel and looked at it. One cartridge had been fired recently. The empty shell was still in the chamber. “You’ll never learn, I suppose,” he said dully: “Riding the crest . . . sitting in the driver's seat.” He had no idea how they'd go about it. Maybe they were already in the house, although he doubted that. Perhaps they'd spy the roof, but that seemed unlikely if Lila had been stationed to watch the door. More probably they'd pick the window from the alley. He cursed himself now for not having taken note of the windows in Martinez' room. “Get out of here,” he stormed. “Can't you see you're being framed?” Lila swayed uncertainly. “You’re sure?” she asked. “Bernard, you wouldn’t . . . .” She read the answer in his serious, uncompromis- ing expression and started resolutely for her bag. “I’ll leave. At once,” she said. Clague nudged toward the door. “Not that way.” “What then?” she asked. Clague ripped the covering off the bed, two sheets, a blanket, and a comforter and began tying them together. In a knotted length they measured about A DAGGER IN THE DARK 253 “Hurry up, precious,” he said. “Keep your nerve and a tight grip.” Lila leaned down on the edge of the parapet, seized the improvised rope, and lowered herself to the ground. Clague waited until she stood below him. Then he pulled up the sheets, tied them to the handles of the two suitcases and slowly let the load down. When they had safely landed, he untied the bedclothes from the cornice and threw them to the ground. He could see the outlines of flagstones in the yard below. He jumped so as to land on the soft earth. It was a long drop but he managed it with remark- ably little noise. As he straightened up, he heard Lila's gasp. “You shouldn’t have taken that chance, Bernard.” Clague didn’t bother to answer. He guided her to the fence and helped her up. Giving her the suit cases, he told her to hang on to them until he could climb up, then he lowered her to the other side and tossed the bags down. As he was about to swing himself over he remembered the knotted bedding. A convenient clothes line solved the problem of its disposal. He hung the sheets, blanket and com- forter on the line, and hurried to rejoin Lila. They crossed three more backyards the same way. Finally they came to an apartment house with a service alley running out into the street. Lila saw it first and began to trot toward the light. Clague pulled her back into the darkness. “Wait a minute, precious, it won’t be long.” 256 A DAGGER IN THE DARK “Whadda yuh mean?” “To the Commissioner.” Bree guffawed aloud. “I gottcha, I gottcha,” he bellowed, and Clague knew he did from the rumble of his laugh. Lila took a separate cab and they met again on the sidewalk in front of Bree's apartment building. The elevator boy refused to take them upstairs until they had been announced, but the alacrity with which he moved after getting a reply on the house phone left no doubt of their welcome. They were met at the entrance by a man in eve- ning dress. To all appearances he might have been a prosperous broker receiving friends. “Mr. Bree regrets that he can not be present,” he announced. “He has explained the situation to me thoroughly and asked that I show you to your rooms.” He took their bags as unconcernedly as if that was his job and led the way along the corridor. There were two doorways at the end, one at the left and one straight ahead. The man stepped inside the first and turned on the lights. “This is yours,” he told Lila, placing her bag in- side. He lit up the other room and motioned to Clague. Clague stepped hastily from one doorway to the other. “The only doorway to each is from the hall?” he asked. A DAGGER IN THE DARK 263 She winced. “Stop it, Bernard. You're hurting me.” She struggled futilely to escape his grasp. “Come on. Shell out.” “I Won’t.” “You know.” She made no answer. Clague shook her and wrenched her wrist until she doubled up in agony. Tears sprang to her eyes. “You think this is funny,” he snarled. “Damn it, can’t I get it through your head that we're both sunk unless I can put my finger on the right guy? How long do you think it will be until they know down at headquarters who the missing minister was? The only chance I’ve got to head that off is to tell them, throw the lid open on this whole racket.” Pain twisted her face but Lila looked at him de- fiantly. “I won’t,” she protested. “You’d hate me the rest of your life if I squealed. You know you would.” Clague clenched his fist. “Damn you, talk.” From down the corridor Bree's voice boomed: “Hurry along, Clague. I’ve got something to show you.” Clague released his grip and hurried out into the corridor. Bree led the way to the sound proof room that Clague remembered. There was only one per- son in it as they entered. He was standing with his back toward them facing the opposite wall. A DAGGER IN THE DARK 265 “Damned proud of that pretty face, aren't you?” Clague shouted and he smashed his left into Nito's mouth. It jarred a tooth loose and Nito ran in front of the mirror to see the cavity. Clague yanked him back into striking range. “Hey, you can’t do that,” Nito objected, becom- ing panicky. “I can’t, eh? That's funny. I thought I could,” Clague said, unlashing his right. Nito tried futilely to avoid the oncoming blow. It caught him under the left eye, leaving a discoloration that promised to swell. “The fashion plate of the Loop,” Clague mocked and swung a right hook to the cheek. Nito ducked and it caught him above the eye. His courage was wilting and he ran to Bree for protection. “Stop him. He's killing me.” “What do you call it—psychology?” the Boss laughed, fingering a stud of his stiff shirt as placidly as if he were in a ringside seat at the Garden. He thrust Nito back into Clague's arms. Clague promptly pushed him away, measured an arm's length and smashed his left to the right eye. Then he maneuvered Nito around to take a good look at himself in the mirror. The gangster saw two closing eyes, a nose badly lacerated and out of place, and a crushed and bleeding mouth. He tried to draw away but Clague held on to him. “Don’t go, kid. We ain’t started,” he said gently. “Wh-what do you want?” Nito demanded. 266 A DAGGER IN THE DARK “Some talk.” “I don't know anything.” Clague jolted a stiff uppercut to the nose, shift- ing it another quarter-inch upward. Nito howled with dizzy rage, and backed into a corner. He tried to dodge and run for it, but Clague caught him by the shirt front. - “Shouldn't do that. You'll wear yourself out,” Clague protested mildly as he struck an overhand blow to the temple. Nito was approaching a stage of panic that no pain could have produced. He was lashing about wildly trying to protect his features. Clague only laughed at him. “Think of guys who've been homely all their lives and you'll realize how lucky you've been.” Nito saw an uppercut coming and sank to one knee. “Stop it,” he gasped, arching a protective arm over his face. “I’m through.” Clague towered above him. “Ready to talk?” Nito's reply was not tender and Clague's face hardened as he pulled his arm away. “Listen to me, kid. I’m not fooling. You make up your mind to talk or I’m going to slash your face into permanent raw meat.” * Nito still hesitated. The moment’s hesitation cost him another front tooth. Clague didn’t bother with anything but the face. He cut the cheekbone A DAGGER IN THE DARK 267 with a left hook and closed one eye with a right smash. Blood oozed from Nito's mouth. “There's a sweet mess for your moll to see,” Clague snapped. With an amazing muster of strength, Nito stag- gered to his feet and ran to the mirror. What he saw started him whimpering. “What d'you think I’ll look like when I get out on the street?” “You’re handsome now compared to what you’ll be in another five minutes,” Clague assured him. Clague missed a left but his right landed square on the button and started another crimson flood. Nito saw a left, doubled up and cringed. “Don’t,” he whispered. “Christ, I’m through. I’ll talk.” CHAPTER XXV LAGUE looked questioningly at Bree, who was puffing at a smoldering cigar, and got the sig- nal to stop. “Who’s behind it?” he asked, rubbing his sore knuckles. Nito hesitated. Clague's arm doubled up. “Hatton—Oswald Hatton,” Nito blurted out hurriedly. His face was a bloody smear. “Hatton? The one's who's being blackmailed?” Nito's chief concern was in cleaning up his face. He mopped his lips with a handkerchief before the mirror. “Just a gag to cover him up.” Clague exchanged glances with Bree. “How many in the gang?” “Four in my outfit. There's—” “Never mind names now. Put it in writing. The Mex killer was one?” “Yes. We didn’t see much of him till the last two days, after he had to find a hideaway.” Bree interrupted. “Who bumped off Gentleman Jeff?” - Nito turned a cut, bruised, puzzled face. “Who's he?” Bree explained. “Ask someone who knows.” Nito was resentful. “I didn’t handle guys after they were kidnaped.” 268 270 A DAGGER IN THE DARK “Just one thing more, handsome. Who's the big shot behind Hatton?” Nito's punch-sleepy eyes opened in surprise. His face stared with vacuous stupidity. “Snap into it,” Clague commanded. “Who gives Hatton orders?” Nito shook his head. “I don’t know.” Clague jarred him with a right to the jaw. “Open up.” Nito still stared stupidly. Clague, doubling up his left arm to strike again, decided that this time the boy really didn’t know. He let him sag easily to the floor. “Maybe a sleep will freshen you,” he remarked. Bree eyed Clague in unconcealed wonderment. “I thought I knew a lot, but you've shown me some- thing.” “Can you get him to put it in writing? When I'm not here?” Clague asked. “I should be able to, after what you've shown me. If not, I’ll call on you. Where you heading for?” Clague spoke rapidly: “You’ve got this thing sized up as well as I have. Hatton’s just the window-dressing for this gang, the pay-off man. Whether he got ditched in the mar- ket or how he started in this racket, I don’t know. I wish now I’d paid more attention to him. I should have found out what his contacts have been over the last few years. There's no use whining over that now.” A DAGGER IN THE DARK 271 “What's your idea?” Bree asked. Clague moved to the door, in a hurry to get going. “Figure it out for yourself. Nito's gorillas were only one branch of the gang. The men who kept Jeff were another. God only knows how many others there were. And the principals. They all lived like kings. You don’t do that on piker pick- ings. Outside of those we know who were being bled there must have been dozens coughing up reg- ularly to support such an outfit. It takes brains to run an organization like that. I don’t know much about Hatton; but I’m sure he didn’t have them. If he had, he wouldn’t have let himself get in a spot where any gangster could put the finger on him.” “Who's your candidate?” “I don’t know. As I see it I’ve got only two chances.” “Those are?” “First the girl. She may talk. I don’t think she will and I’m not even certain she knows.” “And the other?” Clague walked back lightly from the door and faced Bree. “Show myself,” he declared. “They're sure to know by this time that the pearls they picked up last night are phonies. It won't take them long to con- nect me with the missing minister. And then the grand rush’ll start.” Bree took a deep drag of his cigar, his face im- passive except for the questioning rise of his eye- brows. 272 A DAGGER IN THE DARK “Taking a brodie, eh?” “It’s not as crazy as it sounds.” “Need help?” “What kind?” Clague asked suspiciously. “A bodyguard?” “Thanks, no. He couldn’t do anything except let them know I’ve got a shadow. That would keep them away or else make them cautious. I don’t want either.” Bree shrugged. “Maybe you’re right, at that.” At the door Clague turned and pointed to Nito's exhausted form. “Keep him safe. That's all.” Bree grinned widely. “He’ll need dynamite and wings to get out of here.” They walked down the corridor, Bree locking the door of the sound-proof room behind him. Clague, well in advance, reached Lila's room first. He flung the door open, looked inside and called, “She’s gone.” Bree came on the run. Together they searched the room. Lila's belongings were there, all except the dress she had worn. “Ain’t that hell?” Bree said with genuine regret. “I figured she was real.” “SO’d I.” “Think she's gone to tip them off?” “Ten grand’s a lot of dough to her.” “How's that?” he asked, and Clague told him. Bree whistled, but he was unconvinced. “I still don’t believe it. She's not that kind.” Clague himself was more disturbed than he cared 274 A DAGGER IN THE DARK wants to know if Dunlop and Greavy are there and anyone else.” He listened to Dingy's reply and cupped his hand over the mouthpiece. “They're there,” he told Clague. “There's a guy named Morello calling, too.” Clague answered quickly: “I’ve got an idea. Willing to let those flatfeet pick up Baby Face?” “I guess so. Why?” Bree was puzzled. “Can you get him to stick his John Hancock on what you want before they get here?” “Mebbe. Or even after.” Clague took the telephone from Bree's hands. “Dingy, is there any chance of anyone listening in on my extension?” “Not yet,” the wise kid answered. “Oke. In a few seconds I’ll want to talk to Dun- lop. But get this first. Those two will leave there on the run the minute I’ve finished talking to them. I want you to hold Morello. Tell him I’ll be over there quickly but don’t let the other two know. Can you do it?” “Sure thing, boss.” “Fine. Put Dunlop on.” “Put him on?” Dingy screeched. “He can’t hardly keep his paws off.” A second later Dunlop was bellowing into the phone. “Where the hell have you been, Clague? Don't you know the Commissioner's looking for you?” “No. What for?” A DAGGER IN THE DARK 275 “You know. You'll have some swell explaining to do.” “Listen, Dunlop,” Clague's voice was harsh. “I haven’t time for small talk. I’m in John Bree's apartment.” He gave the address. “You don’t say.” Dunlop was evidently im- pressed. “I’ve got a prize for you—Calloni, the muscle man of the gang. Want to come over and land him?” “You’re not kidding me, are you?” Dunlop de- manded. “Don’t you guys ever grow up? If I had tele- vision I’d send you a picture of him. He's not much to look at right now, but he’ll have a written con- fession by the time you blow around.” - “I’ll be right over.” “But I didn’t say I’d be here,” Clague remarked as he replaced the receiver. He turned to Boss Bree. “That part's up to you. They’ll take the bows anyway so it’s just as well you don’t care. I’ve got to move.” He ducked rapidly for his room, grabbed his hat and coat, looked at his suitcase and decided, after quick reflection, to take it along. “So long,” he shouted, but Bree stopped him at the door. “Any idea who the big shot is?” he asked. Clague's face clouded. “An idea. That's all.” Bree guffawed raucously and slapped his back. “Go to it, kid.” CHAPTER XXVI UTSIDE Clague grabbed a cab. On the way down he stopped at the Mascard Hotel and checked his suitcase. It was a short walk across the avenue to his office. Morello was seated in one of the ante-room chairs. He rose as Clague entered. “I have a matter of importance to discuss with you, personally, Mr. Clague. It has just come up.” Clague waved the way to the inner office. “It is strictly confidential,” Morello insisted sig- nificantly. Clague, uncertain whether to take offense or laugh, did the latter. “All right,” he agreed. “We’ll play your game.” To Dingy he said: “Go chase yourself around the block for fifteen minutes. Lock the front door as you leave.” They went into the inner office and took chairs, Clague behind the desk and Morello facing it. The pair made an odd contrast. Clague looked almost shoddy in his clothes, the other trim, alert and poised. He kept his right hand in his coat pocket. Clague opened the desk humidor, rose and leaned forward. “Cigar?” he asked. Morello declined it. 276 278 A DAGGER IN THE DARK credit. This last is the most glaring offense of all. We feel the forgeries originate in Chicago. We want you to go there, track down the criminals and bring them to justice. We are willing to pay you a retainer of ten thousand dollars.” Clague said “No.” Morello was puzzled and uncertain. “Why not?” Clague rose and paced restlessly behind his desk, one eye on his visitor. “I don’t suppose I could make you understand.” “Supposing you try.” “In the first place, I’ve got enough to keep me busy here. In the second place, I don’t like the looks of it. In the third place, I don’t want to go. There's a fourth, fifth, sixth and seventh reason but they're all the same.” “What are they?” Clague stood still. His fist pounded on the desk as he bellowed: “You don’t think I’m sap enough to believe I could get away with it? The thing's too big. When it cracks wide open, as it's bound to, the wise boys are going to ask where I was and why I skipped out when the shooting was going on. And if you think they’re going to be satisfied with a ‘How Did I Know?' look, you’ve got less intelligence than I’ve given you credit for.” Morello eyed Clague, his hands resting lightly on his cane. “I’m supposed to understand all this?” “I didn’t think you would,” Clague answered. A DAGGER IN THE DARK 279 “Let’s try it from another angle. Do you think you can afford not to go?” “I don’t think,” Clague barked. “I know. This is my nesting-place. Well, it won't be if I ever pull one like that. The boys’ll see to that. And I’m too old a bird to look for a new tree to build in.” Morello stroked one side of his mustache with a gloved hand. “You are pretty sure of your ground, Mr. Clague?” “I ought to be—after all these years.” “You do not even mind being alone with me?” Clague's eyes narrowed to pin points. “Funny thing, now that you bring that up,” he rambled. “Only yesterday I got to figuring what would happen if I suddenly disappeared. So I dic- tated everything I knew, signed it and gave the papers to a friend. He has instructions to turn everything over to the Commissioner if anything happens to me.” Morello straightened to his full height. “Let us hope nothing happens,” he said. In lower tones he added: “I think you are bluffing, Mr. Clague.” “If you think so, and if it's worth your while, call me. And while you’re hot on that, here's something else. Search this office if you want to. I won't try to stop you. I'll just stand by and watch. You don’t even have to pull a gun to do it.” Morello drew his hands from his coat pockets and spread them out disarmingly. 282 A DAGGER IN THE DARK Clague spoke with a guttural twang. “I can't give you a name. I’m just a friend. Thought I'd tip you off. Morello's planning to blow on you. He's already booked passage for Europe.” “Who are you? How do you know all this?” Hatton demanded excitedly. Clague listened a few seconds, then hung up. He was still sitting meditatively at his desk chair when the telephone rang. He pushed back his felt hat and picked up the receiver. “Clague,” he announced curtly. It was Bree calling. “They’ve gone to raid the apartment,” he an- nounced. “You’d better be there.” Clague agreed. “You got the address?” Clague knew it from memory and said so. Bree wanted to talk some more, but Clague, realizing the need of haste, shut him off. Downstairs he grabbed a cab. The West Side address which he gave was one block from his destination. When he reached it, he realized that his precautions were unnecessary. Further progress was impossible except on foot. Police lines were already established diverting traffic. A crowd of hundreds had already gathered and was growing momentarily, attracted by the blue- CO2tS. Clague passed the street corner and saw the center of the vortex. It was a four-story, white granite house in the middle of the block, one of the thou- A DAGGER IN THE DARK 283 sands of private dwellings that had been converted into apartments. Jostling his way through the throng, Clague finally reached the police cordon. The first bluecoat he encountered didn’t know him and shoved Clague back when he tried to reach the cleared area where the Commissioner's car stood be- side two patrol wagons and a fire hose. Clague circled around the fringe of the throng to the other side, halting beside a familiar bluecoat. He realized, too late, that Dunlop and Greavy were talking with the policeman. As he tried to back out, Dunlop blocked his way. “Holy Moses or his ghost.” “Don’t be funny, Dunlop.” “It’s really you. You wouldn't be kidding?” “Not with you, I wouldn't. You wouldn't under- stand.” “Why should I, for the luvva Mike? You ex- pect us to find you at one place and then jump out at us like a hot dog at another.” Clague disliked the turn the conversation was taking. “You got your man, didn't you?” he asked. As Dunlop hesitated, he laughed softly. “Don’t tell me he's given you the slip?” Greavy cut in aggressively, “Once we put our paws on them they stay put.” Dunlop drew himself to his full height. “I got a complete confession out of him in writing.” “You did?” Clague ejaculated. 284 A DAGGER IN THE DARK “I did,” Dunlop scowled, daring Clague to con- tradict him. “I had to use a little pressure. He wasn’t willing to talk at first; but a few minutes with me convinced him.” Clague gazed in open-eyed amazement. “You’re a lallapalooza,” he conceded. “Didn't take you long, did it?” “Two minutes and fifty seconds,” Greavy boasted. “Then he was ready to wrºg.” “He found it difficult t ress himself at times,” Dunlop explained. “We helped him.” “I’ll bet you did.” Clague guffawed. “I wish you and Bree hadn't butted in,” Dunlop remarked seriously. “When you handle fellows like that with kid gloves, they expect the same thing from everyone. The result is we have to handle them more roughly than we mean to. It gives us a bad reputation.” “Then he didn’t have any complaints over the treatment he'd received from Bree and me?” Clague asked. “Well, he felt he should have been in a room with a radio,” Greavy answered. “He’s always ac- customed to going to sleep to music.” The crowd, now increased to thousands, was press- ing hard upon the police lines and the cordon was trying to stem the onrush. “What's going on?” Clague asked. Before Dunlop could reply the second floor win- dow of the white granite house was thrown up. A police sergeant leaned out. A DAGGER IN THE DARK 285 “They won’t answer,” he shouted. Clague saw the lean figure of the Commissioner cross the center of the cleared area and speak to a uniformed captain. A moment later orders were barking. The men on the fire truck began uncoiling the hose. A squad of bluecoats standing at ease suddenly snapped to attention and loped to the house door. The waiting crowd quivered with expectancy. “It’s a rear apartment,” Dunlop said grudgingly. “If you want to see the show you’d better come through the basement.” The firemen were already dragging the hose through the entrance, but Dunlop, Greavy and Clague managed to squeeze their way through and ahead. A protesting housekeeper was wailing about the disorderly intrusion but no one paid any atten- tion to her. They climbed through the rear window of a base- ment apartment in order to get into the flagstoned back yard. There was nothing unusual about the scene except the open windows and ocean of heads visible on every side. Clague stood in the center of the yard flanked by Dunlop and Greavy. “That's where they are,” Dunlop said, pointing to a second story window. “The rats are trying to play dead.” The words were hardly out of his mouth when a revolver shot reverberated through the air. It was followed by a volley of explosions. Smoke began to drift from the window. Dunlop picked up a 286 A DAGGER IN THE DARK cobblestone and hurled it crashing through the glass. “Things’ll be flying now,” he shouted and ducked for the protection of the basement. As Greavy and Clague ran after him a shot ricocheted over the flagstones. CHAPTER XXVII WISP of smoke curled skyward through the shattered window. Isolated bluecoats slid through the basement apartment to take their places with the growing group in the areaway. The leader wrestled the hose nozzle from its coils and shouted a sharp command. “Water!” The cry was repeated and relayed underground to the street. From upstairs there came the prelude to the storm, the tearing impact of an ax against a padlocked oak door. The first blow was followed by others, then the sharp bark of a revolver. It was answered by the steady drone of a machine gun. The attackers were firing back through the door and the air was pungent with the odor of lifting smoke. Water surged suddenly through the hose nozzle. The first stream caught a young sapling and bent it double. The second struck against the unbroken window of the second floor apartment. The pane crumpled like paper under the impact. Yells of rage answered the unexpected attack. A huge figure, shirtless and unkempt, appeared at the window flourishing a shining gun. The weapon barked and the man with the nozzle wavered in his 287 A DAGGER IN THE DARK 289 rams, and the constant scraping of metal-heeled shoes. The air was insufferable. Three men with a machine gun were crouched under the top steps blazing at the gangsters' door. Dunlop wanted to pass the machine gun but the sergeant in charge motioned him back. “You never can tell when they’re apt to blaze,” he yelled above the hubbub. The door was riddled and splintered with bullet holes but the lock was unimpaired. An ax lay on the floor before it, a silent tribute to the first answer- ing shot of the defenders. Dunlop swung himself to the second floor over the banister without nearing the landing. Clague followed him and Greavy brought up the rear. There was no difficulty with the next flight. On the third floor they found two girls, obviously the recent occupants of the rear apartment, watch- ing the invasion with paralyzed eyes. Inside the apartment a burly sergeant was wielding a sledge. The floor was cracked and splintering. When he had broken through another man with an ax con- tinued the assault. Mortar and scantling cracked under his blows. The sound of plaster falling from the ceiling underneath was audible. A small hole opened up and a gun spat defiance from below. Standing back of the opening and swinging at arm's length, the man buried his ax in the flooring. It crackled and caved, loosening a small earthquake of débris on the prisoners below. Foul epithets rose in response. 290 A DAGGER IN THE DARK The attack began from another side. Thumping on the walls revealed that an attempt was being made to crash through from the front apartment. Clague ran to the rear window. Below him the corpse still hung over the window ledge. The base- ment Squad was showing signs of renewed activity. A man climbed over the bannisters and unloaded a handful of gas bombs. The sergeant tried to call to the occupants of the apartment below but his voice was lost in the shout- ing and shooting. He motioned to the man with the ax. Two more blows shook the flooring. The opening was large enough for a bomb and the ser- geant let one sink. Clague heard a scampering of feet, going from one room of the apartment to the other. Then there was an awed silence which lasted until the defenders realized what was happening. The air became vile with profanity, coughing and gas. Clague sought refuge at the window. The basement squad had gone into action. One man was hurling a bomb at the second story window. The fumes were beginning to poison the air out in the hall, already putrid with powder smoke. Clague motioned the two girls, now sobbing silently, to the roof of the building. He had a vague idea of going down to see what was happening, but a sud- den rush of gas changed his mind. He saw the uni- formed men dig beneath their coat tails and extract masks. Dunlop and Greavy, unequipped, were lean- ing far out of the rear window. Clague followed 292 A DAGGER IN THE DARK Downstairs the Commissioner was holding an in- formal line up. He was a mild-eyed man ordinarily, but his face was harsh as he looked at the prisoners. There were four of them. Two of them, whom Clague had never seen before, were being bundled off into the waiting patrol wagon. There remained two others. One of them, a small yellow-skinned man, Clague recognized as one of Nito's bodyguards. The Commissioner had begun questioning him when he noticed Clague. “You’ve seen him before, haven’t you?” he asked. Clague nodded. The Commissioner signaled to the patrolman standing by. “That's all for him,” he said. He turned to the fourth man, a Mexican, whose striking features were dominated by a sharp curving In OSC. “Know him, too?” the Commissioner asked. “I’d like to know what size hat he wears,” Clague replied. The man was bareheaded. “Also how well he drives a taxicab,” Clague added. The Commissioner put two sharp questions in one sentence and drew a profane monosyllable in reply. Immediately the prisoner's left wrist was pulled sharply up. He screamed in pain and his feet left the ground, although the policeman to whom he was manacled seemed hardly to have moved. The Mex- ican came to earth on his knees and the policeman helped him up solicitously, whispering in his ear. His next reply was deferential. A DAGGER IN THE DARK 293 “I do not wear a hat here,” he said, speaking with scarcely any accent. “There was a knife thrown from a rear window,” Clague interposed pointedly. The Commissioner revolved slowly until he faced Clague. His mild eyes were very steady. “You know I’m the most chicken-hearted guy in the world until I meet up with an outfit like this. Then I get a real kick out of being tough.” He turned sharply upon the small Mexican. “How long since you’ve been throwing them at the Hacienda el Muro, Peter?” Pedro Lajilos, alias Peter Laidlaw, became dra- matic. He waved his arms in circles and swore he'd say nothing to the damned police. “You may tear me limb from limb,” he yelled, “but talk . . . I shall not.” The Commissioner's eyes, brooding ominously, focused on the man. “You lose,” he remarked quietly. “We don't want to tear you limb from limb. But you'll talk, just the same.” He indicated that he was tired of the interview and Pedro was dragged forcibly to the patrol wagon, shoved up the steps and pushed inside. A uniformed man took the rear seat, the doors were closed and another policeman swung onto the outside steps. The gong clanged and the driver started to wedge his way through a crowd. The Commissioner turned the newspaper men over to an inspector. He listened to arrangements 294 A DAGGER IN THE DARK for the dispersal of the crowd and the disposition of the men. When he was satisfied with the details he turned to Clague again. “You know, Clague,” he said colorlessly, “I’m still not convinced that you shouldn’t have been on the inside of that apartment instead of on the out- side.” Clague's eyes narrowed to slits. “If you think so there’s still time to call back the wagon.” “Where the hell have you been?” “I hadn't any idea you were organizing a raid from headquarters.” “I wasn’t,” the Commissioner answered signifi- cantly. “All these details were carried out through the West Side station and from there alone.” “I was on my way down to see you when I got word,” Clague argued. “Yes?” “To tell you what I knew, including this ad- dress.” “You didn’t rush yourself.” The Commissioner's voice was edged with sarcasm. “Your men evidently couldn't wait,” Clague con- tended. “They saw glory beckoning and ran to meet her. I couldn’t work that way—going to you with fragments. I had to have the whole story be- fore I crashed your office. You know that.” “Have you got it?” “I think so.” “Anything I ought to know right away?” A DAGGER IN THE DARK 295 Clague thought of the jewels in his suitcase at the Mascard Hotel. “No,” he said. The Commissioner turned on his heel. “I’ll be ex- pecting you downtown,” he flung over his shoulder, “in three quarters of an hour.” Clague looked at the desolate building. He forced a grin through his lips, damned Dunlop and Greavy under his breath and began to shoulder his way through the crowd. CHAPTER XXVIII HE desk lieutenant outside the Commissioner's office saw Clague coming and waved him in- side. He had been making a brave fight keeping the newspaper men at bay. It didn't help any when they saw Clague sail through. The clamor started anew. The Commissioner was handing out a lesson. Clague didn't know how many had already been on the carpet but the round up had undoubtedly been thorough. Nicky, his face blotched white, was getting his. Realizing what he had interrupted, Clague turned to leave. The Commissioner, without losing his stride, motioned him to a chair against the wall. “I want a complete report from you of any gang- sters who frequent your place after this,” he said to Nicky in uncompromising acid tones. “The min- ute I think you’re holding out I’m going to put my men on your joint, see that your license is revoked or smash it up till you quit. Next.” Nicky slunk to the door by which Clague had just entered. The Commissioner called him back. “Through the rear, unless you want your mug on the front page of every tabloid.” In the brief wait that followed the Commissioner scanned some memoranda on his desk. “Stick 296 298 A DAGGER IN THE DARK “How 2” “Sweat Hatton. Find out what money Morello's sent away the last year and where to. Where he’s banked secretly. What safe deposit boxes he has. Make the Superintendent of Banksgive you a record of the reports on his institution. If it's been shaky at any time find out how the money was raised to reëstablish its standing.” The Commissioner said mildly: “You know you're making an accusation you can't prove.” “I thought you asked me once to think out loud.” “I did.” “This time I’m not thinking. I know.” “What makes you so positive?” “You want to know?” “Yes.” * “Step by step?” “Yes.” Clague played for time by leaning over the desk. Uninvited he took a cigar from the exposed case, bit off the end and lit it leisurely. “Morello's been after me twice in the last twenty- four hours to get me to undertake a commission that would necessitate my going to Chicago. No one else would do. That's what made it sound phoney. His last bid was fifteen grand. Just the retainer, mind you.” “Why should he do that?” “To get me out of the way.” “But why—” 300 A DAGGER IN THE DARK nibble. The one real dough bag you left unguarded was snatched.” Clague's voice rose in a crescendo: “There wasn't any other answer. This thing was being engineered by someone in the know.” In quieter tones he continued: “I thought of the people playing against you for their own little game. Nicky, Pantigras, the Spanish cuckoo. None of them had the brains. I tried to think of the men around you.” He smiled a confession. “I gave that up because if you weren't on to them, it was safe there wasn’t anyone to get on to.” “Then you turned to the men who'd appealed to us for protection?” the Commissioner asked. “The more I thought of it the more the idea smacked me in the face,” Clague rejoined. “Think it over. They sacrificed, at the most, four victims —two, as it turned out. In return they threw up a smoke screen that absolutely baffled detection for a long while. It enabled them to collect their tribute from dozens, maybe hundreds of other victims. And it gave them a chance to find out who was appealing to you for protection. Then they could strike and know they were striking at the right person. Ormsby, for example.” “And so you simply hit upon the right person?” The Commissioner's voice was indifferent. “I didn’t. It never occurred to me until this morning that two men who'd appealed to you might be involved. But I did become interested in Morello the moment you told me names and facts.” A DAGGER IN THE DARK 301 The Commissioner suddenly became interested. “How was that?” he asked. “Figure it out,” Clague answered. “You named four men. Cotton Mattox, guilty of race track fix- ing. Thorley Morton, an embezzler. Both of these men, by their own admissions to you, made them- selves liable to prosecution. In any event they were ruined by the disclosures they made. “I made my mistake in figuring Hatton in the same class. He’d been guilty, he said, of corrupt- ing the morals of a minor. I didn’t attach enough significance to the fact that the girl had disappeared. That was partly due to the fact that she was sup- posed to be held by the gang. I failed to realize that the playboy world in which Hatton moves is more apt to condone a man’s social vices than to blacklist him.” The Commissioner tapped a paper cutter without replying. “But Morello was a different proposition,” Clague continued. “The more I thought it over, the more I realized that he alone, of all the quartet, hadn’t given you a single thing that could be brought against him. He had merely been threatened. He was frightened.” “Pretty slim to base an accusation on,” the Com- missioner commented. “That night at his house, when he was attacked, clinched it,” Clague said. “You think the attack was a fake?” 302 A DAGGER IN THE DARK “It was; but the men who made the attack didn't know it.” The Commissioner raised quizzical eyebrows. “Perhaps you'd better explain.” “To do that I’ve got to convince you of some- thing I’ve felt a long time and only became sure of today,” Clague answered. “Of all that entire out- fit Hatton was the only one who knew anything of Morello's connection with the scheme.” “What makes you certain?” “I’ve had long talks with one member of the gang. I’ve beat—” Clague corrected himself hastily, “given a good cross examination to another. I’ll stake anything that Morello didn’t mean a thing to them. Except for the attack on him.” “Go on. You're good,” the Commissioner said. “How do you figure that out?” “They’d gotten away with Mattox's five grand. They framed an unsuspecting tool to be caught ask- ing for Morello's decoy. So far, so good. But there was a bare chance that you were becoming sus- picious. And they needed an unhampered field for the big clean-up. So they decided to sweep away all suspicion with one master stroke, a blackmailer’s attempt on Morello's life, right in his home, guarded and with servants in the house.” Clague stopped, momentarily out of breath. The Commissioner said softly: “Having pipe dreams?” “It was a smart move,” Clague continued unper- turbed, “but like all smart moves it tried to be too smart. And that's where it fell down. It was easy A DAGGER IN THE DARK 303 enough framing a fight on the corner to draw your guards away. And it was a cinch for Morello to see that his two servants got a bromide strong enough to put them to sleep but too mild to leave any trace. They even arranged to have one of the gang over- hear some of their plans. They counted on that to tip me off to what was going to happen.” The Commissioner's lips moved, but no words issued. Clague, who had dreaded questioning on this point, went on hurriedly:- “Hatton was the only man, outside of Morello, who knew the real purpose of the attack—a blind. I don’t believe he had the brains to plan it himself. Morello did that. You've got to admit there's something unique in a man planning his own mur- der. And this plan was worked out to split seconds. They figured out the exact number of minutes the gang would have to work between the time they forced entrance and the time I, or someone I notified, would rush in to rescue Morello. It took guts, be- cause there wasn’t going to be anything phoney about the attack. They couldn’t risk having a fake discovered. That job of anesthetizing had to be the real thing. But they made two slips.” “What were they?” the Commissioner asked un- emotionally. “They didn’t know that I had come to mistrust the person who brought me the tip.” Clague rushed on, undaunted by the Commissioner's lack of re- sponse. “I thought it was a frame up to get me where they wanted me. So I stuck home. My 304 A DAGGER IN THE DARK house door was watched. When I didn’t rush out on schedule, they became panicky. Visions of Morello dying and all that sort of thing. I can see Hatton's rabbit brain turning somersaults. The result was the anonymous telephone tip to the pre- cinct police station.” The Commissioner merely grunted. “Bear this in mind,” Clague reminded him. “For months this gang has operated with secrecy that has defied detection. Now, in one night we get in- formation about their plans twice. The first came through a member of whom they were already sus- picious. The second was anonymous. That alone was a big mistake. And that was only their first slip.” “The second?” the Commissioner queried. “The ether. Any medical man will tell you that ether takes longest of any anesthetic to put a person to sleep. Also that chloroform is the trickiest anesthetic to handle. And while Morello wanted this job to seem like the real goods he couldn’t quite stomach the idea of waking up as a corpse. If the gang were really out to make an example of Morello for not kicking in and for squealing to you, why should they have cared if chloroform bumped him off? After all that's what they were after. In- stead they used the ether. It was the same as say- ing that they didn’t want to kill the man at all.” “Maybe they just wanted to give him a lesson,” the Commissioner suggested. A DAGGER IN THE DARK 305 Clague rose from his chair and wedged his felt hat upon his ears. “If you really believe that, I’m wasting my time.” “Sit down and keep your shirt on.” The Commis- sioner reached in his desk drawer and pulled out some folded papers. “I’ve already talked to the prisoners. These are rough drafts of the confessions that I’m turning over to the District Attorney’s office for approval. They clear up the Ormsby and Schlemborn killings. Ormsby was made an ex- ample. The only motive in Schlemborn's case was robbery. The taxicab knife thrower did both jobs, but the D. A. might try to indict the others as ac- cessories. The confessions name Hatton as the leader of the blackmail ring.” Clague had started to speak twice during the Com- missioner's monologue. Now he said impatiently: “Try Hatton. Then you'll get to Morello. Then try him.” The telephone rang. The Commissioner picked up the receiver and listened, interrupting the flow of conversation from the other end only to interject short, sharp sentences:— “I was afraid of that.” “Keep him that way for me.” “In half an hour, Inspector.” He hung up and pushed the buzzer. The desk lieutenant entered, taking care to shut the door tightly behind him. “Tell the boys there’ll be a complete statement from here in two hours. Ask the headquarters Med- 306 A DAGGER IN THE DARK ical Inspector and anyone from the photograph bureau to be ready to go uptown with me in ten minutes.” The lieutenant acknowledged the order and dis- appeared. The Commissioner turned to Clague. “I can’t make Morello talk,” he said. Clague stared blankly. “Hatton shot him in his office an hour ago. While we were on the West Side,” the Commissioner ex- plained. “There was a quarrel first. Several clerks who had been attracted by the argument saw the shooting. There's no question about who did it, but Hatton got away in the confusion.” Clague took in the news slowly. “You’ve still got Hatton to work on.” “I haven’t,” the Commissioner contradicted him. “That telephone call you heard was to tell me Hat- ton had shot himself in his apartment. My men had cornered him and were breaking down the door.” Clague didn't try to reply; it wasn't his lead. “You’re wrong about Morello,” the Commis- sioner said. Clague maintained his silence. “There's not a thing to connect him with any blackmail gang or any racket at all,” the Commis- sioner continued. “He was shot as the result of a personal dispute over financial matters. They were talking over a debt of Hatton's. Hatton lost his temper and blazed away. The witnesses will bear us out on that.” 308 A DAGGER IN THE DARK “I’ve got a man working for me at home . . . his name's cropped up . . . your men mentioned him . . . they say he's wanted . . . I don’t know . . . but I’ll swear he's been on the up and up ever since he's been with me.” The Commissioner was struggling into his coat. “We haven’t had a request for any such man as you describe,” he said blandly, “but if you’re cor- rect in saying there's been some talk, it might be a good precaution, since his whereabouts is known, for him to get out of this state for a while . . . say a few months.” “Thanks,” Clague murmured. “I’ve got to move. Anyone else you want to ask about?” the Commissioner inquired. A sardonic grin overspread Clague's face. “I suppose Dunlop and Greavy will be getting the mentions on breaking this case?” The Commissioner frowned, puzzled. “I hadn’t heard from them.” “They gave you the apartment address?” The Commissioner shook his head decisively. “That was supplied by a young lady. She wouldn't tell you because she felt you'd think of her as a squealer the rest of your life.” “I don’t believe . . .” Clague stammered. The Commissioner walked rapidly to a rear door. Time was pressing. He shouted a command. Two seconds later Lila came in, serious and quiet. She shrank back at the sight of Clague. The Commissioner sized up the situation. A DAGGER IN THE DARK 311 “Jamestown, N. Y. I told you I was a country girl.” “Can I take a chance, precious? I shouldn't.” Lila Smiled reassuringly. “You can. And don’t joke about it either. It's too important to me.” Clague called the ticket office from the Commis- sioner's desk, found out when the next train left, and reserved a single lower. “They as good as told you here to clear out,” he said. “I don’t imagine a short vacation would harm you. Think things over. If you meant what you said, come back. We’ll start from there.” THE END