Patsy Garvan had been waiting and watching about fifteen minutes, the
circumstances precluding any further action, when he saw the two men
come out of the road house.
They hurried down the steps and entered the motor car. Toby Monk, the
chauffeur, also saw them, and ran to resume his seat at the wheel. They
were away within half a minute, departing with very significant haste
and returning to Madison at a rate of speed precluding pursuit, but
leaving Patsy gazing with an ominous frown after the rear red light
till it vanished in the distance.
“That does settle it,” he muttered grimly. “I’ve lost track of them
for a time, at least, in spite of anything I can do. But I’ve got the
number of that car, all right, and I’ll identify them later as sure
as there’s juice in a lemon. I can find out, perhaps, by inquiring of
some one in the house. The third man may hang out there, however, and
I might get in wrong. I think I can turn the trick at that, without
incurring suspicion,” he added to himself after a moment’s thought.
“I’ll take the chance, by gracious, let come what may.”
Leaving his concealment, he walked out to the driveway, where, having
made sure there were no observers, he threw himself on one side in the
sand and dirt and ground the palm of his right hand into the gravel,
a performance that might cause one to wonder what advantage could be
derived.
Patsy knew, however, and he immediately arose and entered the road
house. Though the hall still was unoccupied, he could hear the voices
of men in the rear rooms, also the clinking of glasses, and he rightly
inferred that there was a public bar in one of the rooms. He hastened
thither and entered, with a pretense of brushing his soiled garments
and with an indignant frown on his face.
“Say!” he exclaimed, approaching a bar on one side of the room. “Who
are the ginks that just left here in a buzz wagon?”
Three men were playing cards at a table in one corner, evidently
quarry workmen from the near settlement, each with a mug of ale at his
elbow. Back of the bar stood a burly man in his shirt sleeves, with a
much-bloated and pimply face, the redeeming feature of which was an
expression of habitual good nature. He gazed at Patsy and laughed,
replying to his impetuous question, but the three card players merely
glanced at him.
“Buzz wagon, eh?” he said huskily. “I didn’t know one was here.”
“Well there was.”
“Funny I didn’t hear it.”
“I came near feeling it, all right,” grumbled Patsy, displaying his
soiled hand. “It came out to the road as if shot from a gun. It nearly
ran over me. I fell down while dodging it, as you see, but I reckon I
was lucky to get away with that. You don’t know them, eh?”
“Mebbe ’twas the bloke who rang for the booze, Jim,” suggested one of
the players, looking up. “Have you forgotten him, Leary?”
“The man who runs the house,” thought Patsy; then, as if the identity
of the visitors was of no great consequence, he said agreeably: “I’ll
have a mug of ale. See what these gents will have and get in yourself.”
The invitation was readily accepted by all, and Patsy paid willingly,
thus paving the way for further inquiries.
“I’m going to Madison,” he said, in reply to a question. “I came from
Ashville on the trolley line. How soon can I hit another?”
“Twelve minutes, if she shows up on time,” said Leary, glancing at a
nickel watch. “It might have been the man in the side room. I’ll have a
look.”
“Twelve minutes, eh?” said Patsy, more quickly drinking his ale when
Leary swaggered out from the bar and into the hall. “That’s not long. I
don’t want to miss it.”
He added the last to warrant his following the burly proprietor, who
obviously was so void of distrust that Patsy very soon decided that
none of these men had had any intercourse with the two visitors and
very probably knew neither of them.
“No danger of missing it,” replied Leary, as they approached the side
room. “The motorman always stops on the corner and rings his gong. He
often picks up a bunch from here.”
“I see,” returned Patsy pleasantly. “I needn’t be in any rush, then.”
“No rush at all.”
“We’ll have time for another drink?”
“Sure thing. Time enough for----Huh, I’m blessed if Kelly wasn’t right!
The bloke has gone.”
Leary had knocked on the door, and then opened it. He entered while
speaking, Patsy following, and again asking carelessly:
“Didn’t you know the man? Was he a stranger here?”
“Sure he was.” Leary turned and gazed at him. “I didn’t know him from
a hole in the wall. He must have known this room was for customers,
though, for he nailed it and rang for a drink.”
“He must have been here before, then, or he wouldn’t have known it,”
said Patsy.
“That’s right, too.” Leary nodded. “I brought him the booze he ordered,
and then he said he wanted to wait for a friend and have a private talk
with him. He chucked me a buck for the booze and told me to keep the
change. That looked good to me and like more coming, so I told him he
could stay as long as he liked, and would not be interrupted.”
“I see,” said Patsy, now sure that Leary was telling him the truth.
“His friend came, all right, and they went away together. There were
three in the car when----”
“But where’s the booze glass?” cried Leary, who now had turned toward
the table. “That ought to be here. They would not steal a whisky glass,
unless----”
“Stop a bit!” Patsy interrupted. “It was thrown into the fireplace.
Here are pieces of it, and--holy smoke! This cat is dead!”
Patsy had caught sight of it a moment before, and he at first had
thought the animal was asleep. A second look, however, evoked the last
startling exclamation and brought Leary to his knees near his lifeless
pet.
“Good God! What’s the meaning of this?” he growled, with a scowl,
convincing Patsy of his sincerity. “Dead as an iron bolt! What’s the
meaning of it?”
“Has the cat been sick?” Patsy inquired.
“Sick--no!” cried Leary. “There’s been nothing the matter with him. He
was getting a bit old, but was well enough. Poor old Gimblet!” Leary
added, with genuine feeling.
“Was he in this room when you were here?” asked Patsy.
“No. He was asleep in the hall.”
“He may have wandered in here.”
“How could he? The door was closed.”
“H’m, is that so?” Patsy murmured, as puzzled as the other and much
more suspicious.
“He’s dead, all right, as a smelt.” Leary now turned the animal over.
“But I’ll be hanged if I can see why the booze glass was smashed or
why the cat should have died. Something must have killed him. Say, you
don’t s’pose they gave him poison in that glass, then smashed it, do
you?” he added, quickly turning to Patsy. “If I thought that, I’d go
after those mongrels with a gun, by thunder, and stick till I got them!”
This possible fate was suggested to Leary by a momentary expression
that had passed over Patsy’s face. He had detected a peculiar,
shriveled appearance in the fur on the cat’s breast and neck, and it
instantly recalled to his mind what his chief had said concerning the
man found dead in the Waldmere Chambers two days before.
Patsy concealed his immediate misgivings, however, but pretended to be
impressed with Leary’s suggestions.
“That may explain it, Mr. Leary, if they had any reason for wanting to
kill the cat,” he replied. “The fellow you saw probably did not do it.
More likely the old man was the one who killed him.”
“What old man?” Leary demanded, with a vengeful glare in his eyes.
“The one I saw in the motor car,” said Patsy, now aiming only to
identify him, if possible. “He’s quite a stocky man, with gray hair and
whiskers. He wore a plaid suit and soft felt hat. His chauffeur was
bigger and broader, with dark hair and a pointed beard. I got a look at
them when they flew by me.”
“I dunno any such men,” Leary earnestly protested. “The whole business
beats me to a frazzle.”
“It does seem a bit strange,” Patsy allowed. “You’ll find out later,
perhaps. I reckon I’ll be getting a move on, as I don’t want to miss
that car. I’m sorry you have lost the cat. I’ll drop in again, when I’m
returning to Ashville.”
“All right, kid,” said Leary, brightening up and following Patsy to the
door. “If you see those two blokes again, do me a favor, will you?”
“What’s that, Mr. Leary?”
“Get the truth out of them, if you have to get it with a club.”
“I will,” Patsy promptly assured him. “Take it from me, Mr. Leary, I’ll
get it--and all there is to it.”
“Good for you!” Leary shouted after him heartily.
For Patsy already was hastening toward the road leading out to the
trolley line, something like a hundred yards away. He had seen plainly
that he could learn nothing more at the road house. The negative
reports he had obtained, however, together with the startling discovery
he had made, convinced him that his mission had not been a futile one.
“Leary’s all right,” he said to himself while walking on rapidly. “He
told me all he knows and gave it to me straight. That rendezvous had
been agreed upon and the road house selected for a safe place. But
who are they and what came off in there? Why was the whisky glass
broken and the cat killed? In view of all of the circumstances, by
Jove, there’s a mighty strong similarity between that fatality and the
killing of Gaston Todd. It becomes doubly important now to trace and
identify these rascals, and I reckon I’m in a fair way to accomplish
it. All this, moreover, seems to put Doctor Devoll in the background.
That is, if I size it all up correctly. I’ll hike back to the Wilton
House, by Jove, and report to the chief.”