"Peter Broderick has got everything to do with it, since the people put
this blatherskite Murgatroyd into the prosecutor's office. You know as
well as I do that there's been too many rumpuses in Cradlebaugh's--and
Murgatroyd sent word from the court-house that the place would be closed
up, cleaned out, if there was any more trouble there."
"And Broderick?" persisted the sergeant.
"Broderick gave me orders to be tipped off hard when anything happens to
Cradlebaugh's--no matter what. And that," concluded the captain, "is
enough for you and me; we've got to obey orders--see?"
He removed the receiver from its hook and was about to talk to Central,
but changed his mind, hung up the receiver, wheeled round on the
sergeant and asked:--
"Were you going home?"
The other stretched his arms and yawned.
"Yes. Why?"
The captain passed over two black cigars.
"Smoke 'em--they'll keep you awake. And say," he went on, placing his
hand soothingly upon the other's arm, "you wouldn't mind looking up
Chairman Peter Broderick, would you? It isn't everybody I can trust."
He seized a pad and wrote hastily for a moment, and finally handing the
slip of paper to the sergeant, added:--
"First, try these four addresses. If he's not at any of these, then try
his home; you'll be sure to find him there. But see him--don't take no
for an answer, and after you have told him the whole story, get his
orders--see?"
It took an hour and a half to locate Chairman Peter Broderick; the
sergeant found him home--in his rooms on the ground floor of the
Iroquois Club. He waited for some time before he could gain access to
that estimable gentleman, for Peter Broderick's hour for rising was high
noon. The boy who aroused him awakened a slumbering lion; the Iroquois
Club cowered when Broderick woke up; others cowered, too. Broderick's
word was law everywhere, and yet he wore no badge of authority, held no
office--he did not even want one. He was higher than authority, stronger
than civic force: he was power personified. He had attained that
mystical position in the universe, known wherever men cast ballots as
Chairman of the County Committee, which meant to owe no man a duty, but
to demand servitude and fealty from every man. It meant more--it meant
to hold the bag! It meant that whatever Peter Broderick wanted he got.
"Well!" roared Broderick to the sergeant; "what in thunder do you want?"
The desk-sergeant briefly set forth his credentials and authority, and
then plunged boldly into the purpose of his presence.
"The captain wants to know what he's to do about this Hargraves murder?"
Broderick stared hard at him.
"Hargraves murder?" he repeated. "What Hargraves?"
The sergeant told him.
"Great Scott! So he's dead. Confound him! He bled me like thunder at
draw the last time I met him!"
The sergeant went on to give him the facts; Broderick the while was
thinking deeply. Finally he interrupted the other with the question:--
"Look here, sergeant, what was there to prevent Hargraves being shot
down by a highwayman or a thug? Can you tell me that?"
"Officer Keogh says----"
"Hang Officer Keogh!" yelled Broderick. "Keogh is going to say nothing
but what he's told to say. Look here--do you know who killed Hargraves?"
"No."
"Does anybody know?"
"Not yet."
"So far so good. Now, then, that's a dark street, isn't it? And other
houses as well as Cradlebaugh's have an opening on that street, haven't
they? I say that this thing wasn't pulled off inside of Cradlebaugh's;
it was the work of an unknown assassin--a thug. Do you understand?" he
declared emphatically.
"You want the captain to work it out on that theory! Isn't that it?"
"I don't want the captain to work it out on any theory!" yelled
Broderick. "Let the captain sit still--do nothin'!--say nothin'! I'm
doin' this thing--I'll work out all the necessary theories! Do you
hear?"
"The captain told me to remind you that Prosecutor Murgatroyd----"
Broderick sprang to his feet and stood glowering over the sergeant.
"Murgatroyd! Nobody has to remind me of Murgatroyd--confound him! I'm
always being reminded of him. He's the only office-holder in this burgh
that hasn't got the decency to know that what _I_ say goes! Sergeant,"
he went on confidentially, "this is a blamed important thing, and before
I do anything I'm going down-town to consult Mr. Graham Thorne. I'll
bring him up to Cradlebaugh's; you tell your captain to meet us there in
an hour and a half. That's all he's got to do--all you've got to
do--I'll do the rest. Now go!"
Twenty minutes later Broderick waddled into the private office of Graham
Thorne, Esquire, counsellor at law.
"Thorne," he exclaimed, lounging back comfortably in a chair, "have you
seen about this thing? Do you know what happened _there_ last night?"
Thorne smiled grimly and pointed to the pile of morning papers on his
desk.
"I knew about it at six o'clock this morning. I've been waiting for you
to turn up for the last four hours." There was a note of superiority in
his voice, which, strange to say, Broderick in nowise resented.
Broderick ever since he had met Thorne, had felt an admiration for this
tall, handsome, dignified young man, with the grey just commencing to
creep in his hair. Thorne possessed all the qualities that go to make up
a clever, astute counsellor at law. Of his antecedents, it is true, no
one knew aught; he had merely arrived a few short years before, opened
his big law office, stalked into the courts and out of them, into the
clubs and out of them. It cannot be denied that he made his best
impression upon laymen and not upon the lawyers, although even the
members of the Bar conceded that Thorne had ability. That he earned a
great deal of money was quite manifest, for he spent it with a free
hand, if a trifle too ostentatiously. He was not a politician in any
sense of the word, and yet unquestionably he had the air and the
earmarks of the man who some day might become a statesman. He hobnobbed
with the best people, knew everybody worth while, and everybody worth
while knew him. Broderick felt that if fate could regenerate him he
should like to be Thorne.
"Well," blurted out the politician, "what are you going to do about it?"
"What are _we_ going to do about it?" asked the lawyer in turn.
"I can handle the police," Broderick affirmed.
"That goes without saying; but we're up against something more than the
police."
"If Tom Martin or Sam Apgar was the prosecutor now," wailed Broderick,
"we'd have no trouble. They used to come to me regularly for
instructions----"
Thorne rose slowly, paced the entire length of his long private office,
treading noiselessly the thick, green carpet like a cat.
"But," he protested, "Martin isn't prosecutor, neither is Apgar.
Murgatroyd is prosecutor, and----"
"Confound the man!" interrupted Broderick. "He's so straight that he
leans over backwards. It was he who said six weeks ago that the Tweedale
suicide was the last straw; that if another fracas occurred inside of
Cradlebaugh's it would be good-bye to Cradlebaugh's. And now there's
this blamed murder!"