The next day, life in the little shop went on as if there had been no
break. With the early light, Yaxis was off, to the south, pushing his
tip-cart before him and calling aloud--bananas and fruit and the joy of
Alcibiades’s return, in his clear, high voice.... In the shop, Achilles
arranged the fruit--great piles of oranges, and grape fruit and
figs--and swung the heavy bunches of bananas to their hooks outside,
and opened crates and boxes and made ready for the day. By and by, when
trade slackened a little, he would slip away and leave Alcibiades in
charge of the shop. His mind was busy as he worked. He had something
to do that would take him away from the shop--every day for a while, it
might be--but the shop would not suffer. Alcibiades was strong--not well
enough, perhaps, to go out with the new push-cart that had replaced the
old one, and waited outside, but strong enough to make change and fill
up the holes in the piles of oranges as they diminished under the swift
rush of trade.
Achilles’s eyes rested on him fondly. It had been lonely in the
shop--but now the long days of waiting were repaid... they had their
clue. Even now the detectives might have followed it up. The little lady
would be found. He hurried over the last things--his heart singing--and
called the boy to him.
“I go away,” he said, looking at him kindly. “You stay in shop--till I
come.”
“Yes, father.” The boy’s eyes were happy. It was good to be in the
close, dark, home place with its fruity smell and the striped awning
outside. “I do all right!” he said gaily.
The father nodded. “To-morrow you go with push-cart--little way--every
day little way--” He waited a moment while the boy’s face took in
the words--he spoke with slow significance--“Some day you see--those
men--then you run--like devil!” he said quickly, “you tell me!”
The boy’s teeth made a quick line of light and his face flashed. “I
tell--quick!” he said, “I know those men!”
He left the shop and was lost in the crowd. He was going first to the
city hall for news--then he would seek Philip Harris. The plan that he
was shaping in his mind needed help.
But at the city hall there was no news. The chief of police seemed even
a little irritated at the sight of the dark face and the slim, straight
figure that stood before him. He eyed it a moment, almost hostilely;
then he remembered Philip Harris’s command and told the man what steps
had been taken and the reports that had come in thus far through the
day. The Greek listened without comment, his dark face smouldering a
little over its quick fire. “You find nothing?” he said quietly.
“Not a damn thing!” answered the chief.
“I go try,” said Achilles.
The man looked at him. Then he laughed out. The door opened. It was the
detective in charge of the case. He glanced at Achilles and went over
to the chief and said something. But the chief shook his head and they
looked carelessly at Achilles, while the chief drummed on the desk.
Achilles waited with slow, respectful gaze.
The detective came across to him. “No news,” he said.
Achilles’s face held its steady light. “I think we find her,” he said.
The inspector did not laugh. He studied the man’s face slowly, whistling
a little between his teeth. “What’s your plan?” he said.
Achilles shook his head. “When I see those men--I go follow.”
The detective smiled--a little line of smile... that did not scorn him.
“When you see them--yes!” he said softly.
The chief of police, listening with half an ear, laughed out. “Catch
your hare, Alexander!” He said it with superior ease.
Achilles looked at him. “I catch hair?” he asked with polite interest.
The chief nodded. “You catch your hare before you cook it, you know.”
Achilles ran a slim, thoughtful hand along his dark locks and shook them
slowly. The conversation had passed beyond him.
The detective smiled a little. “Never mind him, Alexander. Anything that
you find--you bring to me--right off.” He clinked a little money in his
pocket and looked at him.
But Achilles’s gaze had no returning gleam. “When I find her,” he said,
“I tell you--I tell everybody.” His face had lightened now.
The detective laughed. “All right, Alexander! You’re game, all right!”
Achilles looked at him with puzzled eyes. “I go now,” he said. He moved
away with the smooth, unhurried rhythm that bore him swiftly along.
The eyes of the two men followed him. “You’re welcome to him!” said the
chief carelessly.
“I don’t feel so sure,” said the other--“He may do it yet--right under
our noses. I’ve done it myself--you know.”
The chief looked at him curiously.
“_I_ used to do it--time and again,” said the man, thoughtfully. “_I_
couldn’t ’a’ told you--_how_. I’d study on a case--and study--and give
it up--and then, all of a sudden--pop!--and there it was--in my head.
I couldn’t have told how it got there, but it worked all right!” He
lighted a cigar and threw the match from him, puffing slowly. “I’d do
it now--if I could.” He was lost in thought. “There’s something in
his eyes--that Greek. I’d like to be inside that black skull of his a
minute.” He sauntered across the room and went out.
The eyes of the chief of police looked after him vaguely. He drew a
column of figures toward him and began to add it--starting at the bottom
and travelling slowly up. He was computing his revenues for the coming
year.