WHAT THE TELEPHONE TOLD
All West's indifference vanished instantly. He had to pry the paper out,
so closely had it been wedged in beneath the closed knife blade, and it
required a moment in which to straighten it out so that the writing was
discernable. Even then the marks were so faint, and minute, he could not
really decipher them until he made use of a magnifying glass lying on the
desk. A woman's hand, using a pencil, had hastily inscribed the words on
a scrap of common paper, apparently torn from some book--the inspiration
of an instant, perhaps, a sudden hope born of desperation. He fairly had
to dig the words out, letter by letter, copying them on an old envelope
until he had the message complete: "_Please notify police to search
Seminole quick_."
West read this over, word by word, again and again. What did it mean? Did
it mean anything? Had it any possible connection with the case in which
he was interested? There was no signature, nothing to guide him; yet in
some way the plea sounded real, was a cry of distress, an appeal for
help. It could be given no other meaning, yet how long had it been lying
there in the alley? Not any great length of time surely, for the polished
silver was far too conspicuous to escape notice. It must have been
dropped during the night, within a very short time of its discovery. But
what did the words signify? "_Notify police_" was clear enough, but
"_search Seminole_" meant absolutely nothing. What was "Seminole"--an
apartment house? A hotel? A saloon? Perhaps the police would know;
evidently the writer so believed, or she would never have used the name
with such confidence. A familiar name to her, she assumed that the police
would have no difficulty in instantly locating the place meant. The haste
with which the message had apparently been written, its short, sharp
words, bespoke urgent need, the consciousness of imminent peril. Plainly
the writer had used the only means at hand in a hurried desperate effort
to gain assistance.
"The police." The request had been for the police; then why not appeal to
the police? Why not take the note now directly to headquarters, and let
them help solve its mystery? At first West hesitated, yet a moment's
thought convinced him this would be the logical course to pursue. He
could accomplish nothing alone, unguided. His appealing to the police
need not necessarily involve any disclosure relative to the Coolidge
matter. He had found this note accidentally in an alley in the northwest
section of the city; his being there need require no special explanation;
he did not understand its meaning, but it was quite evidently a police
matter, and consequently he placed it in their hands. That all sounded
natural enough. Besides at this hour of the night there was no other
place to which he could go for information.
He looked at Sexton, who was sleeping soundly, and decided not to awaken
the man. He had no use for his services just now; the City Hall was only
a few blocks away, and he might not be out more than an hour himself. He
would leave a note so that if by any chance he should be delayed, Sexton
would understand what had occurred. He scratched this off hastily, placed
it in a conspicuous place, and swiftly departed, after extinguishing the
light. He was no longer conscious of fatigue, or the pain of bruises, his
mind eager to learn the meaning of this new discovery.
It had been a quiet night at the City Hall Station, and West encountered
no difficulty in reaching the presence of the lieutenant in charge. The
latter gazed at his caller curiously over an early edition of the morning
paper, as the officer who had opened the door to the inner office, said
rather doubtfully.
"This guy wants to see you personally, sir; he wouldn't talk to no
one else."
"All right, Slavin; shut the door, and I'll hear what he has to say. What
is it, my man?"
West explained swiftly and clearly, his manner of speech, as well as his
statement as to who he was, evidently making a favourable impression on
his listener, who interrupted the brief narrative with several
respectfully asked questions. He look the note, spread it out on the
desk, and studied it carefully.
"Looks genuine enough," he commented at last, "but not very clear. I
don't know any place in this town called Seminole. Wait a minute though;
perhaps one of the boys may have an idea."
He pressed a button on top of the desk, and in response to the summons, a
side door opened, and a main in plain clothes entered.
"You rang, sir?"
"Yes, McAdams; this gentleman here--"
"Captain West, as I am a sinner!" he exclaimed. "Gee! but I am glad to
see you again, old man! Say. By Gad! you don't remember me."
"Oh, but I certainly do, Mac," and West grasped the extended hand
heartily. "It's a devil of a surprise, that's all. Saw you last at Brest,
the day you sailed for home. So this was your job, Sergeant?"
"Been with the department ever since I was a kid. Put me in plain clothes
since I came back. Lieutenant, this is Captain West, over across the pond
with the Engineers; we were buddies for about two months. What was
wanted, sir?"
"Well, Captain West has just been telling me a rather peculiar story, and
wanted some information I thought perhaps you could give; you know the
old town right now better than I do. First of all, do you recall any
crook by the name of Hobart--Jim Hobart?"
"Hobart? Hobart? no, not off hand, I don't. How old a man is he,
Captain?"
"Middle-aged, anyway; an active fellow enough, but his hair is
quite grey."
"Do you know where he hangs out?"
"The last I saw of him was in a saloon known as Mike's Place over on
Wray Street."
"Off Milwaukee; yes, I know. Mike is a big Pole, but has never had any
serious trouble so far as I know. However, being there is no special
recommendation to a guy, but I don't believe this man Hobart has been
pulled since I've been on the force. And you don't recall the name,
Lieutenant?"
"No; but he might be an old timer come back. Look him up in the index,
Mac. That will soon tell you whether we have got any such mug, or not."
McAdams drew out a thick volume from a near-by cabinet, and ran his
fingers swiftly down a long column of names, indexed under the letter
"H." Suddenly he stopped, with an exclamation.
"The lad is here all right--Government offence, fifteen years ago, third
arrest; mugged number 28113. Let's look him up, and see if he is the same
man. Come over here, Captain."
"Is that the fellow?" he asked.
West studied the face seriously.
"Yes, I believe it is, Mac," he said at length. "He looks much older now,
but those are his features all right. What was his game?"
"'Con' mostly, according to the record; only one conviction though, two
years in Detroit for using the mails to defraud. Oh, yes, here is
something different, 'assault with intent to kill'--indeterminate
sentence to Joliet for that. Nothing heard of him since. So he is back,
and at the old game again. Do you want him brought in, Captain?"
"No, not yet. I haven't anything against the man now but a suspicion. I
wanted to learn his record, that's all. This inquiry was only incidental.
What I'm really interested in just at present is something I picked up in
the alley back of Mike's Place three or four hours ago. It's a note in a
woman's hand-writing, and when I found it, it was hidden in a small
silver pen-knife, such as a lady might carry. I thought it might have
some connection with the case I'm trying to catch this fellow Hobart in."
"There is a woman in it, then?"
"Yes; but I haven't got things hitched up sufficiently to talk about it.
The note itself is blind."
"In what respect?"
"Well, here it is. Can you make it out? I'll read it for you--'_Please
notify police to search Seminole quick_.'"
"No signature?"
"None."
"But that is plain enough, isn't it?"
"Yes, if you know what she means by Seminole; what is it? a street? an
apartment house? a saloon? Do you know of anything under that name?"
McAdams stood motionless thinking.
"No, by thunder, I don't," he admitted reluctantly. "There is no street
of that name in the city. There used to be a shady hotel over on Ontario
Street called 'The Seminole,' but that was torn down ten years ago. I
never heard of any other--did you, Dave?"
"No," answered the lieutenant slowly, sucking away at a cigar. "I just
been looking over the directory, and I don't find nothing. Maybe it's the
name of a boat--seems to me I've heard some such name before, but I don't
just recollect where."
"A boat! Well, that's a straw anyway, and worth looking up." Mac picked
up the telephone. "Who is on at the Harbour Master's office this time
of night?"
"Winchell, usually, and he'll have a record there."
The detective jiggled the receiver impatiently.
"Yes, this is police headquarters calling. Give me the Harbour Master's
office, please--I said the Harbour office. Oh, is this you, Dan? Bob
McAdams speaking. Do you know of any boat on the lakes called the
_Seminole_? What's that? A lumber schooner at Escanaba? Never makes this
port, you say? And you don't know of any other by that name? Sure, I'll
hold the wire; look it up."
"Not a very promising lead," he said over his shoulder, "but Dan will
have the dope for us in a minute."
He suddenly straightened up, the receiver at his ear.
"I didn't quite get that, Dan. A medium sized yacht, you say? Where is
it? Oh, at the Jackson Park lagoon. I see; and who did you say owned it?
What's that? I didn't quite catch the name--Coolidge? What Coolidge?
Exactly; the fellow who killed himself out south. Hold the wire."
He swung about to face West, the receiver still at his ear.
"This mean anything to you?"
"It surely does," eagerly. "The girl I spoke of was Natalie Coolidge. By
all the gods, we are on the right track."
"All right, Dan," resuming his conversation. "What's that? Coolidge had
the boat up the river a few weeks ago trying to sell it. That's how you
happened to remember the name--I see. Say, is there any one out at
Jackson Park I could talk to at this hour? Who? Oh, yes, the Life
Saving Station. Sure: somebody will be on duty there. Thanks, old
man--good night."
He hung the receiver up on the hook, and reached for the telephone
directory.
"Some luck, I say. Jackson Park--oh, yes, here it is. All right, Central;
sure, that is the proper number. This is the City Hall Police
Headquarters again; hustle it up, please. Hullo, Jackson Park Life Saving
Station? Good; this is McAdams speaking from the City Detective Bureau.
Is there a yacht out there in the lagoon called the Seminole? belongs to
a man named Coolidge; medium sized boat, with gas engine. Yes; what's
that? Not there now; went out into the lake about two hours ago. The hell
it did! Who was aboard? do you know? Say that again; oh, you wasn't on
watch when she sailed; your partner said what? Three men and a woman. All
right, yes, I got it. Say now, listen; this is a police matter, so keep
your eyes open. It will be daylight pretty soon, and if you get sight of
that boat, call up the City Hall Station at once. Do you get me?"
He wheeled about, smiling whimsically.
"It's on again, off again, Flannigan. We had it, and we have it not.
Dave I am getting interested; I feel the lure of the chase. What say
you? Can you spare me for a day or two? You can? good enough; we'll comb
the lakes until we find out who is sailing aboard the _Seminole_. You're
with me, old man?"
West extended his hand silently, and the fingers of the two clasped in a
mutual pledge.