BEATRICE QUALIFIES AS A SHERLOCK HOLMES
Annie Millikan nodded her wise little head. "Jerry's gonna frame him
if he can. He's laid the wires for it. That's a lead pipe."
"Sure," agreed Muldoon. "I'll bet he's been busy all night fixin' up
his story. Some poor divvies he'll bully-rag into swearin' lies an'
others he'll buy. Trust Jerry for the crooked stuff."
"We've got to get the truth," said Beatrice crisply, pulling on her
gloves. "And we'll do it too. A pack of lies can't stand against four
of us all looking for the truth."
Annie looked curiously at this golden-haired girl with the fine rapture
of untamed youth, so delicate and yet so silken strong. By training
and tradition they were miles apart, yet the girl who had lived on the
edge of the underworld recognized a certain kinship. She liked the
thorough way this young woman threw herself into the business of the
day. The wireless telegraphy of the eyes, translated through the
medium of her own emotions, told her that no matter whose ring Beatrice
Whitford was wearing Clay Lindsay held her happiness in the cup of his
strong brown hand.
"You're shoutin', Miss." Annie rose briskly. "I'll get busy doin'
some sleuthin' myself. I liked your friend from the minute he stepped
through--from the minute I set me peepers on him. He's one man, if
anybody asks you. I'm soitainly for him till the clock strikes twelve.
And say, listen! Jerry's liable not to get away with it. I'm hep to
one thing. The gang's sore on him. He rides the boys too hard. Some
of 'em will sure t'row him down hard if they think they'll be
protected."
"The district attorney will stand by us," said Whitford. "He told me
himself Durand was a menace and that his days as boss were numbered.
Another thing, Miss Millikan. If you need to spend any money in a
legitimate way, I'm here to foot the bills."
Muldoon, who was on night duty this month and therefore had his days
free, guided Whitford and his daughter to Maddock's. As they reached
the house an express wagon was being driven away. Automatically the
license number registered itself in Tim's memory.
The policeman took a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. The
three went up the stairs to the deserted gambling-hall and through it
to the rear room.
"From what Lindsay says the bullet holes ought to be about as high as
his arm pits," said Whitford.
"'Slim' must 'a' been standin' about here," guessed Muldoon,
illustrating his theory by taking the position he meant. "The bullets
would hit the partition close to the center, wouldn't they?"
Beatrice had gone straight to the plank wall. "They're not here," she
told them.
"Must be. According to Lindsay's story the fellow was aiming straight
at it."
"Well, they're not here. See for yourself."
She was right. There was no evidence whatever that any bullets had
passed through the partition. They covered every inch of the cross
wall in their search.
"Lindsay must have been mistaken," decided Whitford, hiding his keen
disappointment. "This man Collins couldn't have been firing in this
direction. Of course everything was confusion. No doubt they shifted
round in the dark and--"
He stopped, struck by an odd expression on the face of his daughter.
She had stooped and picked up a small fragment of shaving from the
floor. Her eyes went from it to a plank in the partition and then back
to the thin crisp of wood.
"What is it, honey?" asked Whitford.
The girl turned to Muldoon, alert in every quivering muscle. "That
express wagon--the one leaving the house as we drove up--Did you notice
it?"
"Number 714," answered Tim promptly.
"Can you have it stopped and the man arrested? Don't you see? They've
rebuilt this partition. They were taking away in that wagon the planks
with the bullet holes."
Muldoon was out of the room and going down the stairs before she had
finished speaking. It was a quarter of an hour later when he returned.
Beatrice and her father were not to be seen.
From back of the partition came an eager, vibrant voice. "Is that you,
Mr. Muldoon? Come here quick. We've found one of the bullets in the
wall."
The policeman passed out of the door through which Bromfield had made
his escape and found another small door opening from the passage. It
took him into the cubby-hole of a room in which were the wires and
instruments used to receive news of the races.
"What about the express wagon?" asked Whitford.
"We'll get it. Word is out for those on duty to keep an eye open for
it. Where's the bullet?"
Beatrice pointed it out to him. There it was, safely embedded in the
plaster, about five feet from the ground.
"Durand wasn't thorough enough. He quit too soon," said the officer
with a grin. "Crooks most always do slip up somewhere and leave
evidence behind them. Yuh'd think Jerry would have remembered the
bullet as well as the bullet hole."
They found the mark of the second bullet too. It had struck a
telephone receiver and taken a chip out of it.
They measured with a tape-line the distance from the floor and the side
walls to the place where each bullet struck. Tim dug out the bullet
they had found.
They were back in the front room again when a huge figure appeared in
the doorway and stood there blocking it.
"Whatta youse doin' here?" demanded a husky voice.
Muldoon nodded a greeting. "'Lo, Dave. Just lookin' around to see the
scene of the scrap. How about yuh?"
"Beat it," ordered Gorilla Dave, his head thrust forward in a threat.
"Youse got no business here."
"Friends av mine." The officer indicated the young woman and her
father. "They wanted to see where 'Slim' was knocked out. So I showed
'em. No harm done."
Dave moved to one side. "Beat it," he ordered again.
In the pocket of Muldoon was a request of the district attorney for
admission to the house for the party, with an O.K. by the captain of
police in the precinct, but Tim did not show it. He preferred to let
Dave think that he had been breaking the rules of the force for the
sake of a little private graft. There was no reason whatever for
warning Durand that they were aware of the clever trick he had pulled
off in regard to the partition.