Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 36, No. 4, October 20, 1928

Jack Durant entered into the game with the greatest of zest. They tried everything except a fire alarm to get into the apartment quietly. The signor was called down to the desk on some business while the signorina was out shopping. He did not appear until the signorina had returned.

As a plumber Harry went up to fix the sink trap. He was not admitted. While the signor was out on business the signorina could not be beguiled to stick her nose out of Number 307.

Jack Durant borrowed a spyglass from a pawnshop — for a consideration, and spied on the third floor windows from the building across the street. And all to no avail.

A fake accident call, a fire alarm, a fake burglary, an impersonation over the phone of the mysterious leader — none of these drastic measures were tried because failure would result in swift and inevitable warning.

Thursday, Thursday night, and Friday morning passed without the slightest result having been obtained. Harry was nearly distracted.

“It’s damn funny the girl don’t set up a yowl of some sort,” jerked out Durant in disgust. “I thought prisoners created disturbances. You don’t suppose she’s tied and gagged, do you?”

“I don’t know,” worried Harry. “The man over the phone warned Carlotti about kind treatment.”

“The man? You mean her father?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“No,” blundered on Harry, so wrapped in his thoughts that he failed to note he was revealing some very puzzling information to Durant. “I’ve been thinking and thinking of all the voices I have heard in hopes that I would recognize it. I don’t know whether it could be that of the beer keg chap’s or not. If he would only come here himself! Now, if—”

“Say!” ejaculated Mr. Durant, thrusting his sharp face almost under Harry’s nose. “What kind of a business is this? What the hell have you let me in for? What sort of a game am I sitting in on?”

Harry recalled himself with a jerk and drew back, staring at the shrewdly alert Durant in some fright. Then he recovered himself and smiled grimly. He was in for it now. He decided to make a job of it.

“A deeper game than you ever sat in before, Tack,” he stated in flat, level tones. “A game with a wonderful girl as the stake and the gallows as the first booby prize. A game of crime, with murder as the first move.

“I’ve given too much away, but I was on the verge of trusting you to the limit, anyway. Listen! Do you know who I really am? I am the man who was arrested for the murder of Francis W. Keene. My real name is Harry Lethrop.”

“Julius Cæsar!” gurgled Mr. Durant. “The Avalon Arms affair! And here you are at work in another apartment house before the first victim is in the ground. Holy Moses! Mother! Mother! Your little boy Jack’s in one helluva jam.”

“And he’s going to be in a tighter one if he doesn’t stick!” added Harry ominously. “My sweetheart was abducted — kidnaped — stolen from that Avalon Arms apartment at the same time that murder was fixed on me. I’ve traced her here. I’ll really do murder this time if anybody gets in my way before I rescue her!”

“By golly, I believe you!” said Mr. Durant.

“Do you want to hear my story and stick with me? Or shall we have it out between us right now before you can betray me?”

“I like good stories,” replied Mr. Durant ingenuously. “And I very seldom betray a friend.”

It took the rest of the afternoon to lay Harry’s exact case before the solemnly judicious and thoroughly sobered Mr. Durant.

“Now,” said the narrator desperately. “I’m getting wilder every minute. You’ve got that note in your hand. What would you do if you were me? We’ve tried everything except a police raid.”

“You want my advice?” said Durant.

“I need it before I run amuck,” declared the young lover earnestly.

“All right. Here it is!” snorted the other tersely. “To hell with the risk! Go see MacCray and get his advice before you bungle things. Don’t start looking up your friends to reassure them about your safety — MacCray can do that. Just see him and spill your story. Get out now! I’ll stick on your shift until you get back. Ha!”

And thus Chief MacCray learned of the one and only lucky break which chance handed him in the case of the Avalon Arms murder.

Chapter XV Grady Blunders

The new lodger at Mrs. Yeager’s boarding house in Union Park Court aroused neither great interest nor comment. He was a quiet, almost abashed individual with rather large hands and feet — Mr. Hiram Burke from Boone Corners, Indiana, visiting the big city to see the sights, perhaps accept a position in gents’ burnishing at Meadow’s or Hubbs’, and keep Chicago lead out of his system.

He was no trouble at all, he never pushed himself forward, he never usurped any old boarder’s favorite chair or nook, he never elbowed himself a conspicuous amount of food and room at the table, he never raised a loud voice in argument or offensive opinion. He never made any noise, he never got in the way, and he made no overt moves.