Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 25, No. 2, August 13, 1927

“I hope you’re right,” said Heywood good-naturedly. “Let’s turn in and get some sleep.”

We loaded the big young man on a camp cot in the kitchen, and Heywood insisted upon giving me his bed while he bunked on a small couch in the little living room. I was properly grateful, for I was thoroughly exhausted. A moment after I got into the bed I was sleeping a sound, dreamless sleep.

We did not get up until noon. Heywood fried bacon and eggs, while I said good morning to our prisoner and found him in a surly mood. He had recovered somewhat from the blow on the head and, apparently, the realization of the night’s events had not improved his humor. He scowled at me darkly when I untied one of his arms to allow him to eat.

“You’ll pay for this, my friend,” he said. “I’ll make you regret that you ever meddled in this affair.”

“Perhaps,” I admitted cheerfully. “Right now you are the one to regret that you ever got tied up with a pair of dirty crooks like Barton and Blake. What part did you have in the theft of the jewels and in the murder of Copeland?”

“I’m not talking,” said the giant sourly. “Don’t try to question me. You can’t get to first base.”

Heywood turned to us with a frying pan in his hand.

“Oh, you’ll talk all right, my pretty bird,” he assured. “I’ll get all the way around the bases on you and you’ll be damned glad to talk. Here, eat this. The food will be pretty rotten where you are going.”

“What do you mean?” growled the youth. He ignored the plate which Heywood held out to him and stared belligerently at the reporter.

“Eat,” commanded the latter, “before I take this stuff away from you and eat it myself.”

We watched him as he grudgingly ate his meal, then we retied him, took our own food and left the room.

“Did you notice,” said Heywood as we ate, “that the big boy was considerably disturbed when I hinted that he was about to go some place.”

“Yes. What do you make of that?”

“He’s crooked. Got a record, I’ll bet, and shaking in his boots for fear that we’ll get a line on him.”

When breakfast was over Heywood got out a pad of ink and a piece of cardboard, and, after many dire threats, succeeded in taking our prisoner’s finger-prints.

“What’s the matter with you?” the reporter taunted as he worked. “Afraid, aren’t you? If you were on the level you would be glad to have us identify you, but since you are as crooked as a hound’s hind leg it hurts, doesn’t it?”

The big young man snarled a profane answer, and Heywood nonchalantly shoved him back onto the cot.

“Lay there and shut up,” he said, “and when I come back you’ll talk or we’ll turn you over to the police.” He turned to me. “Let me have the key to your house. You stay on the job here and see that our desperate friend don’t run away with the kitchen stove. I won’t be gone long.”

“Agreed,” said I, “and while you’re at headquarters see if you can get the record on the jewel theft. I know you haven’t got much to go on, but somebody around there should know the details.”

Heywood was getting into his coat.

“By the way.” He turned with his hand upon the doorknob and smiled owlishly. “Did you get the name of the poor, unfortunate lad who is serving the two years in prison?”

“I did not.”

“Of course,” he said maliciously, “that would have been bad judgment on the lady’s part. Too easy to trace, eh?”

“Get out,” said I bluntly. “You are the original cynic.”

Chapter XII Big Hutch, Bad Man

After Heywood left I dozed comfortably in a chair for an hour, with my pistol handy beside me, and awakened considerably refreshed. My mind immediately returned to the question of trapping Barton into revealing some connection with the black capsule. I picked up a telephone directory and looked for his number. There it was:

Joshua Barton, diamond importer, Forest 4600.

I called and asked for Barton’s private office.

“Is Mr. Barton in?”

“No, he is out on business right now. This is his secretary. Can I do something for you?”

This was just what I had hoped for.

“Yes,” said I. “This is the Globe. In connection with a business story we are printing, we were trying to recall when Mr. Barton made his last trip to Paris. Could you tell me?”

“In September — last September.”

“Thank you.” I hung up the receiver. So far so good. There was nothing to do now but await Heywood’s return. If the facts he brought back with him fitted my half of the puzzle then nothing could shake me in the belief that Joshua Barton, respectable though he might be as far as appearances went, was, in truth, the member of a criminal organization.

I fell now to wondering what Blake had done when it was found that I had made my escape from the island. Had they fled, fearing that I might return with the police, or had they stood their ground on the theory that I would play the game out by myself? And Sonia, where was she? How would I find her again to give her the letter?