Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 2, September 24, 1927

“I left word to-day about a warrant I planned to apply for.”

“Yes — I was at lunch. Did you get the warrant?”

“McNulty of the D.A.’s office has taken it,” the investigator replied. “He says he may heed a little assistance in serving it. Can you let us have one or two of your men?”

“Certainly. When do you want it served?”

“We thought of to-night—”

“All right, Mr. Steele. Where, and what time?”

“Suppose we meet in the drug store beneath Huntington Hall at eleven.”

“That’s O.K. with me,” declared Bennett. “I’ll have two men there, or else come myself. I have another little job to-night.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bennett.”

After another half hour, Steele tried the district attorney’s office once more. This time he was successful.

“Yes, I called you early this afternoon,” O’Neil answered. “McNulty probably didn’t say anything to you this noon about his visit to the City Hospital, because I told him it wasn’t to be spoken of.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Well, he explained carefully to them that they shouldn’t talk to any one about Drohan’s statements. Of course, we don’t know that they haven’t let slip something already. But I’m positive there has been no leak here.

“McNulty and my secretary are the only ones who know anything about the matter. I have locked up the original paper, and there are no copies except yours and the ones I sent to the superintendent of police and the captain of division five. I—” He hesitated. “I don’t know how much help division five will be able to give me on the case, but I don’t want them to say I am keeping them in the dark.”

“I see,” said Steele.

He thanked O’Neil for his interest, and sat gazing thoughtfully at his desk.

Then, taking up the telephone again, he called another number — a man who lived in the South End, an informer. The authorities had many stool pigeons. Since his connection with the district attorney and with James Ward, Steele had had a few. He asked the man several questions, and the answers were disquieting.

Steele came to his decision quickly. He must finish without Dizzy McArthur. The inventor would be bitterly disappointed, but it was the safer and saner course. At least, he must let him make the choice with his eyes fully open, not blindly — must tell him the peril, not leave him unsuspecting.

It would mean abandoning certain plans which had already been worked out in detail. That was, if he could induce the inventor to withdraw. But it was safer. He called McArthur’s home.

There was no answer. He tried his club, but the inventor was not there.

The clock on Steele’s desk showed five minutes after five. From beneath his windows ascended the noise of traffic homeward bound. He pressed a button.

Somers entered, wearing his coat and holding his hat.

“Don’t let any of the men go home for a little while,” the investigator ordered. “I may need them all.”

The youth went out, puzzled. Harper, an older man who was in charge of the local branch, entered Steele’s room and sat with him, hesitating to ask questions. At five thirty the head of the agency tried McArthur’s home again. There was still no response. He called the club. McArthur was not there and had not been there.

“You may go to dinner,” Steele told his men. “Be here at seven.”

At that hour they returned — Marvin, Bolton, Somers, Thompson, Brown, and Harper — and found their employer alone in his office, telephone in hand, his face expressionless.

“I want you to scatter through town and look for a man,” he told them. “All of you except Harper; he has to meet the train, and he doesn’t know the man, anyway. Bolton and Marvin, it’s the chap who took you into Harrison’s. Thompson, Somers, and Brown — it’s the man you’ve often trailed through the South End at night.

“He has promised to be on hand at eleven. However, that doesn’t mean meeting us. He may go home or to his club before that, but I can’t risk it. I’ll send a man to cover his house. Find him if you can. If you can’t — come back here at ten. We must reach him some way before he goes into the South End to-night.”

He gave a few more rapid instructions to his operatives, and they scattered. Harper shook his head when they had gone. The law of averages was heavily against them. He remained with Steele until nine; and at every half hour the latter made his telephone call to the club.

Shortly after Harper had left the office, Harris, the man on night duty, entered from the outer room.

“Williams is on the line, sir, to ask if you want him to work to-night.”

“Tell him I’ll not need him,” Steele replied.

At two minutes before ten, all of the operatives had returned to the building. The gravity of the situation had been sensed by each. It was a quiet, tense little group which faced the director-in-chief. There was no need for them to tell him of their failure.

“Did you watch the theater district?” Steele asked.

“Yes, sir — until eight thirty,” replied Somers. “After that we watched the railroad stations.”