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

The inventor fully realized the difficulties. He had learned the secret ring of one — four — two on the doorbell, but inside the house were four other doors — heavy doors — one in each hallway. How had Steele planned to prevent the sending of advance information? McArthur did not know. It wasn’t his part to know. He could only go ahead and play the game himself. And he must not forget his signals!

Eleven-fifty. Three times four.

He paid for his dinner and returned to the garage. The car was ready, but the driver had not arrived. McArthur surveyed the machine critically. He was satisfied. After another half hour, the chauffeur came, eating the last of a sandwich. He was a big, stout fellow with good-natured blue eyes.

The proprietor introduced him as Mr. Keady, and McArthur gave his instructions.

“I’m going to South Wyndham, by the shore turnpike, starting about midnight, and you’ll have to step on it.”

“I can do that, sir.”

“All right. Until then, you’ll have to wait for me. I’ll show you where to wait.”

The man touched his cap and rolled the car out to the street. A headlight bulb was defective, and he paused to replace it. McArthur got into the front seat beside him.

“Ain’t that a beautiful motor, sir?” the chauffeur asked.

“It’s smooth,” the inventor agreed. “Tires all good?”

“Almost new.”

“What about the exhilarator?”

Mr. Keady looked at him. “The accelerator, sir?”

“I call it the exhilarator.”

“No, sir, the accelerator,” the man explained. “It accelerates the motor.”

“Oh?” said McArthur politely.

The chauffeur threw in the clutch, and they glided away. As they passed a church on the first corner, the clock was striking ten.

Chapter XLVI The Forces Gather

At twenty minutes before eleven, Steele called for Special Officer McNulty at his home. He was alone in his roadster. The white-haired policeman came out immediately, bundled in his overcoat, and the private investigator carefully adjusted the side curtains to keep out the wind. They proceeded across town to Huntington Hall.

There Steele parked his car across the street, and they entered the drug store beneath the auditorium. A few customers were in the store, but none whom they recognized.

They waited until the clock on the wall showed eleven, but did not see Bennett or any of his men. Steele compared the clock with his watch.

“They’re usually late,” McNulty grumbled.

At five minutes past the hour a large, new, high-priced sedan glided to a stop at the curb in front of the door. There were three men inside. Special Officer Bennett of headquarters alighted, puffing languidly at his pipe. Followed by his companions, he entered the drug store.

He smiled as he saw the private investigator.

“Good evening, Mr. Steele.”

“Good evening, Mr. Bennett.”

“Well — we’re here.”

“I’m certainly very much obliged to you.”

No one in the store paid any attention to the group. Bennett, clean-cut and neatly dressed, would have passed for a real estate broker or a star salesman. Fortner, who usually drove the raiding squad’s fast automobile, was not a typical policeman, although he was large and heavy. The third man, Haley, looked more like a professional gunman than a plainclothes officer. He was small and of dark complexion, with a broken nose.

“Mr. McNulty has the ticket, I suppose?” Bennett asked.

Steele touched his arm, and they moved to a secluded corner.

“Yes, Mr. McNulty has the warrant, although I don’t want him to have to take any very active part in serving it.”

“What is it, John Doe, or in the man’s name?”

“Oh, it’s a search warrant,” replied McNulty, fumbling in his breast pocket.

“A search warrant!” repeated Bennett, in surprise. “I didn’t understand that. We haven’t men enough, have we? What’s the nature of it?”

“We probably haven’t officers enough,” Steele answered, “but, according to the words of the warrant, the complainant or his witnesses are authorized to render the officer serving the document any necessary assistance, provided that the officer asks for such assistance. Mr. McNulty, do you wish assistance from my men in serving this warrant?”

“Yes, Mr. Steele,” replied the elderly policeman, still looking among papers from his pocket. “I think we’ll need it.”

“Where are your men?” asked Bennett curiously.

“Here is one.” The private investigator nodded toward a youth who had joined the group. “I believe the others are outside.”

The raiding officer moved to the door, and caught his breath in amazement. Behind his powerful sedan, a line of four closed cars had drawn up, and each car was filled with men.

“For Heaven’s sake! Where did you get them all, Mr. Steele? What kind of a job is this, anyway?”