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

“As for obtaining them,” the head of the agency replied, “the majority are regularly in my employ. I have Harper, Thompson, Brown, Somers, and Harris of my local office; Marvin, Bolton, and Freeman of my office in New York; Clapp and Rawley, who are stationed in Chicago; and the others are men I have borrowed from local detective agencies. They all have firearms permits, and I think we can render you and Officer McNulty capable assistance.”

“But where on earth are we going?”

“Did you find the warrant, Mr. McNulty?”

“Yes; here it is.”

He passed it to Bennett, who opened it and looked at the address designated. For a moment Bennett did not speak. He stared at the paper as if he had seen a ghost.

“Harrison’s!” he attempted finally.

“That’s it, Bennett,” said Steele in an expressionless voice. “We are planning to knock it to-night.”

Chapter XLVII Little Evelyn’s Message

When McArthur and his driver, Keady, had arrived at the corner of Columbia and Dartnell Streets, on the outskirts of the South End, the former suggested that they stop.

“I have an appointment,” he explained, “but it isn’t quite time for me to keep it. When I do keep it, I’m going to have you wait for me on Oliver Street.”

“All right, sir.”

Entering a store on the corner, McArthur purchased a box of his favorite cigarettes. He placed one in his holder, took it out, put it back in the box, and entered a telephone booth.

He called the news room of the Record.

“Mr. Brown, the sporting editor, please.

“Hello, Jimmie? This is Four-Ace McArthur. How late are you working tonight?”

“Oh, not very late, Mac. About a half hour more. Why? Going down to H’s?”

“Are you going?” the inventor asked.

“I thought I might. I haven’t seen any of the boys for over a week. Or the girls, either.” he added, laughing.

“I suppose the Ice Palace riot is keeping you late?”

“The Ice Palace riot!” repeated Jimmie.

“Yes — the riot up there to-night.”

“What was this?” demanded the other quickly. “We haven’t heard anything about it!”

“Good heavens,” declared McArthur, “I thought it was all over town. The whole visiting team arrested for assault upon the local goal tend; thirty-six spectators arrested for throwing pennies and nickels; fifteen arrested for throwing nails; six for throwing eggs; and one for throwing a monkey wrench. They’re going to get grand jury indictments.”

“For the love of Pete! Say, Mac, are you kidding me?”

“Go up to the Ice Palace when you get through and see,” returned the inventor.

“I will! Thanks for the tip!”

McArthur lit his cigarette and stepped outside, exhaling thoughtfully.

Across the street, two girls were standing. They were painted, and expensively dressed. The inventor recognized both — Rose Mantha and Diamond-Tooth Marjie. It occurred to him that they were looking at him intently and oddly.

Presently a red cab stopped, with a single passenger, a man. The taller girl, Marjie, ran to join him, and they rode down Columbia Street in the direction of Warrington. The other, Rose Mantha, crossed and approached McArthur.

He thought she glanced around cautiously as she came, and he was certain that she was looking at him strangely.

“Mr. Mac,” she ventured, in her rich, soft voice, “you’re not such a bad sort, in spite of all they say. Evelyn wants to see you.”

“In spite of all who says?” asked the inventor, blinking.

“Oh, I don’t know — but honest, Evelyn wants to see you. She’s down in the Canton now. She told me if I saw you, to be sure and tell you. She wants to say something to you.”

“Indeed?” said McArthur. “In the Canton—”

Rose left him and walked up Dartnell Street.

So Little Evelyn was in the Canton again! Also — a fact even more surprising — she was asking for him! McArthur had no intention of going to the cabaret to learn what she wanted. He knew that he hadn’t time to become involved in another situation like the last.

He remained on the corner and smoked for fifteen minutes, failing to see any one else whom he recognized. It was a clear night, although quite cold; and automobile traffic was heavy. An ideal night for the final effort!

Throwing away his second cigarette, the inventor stepped to his car.

“We’ll go down Columbia to Mountfort,” he directed.

“Yes, sir.”

As they passed the Canton Cabaret, McArthur glanced back sharply at sight of a slender form in a light fur coat by the entrance. It was Little Evelyn, watching the automobiles which passed. For an instant McArthur thought that she had seen him.

At Mountfort Street, which was the last before Warrington, he told Keady to turn to the right, and they stopped just beyond the second corner, on Oliver street.

“Now,” the inventor said carefully, “I don’t expect to be back until twelve o’clock, but I want you to stay here in the car all the time, in case I should.”

“I will, sir,” the chauffeur promised.