George Choogart was finally beginning to understand the Bowery streets. As he walked from the Times Building back home, he was no longer shocked by the levels of noise or steam or commotion on the busy streets. He was getting used to it all. Maybe, George thought, New York could still be a home for him.
Of course, that would not matter if George did not have a story that nailed Big Jim. Everything depended on the rematch with Al Stevens, set for the night that followed. In the meantime, George had to follow some of his leads.
First, he walked to the Woodrat. It was the middle of the day, and the establishment was locked and closed down. George attempted to look through a small window, but no one was outside. Then he noticed a young man outside the club, absently sweeping the streets. It took him a second, but George remembered the boy. It was Silas, the janitor.
“Silas? Do you remember me? I’m George Krook.”
Silas looked up from the cobblestones he was sweeping. “Of course I remember you, Mr. Krook. Mr. Mayflower spoke much of you in the last few days.”
“Silas, where is Lew?”
Silas shrugged. “I never seen the club closed, no matter what time of day. I woke up and walked to work, just like I always do. The Woodrat was locked. So, I figure I stay here and sweep the walkway until Mr. Mayflower returns.”
George did not have the heart to tell Silas that Mayflower was not likely to return.
“Silas, maybe you should go home. Mr. Mayflower is taking a day off from work.”
“Sir, Mr. Mayflower never takes the day off. I will wait until he returns.”
So George left Silas outside the Woodrat, still sweeping. It was now clear that Lew had been taken, and his captor was Big Jim Dickinson. Could the same thing happen to Holly Quine?
George needed to find out. But first he decided to go home.
A rude shock awaited George as soon as he stepped into his room. His few belongings—a table, a bed, and some papers—were overturned, destroyed, or ripped to bits. It seemed as though someone had searched George’s room inside and out. Before George had a chance to determine what happened, there was a knock on the door.
“Who is it?” George asked.
“Muggs!” said one voice.
“Millie!” said another.
“This is your landlord, George,” said a third voice. “I’m here with Muggs and Millie.”
George opened the door and let the three inside.
“There were men who came to search your room, George,” Muggs said.
“For what?”
“They didn’t say, but they were very pushy,” Millie said. “Kept asking us questions. But we did what you told us.”
“What was that?” George had forgotten.
“They asked everyone in the hall what we knew about you. What you did for a living,” Muggs said. “We said we didn’t know.”
George understood. “So you did not tell anyone I was a journalist?”
“And sell out my favorite customer? Not a chance, sir,” Millie said.
Nordler spoke. “Mr. Choogart, I want an explanation. Those men were no mere gangsters or thieves. Are you hiding from someone?”
“I promise I will explain, Mr. Nordler. For now, it is important that no one is aware I am a journalist.”
Nordler prodded for more. “What exactly are you planning, Mr. Choogart?”
George was not sure, but he knew his next step was to find Holly. He looked at his desk and noticed something was missing.
“Millie, have you seen my copy of Bleak House?”
“Your copy of what?”
“The book I had. Where did it go?”
“Wasn’t me, sir. I ain’t no thief but a professional haberdasher. Completely different.”
“I have to leave,” George said. He brushed past a confused Muggs, Millie, and Mr. Nordler, and made his way back outside to the Bowery streets.
George’s next stop was back to the Times office, to see if Holly was still there. Unfortunately, Holly and Van were both out of the building. That by itself was not a good sign.
George realized he had no choice: he had to go visit Big Jim Dickinson. But Big Jim wasn’t expecting him until the next day. George needed an excuse for dropping by. He had to learn what happened to Holly Quine, at any cost. Even if it meant breaking his cover and endangering his own life.