CHAPTER XI

Murder—At 10:43 P.M.

Louis Vann, in his spacious and beautifully furnished private office in the City Hall, paced up and down, up and down, over the thick green velvet carpet covering the huge floor. During which—as he knew—Inspector Rufus Scott, the best burglary man on the Detective Bureau—the one individual who knew about all there was to know about safe burglary—was making, in the old building across from the City Hall, a complete examination of Room 806. On Vann’s great polished hand-carved mahogany desk lay, under the generous light from the huge windows, the long foolscap sheet of paper containing his seventeen handwritten legal points against the liberation, on bail, of Banker Claussen—the penciling of which he had done in his spare time in St. Louis, and for the rendering of which in court this morning he had come back to Chicago as promptly as he had. And fortunate for his rendition of them—in the light of what had happened across the street!—Banker Claussen’s attorney had phoned the State’s Attorney’s office early that morning that Claussen would, for the nonce, remain in jail, and that the appeal for bail was off.

It was but 45 minutes ago, in fact, that Vann had discovered the body of Adolph—and his own pillaged safe. And but 44 minutes ago that, like a wise man who realized that certain others knew their business of burglary and homicide examination much better than he, he had quietly drawn shut the door of Room 806, and closeted himself within the telephone booth standing on the stairs between Floors 8 and 7. First inquiring therein at the Detective Bureau for Detective Scott—then getting the latter at his home, near in to the Loop—and requesting him to come down immediately. But without a word to his superiors—or to any reporters.

And now Miss Jason, the elderly scrawny-necked female who acted as Vann’s secretary and Cerberus in these, the legal offices which the State provided him, stood in the doorway.

“Inspector Scott, Mr. Vann. He wants to know whether he can see you for just a few min—”

“Yes—yes—yes”, Vann said irritably. “Of course! Show Scott in—at once.”

And a second later, Rufus Scott, his square black criminological examination case in hand, his 50 years of age and gray hair at his temples contrasting as vividly with Vann’s more youthful appearance and ungrayed hairs, as did his bulky muscular build contrast with Vann’s more slender figure, stepped inside. Miss Jason, at a peremptory nod from Vann, withdrew.

“Sit down, Rufus,” Vann ordered immediately.

Which Scott did, in the hand-carved visitor’s chair at the edge of Vann’s big desk. Depositing his hat on a near-by mahogany stand, and his square black case on the floor by the side of his chair. During which Vann dropped down into his own swivel chair.

“Well, old man,” the latter began without delay, “what did you figure out—on the job? And what—but first, Rufus, is it all safely hidden away yet—from the press?”

“Absolutely, Louis,” said the veteran police department inspector. “For I took advantage of the fact that your office door—” Scott broke off, however, and inserting his thumb and finger in one of his vest pockets, withdrew a shining long flat key. “Though the lock appears to be quite out of commission now on your door, the door fortunately held those two powerful ringbolts—rather, I should say, Louis, it and the doorjam together, and—but you know to what I refer?”

“Oh yes,” interpolated Vann. “I put them in myself years ago. And when I used to knock off in the summertime for a couple of weeks, I always locked up the office by padlock.”

“Yes,” Scott nodded. “Well, I locked the eyes of those two ringbolts together with an official police department Waddington padlock. To each of which padlocks, as no doubt you know, there exists only one key. And so tight that door is now, thanks to the way you installed those ringbolts, that a flea couldn’t weave through! And now—” Scott slid the key across to Vann, who slipped it into his own vest pocket. “And now you only, Louis, hold the one and only key. So if you’ve some pickup you want to make, on suspicion—for questioning, that is—you’ve at least all of today to do it in. For I find, by inquiry from the night engineer, that Reibach had no relatives whatsoever. At least, you understand, of record. And so, being dead now less than 12 hours, his body can easily stay right where it is—till night.”

Vann nodded emphatically. “It would,” he said quietly, “have stayed there till tomorrow, Rufus—if it hadn’t been for Banker Claussen. A fact! For my office girl over there is out of town—and I’d not have been back here in Chicago today except for the Claussen Case.” Vann broke off, waiting expectantly. Then added: “Well, Rufus—what have you got to give me? So that I can figure whether there’s any use to make any kind of an effort to get the rat—or rats—who pulled that job? Was it a professional peterman, Rufus—who got in my safe? Or an amateur? Which? And at about just what hour do you fig—”

“I can tell you a bit, Louis,” Scott interrupted, “about what happened there last night. But not, I’m afraid, all you want. Or expect. Because—but first, do you mind telling me, Louis, if you had some evidence in that safe—against some individual? You know, of course, that I can keep my mouth shut.”

“Of course,” nodded Vann. “That’s exactly why I called you—on the dot. Yes, I had something in that safe, Rufus, that was evidence. Something turned in, two days ago, to my girl over there—who locked it in there. It was evidence, however, only against a man now locked up in Moundsville Penitentiary—Big Gus McGurk.”

Inspector Scott’s face was a bit blank. “McGurk? Oh yes—he went up for kidnaping, didn’t he? Nine—no—ten years ago. I was in India on furlough when he went up.”

Vann realized that Scott virtually knew no more of the peculiar technicalities of McGurk’s conviction than had even his own office girl from New Zealand. But he did not correct the other—and for purely legal reasons. So that, in fact, if by some now forlorn chance Scott should be later testifying in court, no defendant’s lawyer could bring out that Scott had a knowledge, prior to his examination of those quarters, or during his report of his examination to the State’s Attorney, of any specific motive for such crime.

“I won’t explain the setup, Rufus,” Vann said briefly, “in the wild hopes that maybe later you’ll be testifying in court for the State—and no crook’s ‘mouthpiece’ can be tumbling you about on the witness stand!”

“That’s good reasoning, Louis,” assented Scott, “and I’d prefer it that way myself.” He paused. “We-ell—there’s only 4 old law books in your safe now! Which I daresay you saw yourself—from the open door? But what you want to know first, of course, is whether there was one or two men in there last night—and whether a professional peterman, or an amateur, cracked your pete—or whether some gazabo midway between both professional and amateur?” He paused again. “Well, I’ll say, Louis, that beyond any doubt, one man only did the job. A man, moreover, of somewhat distinctive appearance—in some way! And he was actually already in your box—when he knocked Reibach off. But I’m sorry to have to add that there’s no ascertaining this particular peterman’s professional status.”

“No? Why not, Rufus?”

“Simply because,” the other explained, “he used a purely amateur’s method to get into your box—a sledge. The identical thing he’d have used if he’d been a 100 per cent professional—and come there prepared to crack it, no matter what kind of a box it was. Yes, he used a sledge. Carrying it, in all probability, in an old violin case. For a violin case seems to be practically the only thing a sledge can be toted inconspicuously about in. But whatever else was inside that case, Louis—soup—wedges—whatnot—there’s quite no telling. For—but good Lord, Louis—Where ever did you get that ancient cheesebox!”

“From a today-defunct second-hand safe store on Lake Street,” admitted Vann. “For $14! In my salad days. And kept it throughout all the years for sentiment.”

“I see,” Scott nodded. He paused a second, uncertainly. Then resumed speaking. “Well—getting back to this lone boxman again—while he left fingerprints about your safe door—and his only!—he, but say, was your office girl in the habit of occasionally wiping things off in the office there?”

“Yes,” Vann replied promptly. “Every night, before leaving, she always went over things with an oil rag. Even the painted walls. Neatest thing, that girl, in four counties. No—four continents is better. For she—so he left f. p’s, eh! Amateur then, Rufus—no professional!”

Rufus Scott smiled dryly. “You think so, do you? Well, Louis, these fingerprints all show leather grain—no skin patterns! In short, he used gloves—old leather gloves. Such as I’ve known many a dyed-in-the-wool professional to use. So don’t make any deductions as to his peterman’s status—and don’t hope to convict him either on the f. p.’s he left!” Vann’s face fell. “That’s bad,” was all he said. “Well—how do you personally figure he got in there? And at about what time did he—”

“Secreted himself, beyond any doubt,” Scott put in, “in the building before the street doors were locked at 9 o’clock. For there’s a big unused and unoccupied closet under the stairs. And 4 toilet rooms—each with two private compartments. The location of the toilets being even listed on the directory board. And there’s a mop closet on every floor. Oh, he was in, all right, when the place was locked up.”

“And let himself out,” said Vann, “when the job was done?”

“Yes. Which was within not more than 2—3—minutes after 10:43 p.m.. last night.”

“10:43—p.m.?” said Vann, his face lighting up. “Then you’ve got evidence—to clinch the exact hour he killed Adolph?”

“Absolutely, Louis. I’m able to say conclusively he killed Reibach at 10:43. Or, to be exact, within a fraction of a minute one way or the other. So, if you pull in any likely suspect who can’t account for his whereabouts at that moment—Well—” Scott broke off, and made a significant gesture with his hands.

“And as soon,” put in Vann with a dry smile, “as the papers print the full story of this murder, which will positively have to be by evening—for I can’t hold it back any further than that—well, every and any crook I take in will have an ironclad alibi for 10:43 last night. Not so?”

“Yes,” admitted the police-force veteran. “But ironclad alibis don’t always hold, you know, Louis.”

“Quite true. Yes, indeed. Well now, this exact hour of Adolph’s death is important. So how do you posit it at such exact—”

“By a perfect triple time alignment,” interrupted Scott. “And an alignment which—in this case—couldn’t have been staged. No! But here it is. And in giving you the alignment, I virtually give you what happened in your office last night.”

Scott paused. Then continued.

“This bird hid himself in one of the many, many places possible in the building—but, most likely, in the 7th floor toilet—till around 10:20 Of 10:25, more or less, when he figured the building would be clear of all tenants. Then he marched upstairs with his violin case—jimmied the door of 806—and passed on in. Turned on the lights boldly. Sized up speculatively—beyond any doubt whatsoever!—that 3-panel folding black burlap screen which partially shields that old leather couch of yours in the corner just opposite the door—since its lower panel edges are flush with the floor itself. But since the couch stood forth from the endmost panel at least a third of its own length—at least does this morning!—realized that the couch was untenanted—that your office girl hadn’t by some chance dropped off on it, waiting for some midnight date with some boy friend—and—”

“And a quite useless speculation, that, on his part, I can say,” commented Vann dryly. “Since my office girl, over there, is 100 per cent proper, and would die before meeting a man on the street at night—let alone midnight. But go ahead, Rufus. Finding the place was his, he then did exactly what—as you dope things out?”

“Well, finding—as you put it—that the place was all his, he examined the safe door—the knob—and the combination dials. Confirming in his own mind that they were made of brittle stuff all right; cast iron—and so forth. And then, getting out his sledge, started swinging at the knob and dials. He presumed any janitor or night watchman, if any existed, was on any of the other 9 floors—and knew, too, that the inertia of the heavy safe would practically absorb his blows at it. However, Reibach must have been on that very floor there—maybe in the corridor below—or above. And if he didn’t hear the blows—must have felt them. And hurried to the one office whose light indicated the disturbance might have emanated from there. And fumbling at the door—and finding it unlocked, thanks, of course, to the jimmying—opened it, and walked in. Very likely he thought just maybe you were there—that you’d returned to the office from here, near the end of the day, and had dropped off, yourself, on that old leather couch—and which I’ll warrant, Louis, you have done dozens of times—”

“Dozens of times is right,” assented Vann, nodding. “But go ahead.”

“—and so,” Scott continued, “Reibach probably just thought you’d awakened after a few hours’ snooze, and were now doing some important concentrative work, all by your lonesome, on one of your cases. And he thought perhaps that he’d ask you if you’d heard anything. Never suspecting a cracksman, I’m certain, in your old office—with that ancient cheesebox. Never! Anyway, it’s right there, Louis, where I postulate that one man only did the job. For, had there been two, the other man would have been in position back of where the door could swing open—to cope with any surprise interruption. And with, almost certainty, a gun. Whereas—as it happened—this bird with the sledge was virtually surprised at the job. And had to do his own dirty work. And, moreover, with the sledge itself. He leaped back of the door himself, Louis—yes, I definitely know that—when he heard the very first fumbling at the knob. And once Reibach was completely inside—and the door closed—your cracksman swung at him with the sledge. And Reibach raised his forearm defensively. And a silver wristwatch on his wrist, under the long-sleeved janitor’s jumper he wore, was smashed. And it was a watch, Louis, which Reibach had set by the Western Union clock in the engine room just an hour before. A fact I got from Dilliam Casey, the building engineer, who, by the way, thinks I’m investigating Reibach for non-appearance in court yesterday on some disorderly conduct charge. Anyway, Louis, the hands of Reibach’s watch, thanks to the stoppage of its mechanism, are—right now—at exactly 10:43:37.”

Vann’s face was troubled. “But Rufus—remember the Daley case?—where the hands of just such a watch were set, for an alibi? And the murd—”

“Yes, Louis. I well remember. But wait till I give you the whole setup. This is a triple time alignment—and not a single one like the Daley case.” Scott paused. “You see, Reibach kept a nightly report sheet downstairs in the engine room, showing the hour and minute he started out on each of his regular tours of exploration and inspection, as well as the time he returned. He was very pernickety on this, it seems, for his job, more or less depended on that sheet. Anyway, his last ‘out’ entry on the sheet was 10:10 p.m. His next ‘in’ report would—had it ever been set down!—have been approximately 10:50. Based on the average time of his regular trips. While his next trip would have been at 11:20. One hour and 10 minutes apart, you see? However, he never reported in from the last 10:10 trip.”

“Well,” admitted Vann, “that backs up the 10:43—but only to the extent that Adolph’s death took place between 10:10 and 11:20. Or, we’ll concede, between 10:10 and 10:50. Yes! But this further confirmation of the exact minute, Rufus? What—”

“I’m coming to that. And that’s what also indicates that Reibach’s murderer got back of the door as Reibach came in. And hence worked alone.” Scott paused. “Reibach, Louis, was struck at three times, by the fellow with the sledge. Yes, a fact! The first time, on the forearm. Which of course didn’t kill him. In fact, he obviously pulled himself together and threw himself, like a tiger—at the peterman. Who was ready for him this time—with a better blow. And came down atop Reibach’s head. Yes, Louis, an octagonal discolored area in Reibach’s scalp, practically atop his head, shows that he caught a heavy sledge-blow there—and plainly dropped unconscious from it. But, Louis—the murderer smashed him again—well to the side of that. After Reibach lay there unconscious. And that blow, Louis, bashed in Reibach’s very skull”

“The dirty dog!” ejaculated Vann, referring, of course, to the safe-cracker.

“And that,” pronounced Scott, “is where I postulate that the peterman had some degree of distinctive appearance, which, if described to us, the police—or to you, the S. A.—by Reibach—if Reibach recovered, that is—might help in eventually picking up the peterman. Even convicting him, perhaps. Yes! Some degree—of distinctive appearance. Yes!”

“As—what?” queried Vann, his ears wide open.

“Heaven knows! He might have been a red-haired man. That strikes me, Louis, as most possible. Again, he might have had a drooping eye. Or two eyes of different color. Or he might have been a man of peculiar stature—under-sized—or extremely large. Anyway, he didn’t have to make that last blow. For Reibach must have been unconscious. And, making it, he did it so that Reibach would never recover—and help to get him captured—or better, convicted.”

“Red-haired man?” Vann was musing, fingertips together. “That would be my guess, too. For anybody knows, Rufus, that descriptions of build and height mean absolutely nothing in courts of law. However—red-haired man!” He gave a helpless gesture of his hands. “Go on, Rufus?”

“I will. Well about that first blow, ’twas delivered, as I stated, from approximately back of the door. I base that, Louis, on the direction Reibach staggered—when he caught it. Yes! For I happen to know in exactly which direction—and how far—Reibach staggered. For, seeing the blow coming, he raised his forearm—as also I have stated—and caught the blow on the forearm. And lost his balance plainly. And staggered backward a number of steps. Clear to that glassed-in pendulum clock you’ve got there, on the north wall. And his head struck the lower corner of the clock’s boxlike frame and knocked the whole clock awry. Awry by at least thirty degrees. So that it stopped dead. At 10:43—10:43, that is, plus practically no appreciable fraction of a minute, as nearly as one can read its dial and its hands.”

“The devil you say!” ejaculated Vann, light dawning on him. “And that clock can’t be reset—with its glass door locked? And me—with the only key!” And withdrawing from his pocket his bunch of keys, he held aloft silently a small but very intricate Yale-like key.

“I rather fancied,” commented Scott, “that you hadn’t noticed that clock. Particularly since you scarcely crossed the threshold.”

“God—no!” retorted Vann. “I’m lucky to have noticed as much as I did. And viewing the scene from the doorway only, as I did, the fact of the clock being awry practically wouldn’t have shown to me. For the side projection of the wooden clock case wouldn’t be much different in one position than another. So-o! It was awry—and stopped! And that clock, Rufus—well, it’s one real time-keeper! I’ve never had to reset it over once in ten days—and then by only a minute at most. And so—it corroborated Adolph’s smashed wristwatch?”

“To a T,” pronounced the other. “And I noticed, right off, that it was not only a locked clock, but had a decidedly intricate lock. And I cured that you doubtlessly had its key. But after I got done in there, I stepped across the hall, into a room of some Scotchman—by name Angus MacIntosh—who’s set down on his office door as an appraiser of old books, coins and stamps—and I asked him whether there was a clock anywhere at all in the building by which I could get the time—correct to the minute. I figured, Louis, that a Scotchman would never use up 4-cent calls on his phone to correct his watch or his movements—much less wear out his shoe leather by going unnecessary distances—but would know the unequivocal nearest whereabouts of such a clock! Which it seems he did. For he told me that, right across the hall—in ‘Louis Vann’s office’—I could get the time, correct to the split second, off the pendulum wall clock there. And that—well, that was all I wanted to know.”

Vann nodded. “Well, now I’m quite satisfied on that 10:43 murder hour. A triple alignment, all right. And tying precisely with Adolph’s murd—though, Rufus, you haven’t told me yet how you know, as definitely as you appear to, that Adolph staggered against the clock, and knocked it awry? Has—”

“By the fact, Louis,” explained Scott, “that a half dozen of Reibach’s yellow hairs were stuck on the lower corner of the clock case. And that there was a small gash in Reibach’s scalp on that side. I examined the hairs—and some from his head—under my portable microscope; and they tell the story, Louis, beyond any doubt. And I have ’em all here, moreover, safely sealed in an envelope.” And reaching down for his square black carrying case, Scott opened it and brought forth a sealed cloth envelope across the flap of which he had plainly written his initials. Which envelope the State’s Attorney took promptly.

“I only wish,” Vann commented ruefully, “that you had some of the murderer’s hairs instead. Red as they probably—or maybe only possibly!—are. For hairs are something to achieve a conviction on—sometimes! However, I’m glad we’ve at least the hour of the blow. Thanks to my poor old glassed-in clock being in the picture. ’Twas a clock owned by my mother, Rufus, and she gave it to me for my first office, and I had that special lock put on its door because, before I could even afford $14 for a second-hand safe, I used to keep small change and papers inside the glass case.”

“A peterman being unable,” said Scott dryly—and sardonically, “to get through a pane of glass?”

“No!” retorted Van. “A peterman being unable to dream that a poor lawyer—would have anything inside his clock!” He paused. “Well I think there’s only one more thing now, Rufus, that I’m a bit in the dark on yet. And it’s this: What is your basis for deeming this peterman already in my safe—when Reibach came in on him?”

“There wasn’t the sign of a hair, blood, nor hair oil,” said the other promptly, “on any parts of the broken knob, or fragments of the dial, or the safe door—as there assuredly would have been had he used that sledge again—even swung it—after bashing Reibach’s skull in. No, that sledge—after that death blow—went pronto into the waiting open violin case. Which showed that the peterman had already cracked the pete. Not, now, that it makes any material difference.”

“True enough,” agreed Vann. “Other, perhaps, than that it helps to establish that he emerged from those doors downstairs at no later than—”

“10:45—plus or minus a fraction of a minute,” put in Scott. “For all he had to do after knocking Reibach into kingdom come was close his violin case—click out the lights—draw the door to—and wind his way swiftly down those 7 flights to the street door. Which, as you yourself know, locks only with an inside spring latch. I timed myself—on the way down. z minutes, it takes. No more. 10:45 precisely, he stepped forth into the street. Stowing his leather gloves away, now that he was free of all locks and knobs. And yes, I see the question in your eyes, Louis. But both stores downstairs report they were closed at that hour.”

Now the two men were silent.

“And that is all you can give me,” asked Vann, as one man trying to urge another gently on, “on this peteman’s probable appearance?”

“All,” said the other laconically. “Unless I let my imagination go riot. Which I’ve learned, to my own sorrow, never to do. Sure I know, Louis, that you’re in a position to throw a huge dragnet over this city—but only providing you know a what find of fish to seine in! But I can’t help you there. Concrete clews to his appearance there are none—only the purely deductive ones I’ve stated.”

“Exactly as in 41 per cent of all homicides,” mused Vann, “and 68 per cent of all burglaries.” He gave a short, hard laugh. “This fellow wasn’t a pulp-paper magazine burglar, eh, Rufus?”

“I fear not,” Scott agreed. “He may not have been even a killer—except in this one unexpected instance.”

A deep silence fell between the two men.

“Going—hrmph!—to—hrmph!—cover the place, Louis?”

“I get you, Rufus!” said Vann, dryly. “‘Lock-the-Stable-Door-Vann!’ Yes, I may possibly. Though on purely general principles. Lock-the-stable-door principles, that is. I won’t cover it, however, unless I can get hold of Portfolio Smith—down at your bureau there—who has a nose with its tip actually stuck in the 4th dimension.”

“Meaning what, Louis?”

“Oh, just meaning that Portfolio can actually smell when people aren’t the—well, the McCoy! A fact. However, he’s unlocatable just now. Not on duty. And recently moved besides.”

“I see. Well, one other point, Louis. When the news photographers rush in that office later today or tonight, for pictures, they’ll play billy-hell with—”

“They won’t be in there at all,” Vann said. “My kid brother, Hugh Vann, of the Despatch, photographed that whole office a week ago, with the idea of later making a feature story on it. Since I gave him exclusive rights on those pics—they’re still his—and exclusive.”

“That’s good,” Scott said. “Better a herd of buffalo trampling over the scene of a crime than a troop of news photographers.”

A deep silence again fell on both men.

Which Scott, this time, seemingly, took as a hint that the other wanted to terminate the interview.

For he rose, promptly.

“I know you’re a busy man, Louis,” he said, “and with this thing busting under your nose—you’re going to be busier yet. ’Tis my off day—as you learned when you rang the Bureau—and I’ll be painting my bungalow all day. Though I will, of course, print up the several camera shots I took—the open safe, you know?—the tilted clock?—and so forth—in my lunch hour, and paste them up in the proper spots in my book of notes so that wherever things get disturbed at the inquest—and everything will—we’ll have the absolutely prior record of it all. And though I’ll go back on my painting job after lunch, I’ll nevertheless be ready to spring in my car, and come downtown and testify, the moment you decide to call the coroner and dish the case to the press.”

“Thanks, Rufus,” responded Vann, also rising. “I’ll call you down, all right, the very moment I decide to dish it. Though at this specific moment I can’t say at what hour today that will be. If, though, on your way down, you catch a flash of it in the Despatch, that won’t mean it leaked—for the kid brother, you see, who’s been for years on a downstate sheet, is now, as I told you, on the Despatch, and I’ll be slipping him the highlights thirty minutes ahead of the others so that he gets off on a good foot here in Chicago’s newspaperdom. But I can’t say just now what hour this will all be. Some time towards evening, I think—unless some unexpected development takes place before then. My right-hand bower, Leo Kilgallon—” Vann glanced impatiently at his watch, “—is due on here in 30 minutes—and I want to go over the situation pro and con with him. Thank Heavens, at least, for the law that the State’s Attorney can hold back, from the police, a report on a crime, for 12 hours—provided he himself has been notified!”

“Which you certainly were,” commented Scott dryly. “Walking right in on it!” He took up his hat. “I’ll be going. And I hope you get your man, Louis.”

“Thanks, Rufus,” said the other. “Indeed, old man, for expressing hopes like that—in this particular case—I should tender you my no less than a million thanks: for, Rufus, unless I get my man—and my stolen goods—I’m finis—in the State’s Attorneyship. Yes, a fact, Rufus. Straight from Boss Sean Hennerty! No renomination next week—unless I’ve the goods on hand right now for a good spectacular conviction next spring. And this—well, this was it! The evidence for the case of all cases. And so far as getting my man goes—let alone my stolen goods—I very, very much doubt, to be downright frank with you, that I will get him. A fact! For this peterman—whether professional, or whether amateur—was sent out by some existing remnant of Big Gus McGurk’s gang. Or the one-time Parson Gang—in case you recall that name better—the gang, remember, where all the members used to have ecclesiastical suits?—and made their meets openly dressed that way? True,” Vann added, catching Scott’s slow nod, “I haven’t yet established the exact linkage between this job—and that gang—but I will, all right all right, and before the day is out—by the time, in fact, that a certain party now on the way to Indianapolis reaches there—and I can get her on the wire. And—but the point is this: And this is the reason why I haven’t got that place covered this very instant—and perhaps won’t be covering it this time at all. For the peterman in this case, Rufus, having been sent out by a remnant of a once well organized gang of professional crooks is—well, you can bet your bottom dollar, Rufus, that at this moment he and my stolen goods are safe in some hideout—and a hideout, moreover, of a kind that has no chance whatsoever of being raided, on general suspicion, by our office. And in which hideout he’ll lie snugly up—till this thing has blown over. Yes! Thanks a million, Rufus, for your splendid and speedy co-operation—but I firmly believe this to be a case of ‘chalk one up for The Gang McGurk’!”