rocks that I'm selling today and I'll give you your dough, every nickel of it, out of that. How much was it, Ned? I'll give you all of it right away, this morning.'
Ned Beaumont pushed the swarthy man over to his own side of the taxicab and said : 'It was thirty-two hundred and fifty dollars.'
'Thirty-two hundred and fifty dollars. You'll get it, every cent of it, this morning, right away.' Despain looked at his watch. 'Yes, sir, right this minute as soon as we can get there. Old Stein will be at his place before this. Only say you'll let me go, Ned, for old times' sake.'
Ned Beaumont rubbed his hands together thoughtfully. 'I can't exactly let you go. Not right now, I mean. I've got to remember the District Attorney connection and that you're wanted for questioning. So all we can dicker about is the hat. Here's the proposition: give me my money and I'll see that I'm alone when I turn up the hat and nobody else will ever know about it. Otherwise I'll see that half the New York police are with me and— There you are. Take it or leave it.'
'Oh, God!' Bernie Despain groaned. 'Tell him to drive us to old Stein's place. It's on . -
III.The Cyclone Shot
Ned Beaumont leaving the train that had brought him back from New York was a clear-eyed erect tall man. Only the flatness of his chest hinted at any constitutional weakness. In color and line his face was hale. His stride was long and elastic. He went nimbly up the concrete stairs that connected train-shed with street-level, crossed the waiting-room, waved a hand at an acquaintance behind the information counter, and passed out of the station through one of the street-doors.
While waiting on the sidewalk for the porter with his bags to come he bought a newspaper. He opened it when he was in a taxicab riding towards Randall Avenue with his luggage. He read a half-column on the front page:
SECOND BROTHER KILLED
FRANCIS F. WEST MURDERED
CLOSE TO SPOT WHERE
BROTHER MET DEATH
For the second time within two weeks tragedy came to the West family of 1342 N. Achland Avenue last night when Francis F. West, 31, was shot to death in the street less than a block from the corner where he had seen his brother Norman run down and killed by an alleged bootleg car last month.
Francis West, who was employed as waiter at the Rockaway Cafй, was returning from work at a little after midnight, when, according to those who witnessed the tragedy, he was overtaken by a black touring car that came down Achland Avenue at high speed. The car swung in to the curb as it reached West, and more than a score of shots are said to have been fired from it. West fell with eight bullets in his body, dying before anybody could reach him. The death car, which is said not to have stopped, immediately picked up speed again and vanished around the corner of Bow-man Street. The police are hampered in their attempt to find the car by conflicting descriptions given by witnesses, none of whom claims to have seen any of the men in the automobile.
Boyd West, the surviving brother, who also witnessed Norman's death last month, could ascribe no reason for Francis's murder. He said he knew of no enemies his brother had made, Miss Marie Shepperd, 1917 Baker Avenue, to whom Francis West was to have been married next week, was likewise unable to name anyone who might have desired her fiancй's death.
Timothy Ivans, alleged driver of the ear that accidentally ran down and killed Norman West last month, refused to talk to reporters in his cell at the City Prison, where he is held without bail, awaiting trial for manslaughter.
Ned Beaumont folded the newspaper with careful slowness and put it in one of his overcoat-pockets. His lips were drawn a little together and his eyes were bright with thinking. Otherwise his face was composed. He leaned back in a corner of the taxicab and played with an unlighted cigar.
In his rooms he went, without pausing to remove hat or coat, to the telephone and called four numbers, asking each time whether Paul Madvig was there and whether it was known where he could be found. After the fourth call he gave up trying to find Madvig.
He put the telephone down, picked his cigar up from where he had laid it on the table, lighted the cigar, laid it on the edge of the table again, picked up the telephone, and called the City Hall's number. He asked for the District Attorney's office. While he waited he dragged a chair, by means of a foot hooked under one of its rounds, over to the telephone, sat down, and put the cigar in his mouth.
Then he said into the telephone: 'Hello. Is Mr. Farr in? Ned Beaumont. . . . Yes, thanks.' He inhaled and exhaled smoke slowly. 'Hello, Farr? Just got in a couple of minutes ago. . . . Yes. Can I see you now? . . . That's right. Has Paul said anything to you about the West killing? . . . Don't know where he is, do you? . . . Well, there's an angle I'd like to talk to you about. . . . Yes, say half an hour. . . Right.'
He put the telephone aside and went across the room to look at the mail on a table by the door. There were some magazines and nine letters. He looked rapidly at the envelopes, dropped them on the table again without having opened any, and went into his bedroom to undress, then into his bathroom to shave and bathe.
District Attorney Michael Joseph Farr was a stout man of forty. His hair was a florid stubble above a florid pugnacious face. His walnut desk-top was empty except for a telephone and a large desk-set of green onyx whereon a nude metal figure holding aloft an airplane stood on one foot between two black and white fountain-pens that slanted off to either side at rakish angles.
He shook Ned Beaumont's hand in both of his and pressed him down into a leather-covered chair before returning to his own seat. He rocked back in his chair and asked: 'Have a nice trip?' Inquisitiveness gleamed through the friendliness in his eyes.
'It was all right,' Ned Beaumont replied. 'About this Francis West: with him out of the way how does the case against Tim Ivans stand?'
Farr started, then made that startled motion part of a deliberate squirming into a more comfortable position in his chair.
'Well, it won't make such a lot of difference there,' he said, 'that is, not a whole lot, since there's still the other brother to testify against Ivans.' He very noticeably did not watch Ned Beaumont's face, but looked at a corner of the walnut desk. 'Why? What'd you have on your mind?'
Ned Beaumont was looking gravely at the man who was not looking at him. 'I was just wondering. I suppose it's all right, though, if the other brother can and will identify Tim.'
Farr, still not looking up, said: 'Sure.' He rocked his chair back and forth gently, an inch or two each way half a dozen times. His fleshy cheeks moved in little ripples where they covered his jaw-muscles. He cleared his throat and stood up. He looked at Ned Beaumont now with friendly eyes. 'Wait a minute,' he said. 'I've got to go see about something. They forget everything if I don't keep right on their tails. Don't go. I want to talk to you about Despain.'
Ned Beaumont murmured, 'Don't hurry,' as the District Attorney left the office, and sat and smoked placidly all the fifteen minutes he was gone.
Farr returned frowning. 'Sorry to leave you like that,' he said as he sat down, 'but we're fairly smothered under work. If it keeps up like this—' He completed the sentence by making a gesture of hopelessness with his hands.
'That's all right. Anything new on the Taylor Henry killing?'
'Nothing here. That's what I wanted to ask you about—Despain.' Again Farr was definitely not watching
