He felt that he had never answered a wilder, more surprising message—never been on a crazier quest. If the early crowd was any criterion, there would be fifteen thousand people at the dog track before the evening was over.
Unquestionably, there had been an eavesdropper at Dawson’s party—unless Dawson had lied about the phone call received. But Stan could figure no reason why the Commander should concoct such a story—and every one of Dawson’s reactions had indicated he was telling the truth.
The mechanics of the thing were easy—barring the method used to overhear Bruce Farraday’s offer. Dawson lived on the second floor of a three flight walk-up apartment. There was a pay booth in the lobby on the ground floor. A listener could have run downstairs and placed the call without exerting himself, and Stan hoped he had. Fred Fawcett, fingerprint man of the Homicide Squad, had taken prints from the receiver within twenty minutes after the call came into Dawson’s flat.
But a quick survey of the apartment had convinced Stan there was no place where such a listener could have hidden, and made a sudden escape to place the perplexing call. He tossed his cigarette away, and gave it up for the time being. The incident was in the hands of the department. A thorough check of all tenants in the other eleven apartments in the house was already being made.
Stan smiled grimly, shoved open the door of the Buick, and with long strides went after a man he had seen in the rear view mirror. He caught him slipping unobtrusively between two automobiles parked in back of the Buick, and grabbed him violently by one arm. The man started, let out an oath, and reached for his hip, then grinned sheepishly when he recognized Stan.
“My dear Hogue,” Stan said sweetly, “I was never more delighted to see anyone in my life than you—this afternoon. The roar of that Big Bertha you erroneously call a revolver was sweet as the pop of a champagne cork in my bandaged ears. But right now—” Stan shook his head with much sorrow, “right now you are about to mess up a detail I have nearly sacrificed my trifling life to get. Please go back to headquarters and tell the trembling Captain that Miles Standish Rice is carrying his cannon and will shoot on sight—and that the shooting includes all bodyguards assigned to watch said Rice!”
“But Mr. Rice, the Captain—”
“I mean it,” Stan assured him, suddenly serious. “I don’t want anybody convoying me around this track tonight. Now shall I phone LeRoy myself?”
“Okay,” said Hogue. “It’s no fur off my back. I’ll go tell him.”
“Now that’s a nice boy.” Stan patted the bulging muscles of Hogue’s arm. “I’ll put in a word for you with the Chief.”
Hogue watched the slender figure buy a ticket and disappear through the gate into the enclosure. “Well he got rid of me like the Captain said he would,” Hogue muttered to himself. “Now if he doesn’t spot the other two guarding him I guess he’ll get through the night without being killed.”
Stan gave his ticket to the uniformed usher, and followed him to a seat in the ninth row of the grandstand. The stand was brightly lighted, and he decided it was hardly the proper spot for a rendezvous with anyone bringing the information promised over the phone. He looked around casually, but failed to recognize anyone within the range of his vision.
A program seller stopped near him and he bought one. He had no idea whom he was to meet, so he might as well have an enjoyable evening. He picked out a dog named Russet Streak in the first race, and pushed his way through the steadily increasing crowd up to the balcony to place a bet.
Already long lines had formed in front of the cashiers’ cages. Stan took his place, constantly jostled by passersby, and almost pushed against the wall. But it was a holiday crowd, good humored and full of excitement and the bodily discomfort was part of the game.
He had just bought his ticket when the floodlights came on and loudspeakers let loose a tornado of march music. Red coated grooms were leading the dogs down the track for inspection by the judges. Stan watched with interest, but his mind was not entirely on the preliminaries of the race. Something far graver than the winning or losing of a few dollars had brought him to the track. He did not intend to forget it.
He started back to his seat, but people were crowding and shoving in the aisles, and progress was slow. The dogs were already in the starting boxes. Then all the lights in the grandstand went out, and Stan stood still where he was, listening a trifle awed to the roar of the crowd. The electric rabbit flashed out of the pit and started around the track at terrific speed—a spectral streak of machine-operated bunny which the pursuing dogs could never catch.
All around Stan was bedlam—excited shrieks—curses as the favorite fell behind—and shouted exhortations for some speeding dog to bring home shoes for baby. Then the lights were up again, and No. 3 had lit up on the board as winner. Stan saw it, and dimly realized that it was the number of Russet Streak and that he had won eight dollars. He made no move toward the cage to cash in, but stood inertly in the aisle not even hearing the revilements of those trying to pass him. Face by face he was scrutinizing the people in his vicinity—trying to find the owner of the voice.
His search was fruitless, yet he knew he was not suffering from an hallucination. At the pitch of the yelling, when the race had nearly reached its climax, someone near him had shouted: “For Christ’s sake,
