He had been walking along the street the previous evening thinking of nothing in particular; but with eyes and ears alert as becomes a successful police officer, when he had espied two men approaching upon the opposite sidewalk.
There was something familiar in the swing of the giant frame of one of the men. So, true to years of training, Sergeant Flannagan melted into the shadows of a store entrance and waited until the two should have come closer.
They were directly opposite him when the truth flashed upon him—the big fellow was Billy Byrne, and there was a five-hundred-dollar reward out for him.
And then the two turned and disappeared down the stairway that led to the underground restaurant. Sergeant Flannagan saw Byrne’s companion turn and look back just as Flannagan stepped from the doorway to cross the street after them.
That was the last Sergeant Flannagan had seen either of Billy Byrne or his companion. The trail had ceased at the open window of the washroom at the rear of the restaurant, and search as he would be had been unable to pick it up again.
No one in Kansas City had seen two men that night answering the descriptions Flannagan had been able to give—at least no one whom Flannagan could unearth.
Finally he had been forced to take the Kansas City chief into his confidence, and already a dozen men were scouring such sections of Kansas City in which it seemed most likely an escaped murderer would choose to hide.
Flannagan had been out himself for a while; but now he was in to learn what progress, if any, had been made. He had just learned that three suspects had been arrested and was waiting to have them paraded before him.
When the door swung in and the three were escorted into his presence Sergeant Flannagan gave a snort of disgust, indicative probably not only of despair; but in a manner registering his private opinion of the mental horse power and efficiency of the Kansas City sleuths, for of the three one was a pasty-faced, chestless youth, even then under the influence of cocaine, another was an old, bewhiskered hobo, while the third was unquestionably a Chinaman.
Even professional courtesy could scarce restrain Sergeant Flannagan’s desire toward bitter sarcasm, and he was upon the point of launching forth into a vitriolic arraignment of everything west of Chicago up to and including, specifically, the Kansas City detective bureau, when the telephone bell at the chief’s desk interrupted him. He had wanted the chief to hear just what he thought, so he waited.
The chief listened for a few minutes, asked several questions and then, placing a fat hand over the transmitter, he wheeled about toward Flannagan.
“Well,” he said, “I guess I got something for you at last. There’s a bo on the wire that says he’s just seen your man down near Shawnee. He wants to know if you’ll split the reward with him.”
Flannagan yawned and stretched.
“I suppose,” he said, ironically, “that if I go down there I’ll find he’s corraled a nigger,” and he looked sorrowfully at the three specimens before him.
“I dunno,” said the chief. “This guy says he knows Byrne well, an’ that he’s got it in for him. Shall I tell him you’ll be down—and split the reward?”
“Tell him I’ll be down and that I’ll treat him right,” replied Flannagan, and after the chief had transmitted the message, and hung up the receiver: “Where is this here Shawnee, anyhow?”
“I’ll send a couple of men along with you. It isn’t far across the line, an’ there won’t be no trouble in getting back without nobody knowin’ anything about it—if you get him.”
“All right,” said Flannagan, his visions of five hundred already dwindled to a possible one.
It was but a little past one o’clock that a touring car rolled south out of Kansas City with Detective Sergeant Flannagan in the front seat with the driver and two burly representatives of Missouri law in the back.
V
One Turn Deserves Another
When the two tramps approached the farmhouse at which Billy had purchased food a few hours before the farmer’s wife called the dog that was asleep in the summer kitchen and took a shotgun down from its hook beside the door.
From long experience the lady was a reader of character—of hobo character at least—and she saw nothing in the appearance of either of these two that inspired even a modicum of confidence. Now the young fellow who had been there earlier in the day and who, wonder of wonders, had actually paid for the food she gave him, had been of a different stamp. His clothing had proclaimed him a tramp, but, thanks to the razor Bridge always carried, he was clean shaven. His year of total abstinence had given him clear eyes and a healthy skin. There was a freshness and vigor in his appearance and carriage that inspired confidence rather than suspicion.
She had not mistrusted him; but these others she did mistrust. When they asked to use the telephone she refused and ordered them away, thinking it but an excuse to enter the house; but they argued the matter, explaining that they had discovered an escaped murderer hiding nearby—in fact in her own meadow—and that they wished only to call up the Kansas City police.
Finally she yielded, but kept the dog by her side and the shotgun in her hand while the two entered the room and crossed to the telephone upon the opposite side.
From the conversation which she overheard the woman concluded that,
