“A bad break for him,” I explained. “Red O’Leary broke out with a complication of love and vanity. You can’t chalk that against Papadopoulos. Don’t get the idea he’s half-smart. He’s dangerous, and I don’t blame the insurance companies for thinking they’ll sleep better if they’re sure he’s not out where he can frame some more tricks against their policy-holding banks.”
“Don’t know much about this Papadopoulos, do you?”
“No.” I told the truth. “And nobody does. The hundred thousand offer made rats out of half the crooks in the country. They’re as hot after him as we—not only because of the reward but because of his wholesale double-crossing. And they know just as little about him as we do—that he’s had his fingers in a dozen or more jobs, that he was the brains behind Bluepoint Vance’s bond tricks, and that his enemies have a habit of dying young. But nobody knows where he came from, or where he lives when he’s home. Don’t think I’m touting him as a Napoleon or a Sunday-supplement master mind—but he’s a shifty, tricky old boy. As you say, I don’t know much about him—but there are lots of people I don’t know much about.”
Tom-Tom Carey nodded to show he understood the last part and began making his third cigarette.
“I was in Nogales when Angel Grace Cardigan got word to me that Paddy had been done in,” he said. “That was nearly a month ago. She seemed to think I’d romp up here pronto—but it was no skin off my face. I let it sleep. But last week I read in a newspaper about all this reward money being posted on the hombre she blamed for Paddy’s rub-out. That made it different—a hundred thousand dollars different. So I shipped up here, talked to her, and then came in to make sure there’ll be nothing between me and the blood money when I put the loop on this Papadoodle.”
“Angel Grace sent you to me?” I inquired.
“Uh-huh—only she don’t know it. She dragged you into the story—said you were a friend of Paddy’s, a good guy for a sleuth, and hungry as hell for this Papadoodle. So I thought you’d be the gent for me to see.”
“When did you leave Nogales?”
“Tuesday—last week.”
“That,” I said, prodding my memory, “was the day after Newhall was killed across the border.”
The swarthy man nodded. Nothing changed in his face.
“How far from Nogales was that?” I asked.
“He was gunned down near Oquitoa—that’s somewhere around sixty miles southwest of Nogales. You interested?”
“No—except I was wondering about your leaving the place where he was killed the day after he was killed, and coming up where he had lived. Did you know him?”
“He was pointed out to me in Nogales as a San Francisco millionaire going with a party to look at some mining property in Mexico. I was figuring on maybe selling him something later, but the Mexican patriots got him before I did.”
“And so you came north?”
“Uh-huh. The hubbub kind of spoiled things for me. I had a nice little business in—call it supplies—to and fro across the line. This Newhall killing turned the spotlight on that part of the country. So I thought I’d come up and collect that hundred thousand and give things a chance to settle down there. Honest, brother, I haven’t killed a millionaire in weeks, if that’s what’s worrying you.”
“That’s good. Now, as I get it, you’re counting on landing Papadopoulos. Angel Grace sent for you, thinking you’d run him down just to even up for Paddy’s killing, but it’s the money you want, so you figure on playing with me as well as the Angel. That right?”
“Check.”
“You know what’ll happen if she learns you’re stringing along with me?”
“Uh-huh. She’ll chuck a convulsion—kind of balmy on the subject of keeping clear of the police, isn’t she?”
“She is—somebody told her something about honor among thieves once and she’s never got over it. Her brother’s doing a hitch up north now—Johnny the Plumber sold him out. Her man Paddy was mowed down by his pals. Did either of those things wake her up? Not a chance. She’d rather have Papadopoulos go free than join forces with us.”
“That’s all right,” Tom-Tom Carey assured me. “She thinks I’m the loyal brother—Paddy couldn’t have told her much about me—and I’ll handle her. You having her shadowed?”
I said: “Yes—ever since she was turned loose. She was picked up the same day Flora and Pogy and Red were grabbed, but we hadn’t anything on her except that she had been Paddy’s ladylove, so I had her sprung. How much dope did you get out of her?”
“Descriptions of Papadoodle and Nancy Regan, and that’s all. She don’t know any more about them than I do. Where does this Regan girl fit in?”
“Hardly any, except that she might lead us to Papadopoulos. She was Red’s girl. It was keeping a date with her that he upset the game. When Papadopoulos wriggled out he took the girl with him. I don’t know why. She wasn’t in on the stickups.”
Tom-Tom Carey finished making and lighting his fifth cigarette and stood up.
“Are we teamed?” he asked as he picked up his hat.
“If you turn in Papadopoulos I’ll see that you get every nickel you’re entitled to,” I replied. “And I’ll give you a clear field—I won’t handicap you with too much of an attempt to keep my eyes on your actions.”
He said that was fair enough, told me he was stopping at a hotel in Ellis Street, and went away.
II
Calling the late Taylor Newhall’s office on the phone, I was told that if I wanted any information about his affairs I should try his country residence, some miles south of San Francisco. I tried it. A ministerial voice that said it belonged to the butler told me that Newhall’s attorney, Franklin Ellert, was the person I should see. I went over to Ellert’s office.
He was a nervous,
