XII
When I arrived at the agency the next morning, Dick was waiting for me.
“What luck?” I asked.
“Damndest!” The little Canadian talks like a telegram when his peace of mind is disturbed, and just now he was decidedly peevish. “Took me two blocks. Shook me. Only taxi in sight.”
“Think he made you?”
“No. Wise head. Playing safe.”
“Try him again, then. Better have a car handy, in case he tries the same trick again.”
My telephone jingled as Dick was going out. It was Porky Grout, talking over the agency’s unlisted line.
“Turn up anything?” I asked.
“Plenty,” he bragged.
“Good! Are you in town?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll meet you in my rooms in twenty minutes,” I said.
The pasty-faced informant was fairly bloated with pride in himself when he came through the door I had left unlocked for him. His swagger was almost a cakewalk; and the side of his mouth that twitches was twisted into a knowing leer that would have fit a Solomon.
“I knocked it over for you, kid,” he boasted. “Nothin’ to it—for me! I went down there and talked to ever’body that knowed anything, seen ever’thing there was to see, and put the X-ray on the whole dump. I made a—”
“Uh-huh,” I interrupted. “Congratulations and so forth. But just what did you turn up?”
“Now le’me tell you.” He raised a dirty hand in a traffic-cop sort of gesture, and blew a stream of cigarette smoke at the ceiling. “Don’t crowd me. I’ll give you all the dope.”
“Sure,” I said. “I know. You’re great, and I’m lucky to have you to knock off my jobs for me, and all that! But is Pangburn down there?”
“I’m gettin’ around to that. I went down there and—”
“Did you see Pangburn?”
“As I was sayin’, I went down there and—”
“Porky,” I said, “I don’t give a damn what you did! Did you see Pangburn?”
“Yes. I seen him.”
“Fine! Now what did you see?”
“He’s camping down there with Tin-Star. Him and the broad that you give me a picture of are both there. She’s been there a month. I didn’t see her, but one of the waiters told me about her. I seen Pangburn myself. They don’t show themselves much—stick back in Tin-Star’s part of the joint—where he lives—most of the time. Pangburn’s been there since Sunday. I went down there and—”
“Learn who the girl is? Or anything about what they’re up to?”
“No. I went down there and—”
“All right! Went down there again tonight. Call me up as soon as you know positively Pangburn is there—that he hasn’t gone out. Don’t make any mistakes. I don’t want to come down there and scare them up on a false alarm. Use the agency’s undercover line, and just tell whoever answers that you won’t be in town until late. That’ll mean that Pangburn is there; and it’ll let you call up from Joplin’s without giving the play away.”
“I got to have more dough,” he said, as he got up. “It costs—”
“I’ll file your application,” I promised. “Now beat it, and let me hear from you tonight, the minute you’re sure Pangburn is there.”
Then I went up to Axford’s office.
“I think I have a line on him,” I told the millionaire. “I hope to have him where you can talk to him tonight. My man says he was at the White Shack last night, and is probably living there. If he’s there tonight, I’ll take you down, if you want.”
“Why can’t we go now?”
“No. The place is too dead in the daytime for my man to hang around without making himself conspicuous, and I don’t want to take any chances on either you or me showing ourselves there until we’re sure we’re coming face to face with Pangburn.”
“What do you want me to do then?”
“Have a fast car ready tonight, and be ready to start as soon as I get word to you.”
“Righto. I’ll be at home after five-thirty. Phone me as soon as you’re ready to go, and I’ll pick you up.”
XIII
At nine-thirty that evening I was sitting beside Axford on the front seat of a powerfully engined foreign car, and we were roaring down a road that led to Halfmoon Bay. Porky’s telephone call had come.
Neither of us talked much during that ride, and the imported monster under us made it a rather short ride. Axford sat comfortable and relaxed at the wheel, but I noticed for the first time that he had a rather heavy jaw.
The White Shack is a large building, square-built, of imitation stone. It is set away back from the road, and is approached by two curving driveways, which, together, make a semicircle whose diameter is the public road. The center of this semicircle is occupied by sheds under which Joplin’s patrons stow their cars, and here and there around the sheds are flowerbeds and clumps of shrubbery.
We were still going at a fair clip when we turned into one end of this semicircular driveway, and—
Axford slammed on his brakes, and the big machine threw us into the windshield as it jolted into an abrupt stop—barely in time to avoid smashing into a cluster of people who had suddenly loomed up before us.
In the glow from our headlights faces stood sharply out; white, horrified faces, furtive faces, faces that were callously curious. Below the faces, white arms and shoulders showed, and bright gowns and jewelry, against the duller background of masculine clothing.
This was the first impression I got, and then, by the time I had removed my face from the windshield, I realized that this cluster of people had a core, a thing about which it centered. I stood up, trying to look over the crowd’s heads, but I could see nothing.
Jumping
