“Plenty of connections?”
“Plenty.”
Harper leaned back in his chair, clasped his hands behind his neck so that his elbows paralleled the floor. For a moment he was silent, his face somber, but otherwise expressionless. “I've got a couple little jobs for you,” he said finally. His voice was soft and he spoke slowly, thoughtfully.
“Go over to the airport. A Robin pulled in here last night—or this morning—around three o'clock. Find out if a car met the three men who got out, what kind it was and anything else you can. If it was a taxi, find the driver and get his story.”
HARPER had dinner in the hotel. At eight o'clock he got a taxi, rode down Tremont Street through the evening theater traffic to Stuart Street and police headquarters. Although only a few blocks from the noisy life and movement of Tremont Street, the section in front of headquarters was quiet. A few drops of rain were beginning to fall.
He paid the driver, and a minute or two later was upstairs sitting across a desk from a square- faced man with a red nose, deep-set gray eyes, and a shock of unruly, iron-colored hair. Harper waited until Captain Galpin had read the authorization from the district attorney and returned it. Then he leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs and waited for Galpin to speak.
Galpin took the half-smoked cigar from his mouth and without looking up said, “Well, what's the story?”
“One of our local bankers disappeared last night,” said Harper. “He'd had a couple threatening letters and had hired a private detective for a bodyguard.” Harper gave an outline of the story without mentioning his own connection with George Dunlap. “These snatchers,” he concluded, “came here in a plane early this morning.”
“I believe some word came through on the teletype this afternoon on that,” said Galpin. “Naturally, we'll keep our eyes open.” He paused to retrieve his cigar. He knocked off the ashes with a match, lighted it again. Before he could continue, Harper interrupted.
“I understand,” he said levelly, “that three local men have disappeared in the past four months; men who were in some way connected with defunct stock houses, men whose boom-time structures collapsed, leaving the public holding the bag.”
Galpin took the cigar from his mouth, blew out the match, and looked at Harper from under wiry brows. His eyes narrowed slightly, and he said, “Those men were not kidnapped. They just disappeared.”
Harper's eyes were opaque and his voice was as difficult to read as his eyes. “That big shot from Chicago, that public utility king from Cleveland were traced here, weren't they? And there was a judge from New York that headed this way before they lost trace of him.”
Galpin's square jaws clamped on the cigar butt. “Go on,” he growled. “Speak your piece.”
Harper uncrossed his legs, then stretched them out, surveyed his polished shoes. “I was just wondering why all these men in the same sort of boat, came this way?”
“What about it? Your man was kidnapped.”
“Possibly.” Harper looked at Galpin without lifting his head. “But I was just wondering. This might not be a bad place to jump from. It's a good port. You could ship for almost any place from this harbor. It's reasonably near Canada.”
Galpin remained silent, but his gray eyes were thoughtful.
Harper looked back at his shoes, smoothed down his mustache with his index finger. “And about a month ago, I understand you picked up a man who had been so thoroughly beaten his face was unrecognizable. I understand his body was identified only through his dental work, and I understand he was one of your missing Boston brokers.”
Galpin snorted and got from his chair. He walked across the room like a caged lion, paused to stare down at Harper who still stretched easily in his chair.
“Maybe there's something to it,” said Galpin. “But I—” He broke off as a telephone on his desk shrilled to life. He jerked it up, slapped the receiver to his ear. He listened for several seconds, said, “O.K.,” and hung up the receiver.
Galpin turned to Harper. “I've got to go out. Where you stayin'?” Harper answered and Galpin continued, “I'll call you. I want to talk with you some more.”
THE body sprawled beside a narrow asphalt road which the rain had made into an oily black ribbon stretching off into the marshes. An ambulance, a police car, and a small sedan were parked, one after another at one side of the highway. Two policemen were holding a tent-like blanket over the body, while the medical examiner made his inspection. Two other plainclothesmen, Captain Galpin, and Walt Harper hovered around the blanket.
The body was that of a man of medium build. The face was like pulp. It lay face up, and although the rain had washed most of the blood from the face, it was still unrecognizable. It was dressed in new overalls and a jumper. One arm was twisted under; one leg had buckled backward from a fracture so that it seemed to hold no relation to the rest of the body.
Galpin chewed on a cigar that was out. He wiped drops of rain from his chin and turned to Harper who wore a light slicker and a felt hat turned down all around. “Lucky you came in to see me tonight. I called you because it sounded over the telephone like that other fellow we found last month. I thought maybe this might be your man.”
“No,” said Harper. “My man was bald and that's one thing you can't cover up.” He fell silent as the examiner spoke.
“All right,” he said, and straightened up from beside the body. “Might as well move him.”
“What's the verdict?” asked Galpin.
“I'm not ready for my report yet,” snapped the examiner. “But it looks like this fellow was beaten to death. If there were any gashes on his body I'd say he was struck by a freight train—hardly a major bone in his body not broken.”
