Beatrice turned her head. “I’m sure some one tapped. In that direction.” She nodded toward the room beyond the drawn curtain.
He gave her a swift, half-humorous glance.
“Spirit knockings, perhaps, Miss Ashton. I think you should return here with your report to-night, no matter how late it is. I’ll send two operatives to make sure that you aren’t followed or molested on the way. One moment — I’ll send for my car.”
Mrs. Donaldson said good night to the girl, and presently the investigator accompanied her downstairs to the front door, where his sedan was wait-ting, his chauffeur at the wheel. Donaldson was quick to observe Beatrice’s apparent surprise.
“My profession is one where a chauffeur is really needed,” he remarked as they stepped into the car. “When I move from place to place, I need all my faculties to give to the problem at hand; I can’t be obliged to watch red and green lights.”
He explained that there was one stop to be made; and soon afterward they were joined by a well-built, freckled youth wearing spectacles, who was waiting at the curb. Beatrice started in surprise.
“Miss Ashton — Mr. Somers. Oh, you’ve met?” said Donaldson.
“Mr. Somers of the National Detective Agency?” the girl asked.
“Yes!” replied the youth. “And I certainly remember you, Miss Ashton! Wasn’t it you — the evening when you met with an accident—”
Beatrice did not explain that the accident had been a sham, and Donaldson judged that she didn’t wish Somers to know of her previous alliance with the underworld.
In the West End, they left the girl within a few blocks of her lodging house, and she promised to return to Donaldson’s home as soon as she had completed the night’s assignment.
When she had hurried from view, the younger detective turned a puzzled glance upon his companion.
“Who is she, Mr. Donaldson? And what’s up to-night?”
The other gave him a swift look, half amused and half anxious, as he answered:
“She’s a mighty smart girl! And I’m afraid there’s the devil to pay!”
V
Donaldson’s face wore an expression of deep gravity, his lips were firmly set, as he alighted from his sedan on Temple Street at nine in the morning. He spoke briefly to his chauffeur, then entered the building where the car had stopped. An elevator carried him to the second floor, which was occupied by the editorial and news rooms of a small daily newspaper, the Beacon, owned by a wealthy resident of the city, Colonel Franklin Graye, who was interested in law enforcement.
Entering, Donaldson stepped at once to the office of the editor in chief in a manner of familiarity. An erect, energetic man of thirty-five, with a keen Grecian countenance, bounded to his feet.
“Ah — Donaldson! Good morning!”
“Good morning, Leonardos,” returned the investigator, very quietly.
The other sobered. “You don’t seem in good humor to-day.”
“Oh, I’m always in good humor,” said Donaldson, taking several papers from a portfolio. “I’ve brought my operatives’ reports.”
He crossed to the most comfortable chair, sat down slowly, and thereupon lit a cigar — to the young editor’s obvious annoyance.
Leonardos had become widely known through the Beacon’s campaign against gang rule and crime. In a little village not far from Athens he had begun life humbly, dreaming, as he grew older, of the time when he would journey to America and provide comfort for his large family. But in America his way had been long and hard, an uphill battle.
Hampered by the necessity of learning English, handicapped by race prejudice, Leonardos had struggled on, through college, through a school of journalism, unfaltering in his determination to achieve success. One friend there had been whose advice and encouragement had proved invaluable. Then, in later years, had come a modest fame, and with it new hopes — a girl; but Leonardos hadn’t been able to think much of her yet; his family in Greece still needed nearly all that he could earn.
Donaldson sat regarding him steadily through a swirl of cigar smoke.
“That’s a nifty suit you have on today, Leonardos,” he remarked at length.
“Do you like it? I bought it at King, Hadley’s.”
“Indeed?” The older man raised his heavy eyebrows. “That’s curious. I know a young lady who designs advertisements for them. Yes; I like the suit. That light gray line goes with the blue very nicely.”
Leonardos was eager to hear the operatives’ reports. The recent work was of great importance in his drive against organized gambling.
“We want these taken down, together with my verbal interpolations,” Donaldson suggested, shuffling his papers. “Has your estimable assistant, Winston, got in yet?”
“Winston is not an assistant editor,” Leonardos corrected with dignity. “He is a man without previous newspaper experience, whom Colonel Grave engaged to act as my special assistant and secretary, in connection with the law enforcement campaign.” He rose and went to the door in exasperation.
“Not here, as usual! Ten minutes after nine. The fellow keeps banker’s hours, comes and goes as he pleases! I’ll have a stenographer step in—”
“No. One of these reports has rather tough language.”
Leonardos breathed a sigh of uneasiness.
“I don’t like this Winston,” he said. “He is too inquisitive. And twice he has had the temerity to offer me suggestions. S-sh! Here he is—”
The special secretary, a lean, rather sharp faced man of forty, entered and hung his hat in a closet.
“Winston, we have some material to be taken down in shorthand,” Leonardos directed with a frown.
Without answering, the newcomer obtained a pencil and pad and took a chair at a desk near the door. Donaldson at once began reading the reports, adding comments at intervals.
Suddenly he paused and again regarded the editor.
“By the way, where were you late last night, Leonardos?”
It brought a scowl to the other’s keen, dark features.
“Surely that is immaterial. I was at home after eleven.”
“That is, at your new apartment? Were you alone?”
“Of course.” Then sharply the editor caught his breath. “But, now that you speak of it, there was a very peculiar occurrence late last night!”
“M-mm!” said Donaldson dryly. “Well, as a certain associate of mine might remark, there would have been! What happened?”
Leonardos cast an uncertain glance toward his special secretary before explaining quietly:
“Exactly at twelve thirty I was awakened by the bell. I rose and answered through the speaking tube, but received no reply from below. This made me somewhat uneasy. I put on the light. Then I stepped quietly to the open window, and, as I did so, several men who had been at the mouth of an alley across the street disappeared.”
The investigator’s countenance was grave. He thoughtfully tapped the ashes from his cigar.
“I, too, encountered a peculiar situation last night,” he stated. “It was brought to my attention by a young—” He stopped. “When I was first told of the matter last evening I misread its significance completely.
“Plans had been made by McHugh’s crowd for a stylishly dressed, dark-complexioned man to be in the twelve twenty-five Mortimer Avenue car; and I thought the man in question was a well-known gunman, Frankie the Greek, framing an important alibi. You see, it was clearly a case where two strangers were to be located, persons who had observed this particular man in the car, and who would be called later as witnesses. But the matter has now taken a very different aspect.”
Leaning forward, he drew an envelope from his pocket. “I’m afraid that the new aspect is unmistakably indicated by these several pen sketches.”