Again Leonardos turned his head toward his assistant. “Have you any further dictation?” he asked Donaldson.
“Yes; let Winston remain. And now look at these first two drawings and see if you recognize either face.”
A man of sixty and one much younger had been represented on separate slips of paper. There was a distinct family resemblance.
“These two men were selected at random from among the passengers in the car. So far we don’t know their identity.”
The editor shook his head. “I have never seen either.”
“Then look at this man.” Donaldson offered a third sketch.
“That’s a gangster, ‘Bugs’ Flaherty,” said Leonardos at once.
“Right. And now what about this man?”
“W-why—!” The other started. “It... it appears to be my own likeness!”
“M-mm,” Donaldson mused. “So it does. You will be surprised to learn that this individual was seen by my informant in the Mortimer Avenue electric car at twelve thirty last night. He was reading a Greek newspaper — or, rather, pretending to. His eyes weren’t moving.”
Leonardos was troubled. “Why didn’t you bring your informant to my office?”
For a moment Donaldson hesitated. He had avoided bringing Beatrice Ashton because Under Cover Lane had deemed the move inadvisable; but Lane did not wish any one connected with the Beacon to know that he was now in full charge of the work.
“Listen to this carefully,” Donaldson urged. “You are facing an ugly situation. You’re probably about to be framed. I’ve warned you often that you shouldn’t live alone, shouldn’t go around alone—”
“Fiddlesticks!” replied the young editor. “I am not afraid of the mob in this city. They are always threatening. They’ve been trying for years to frame the head of the National Detective Agency—”
“And why have they never succeeded? Because, wherever he goes they’re afraid he may have operatives near by; they don’t dare risk false testimony. At present, my friend, the whole underworld is seething with hatred of you. For months you’ve been pushing the big gambling ring extremely hard — Jack Conlon’s three joints in particular.”
“Jack Conlon’s yes!” agreed Leonardos, and a deep, warm light crept into his dark eyes.
“It was my dear friend’s last case,” he explained. “The Rev. Mr. Wentworth. To him I owe everything. He was working to close Conlon’s chain of establishments when he died; and then” — he bent forward earnestly, a new intensity in his voice — “and then, even before Mr. Wentworth was in his grave, a dastardly traitor was at work, selling out his cases to the mob!”
Much moved by the discussion, the editor rose, looking at his watch. “You must excuse me for a few minutes, Donaldson. I have an important engagement.”
With another troubled glance at the four pen drawings, and a stare of dissatisfaction toward his assistant, he left the room.
VI
Donaldson came to his feet slowly, brushing ashes from his clothes, and peered over Winston’s shoulder.
“Are you taking this down accurately?” he asked.
The secretary turned. “Could you do any better?”
“Probably not; but you might make it look something like shorthand. Leonardos was looking askance at the pad as he went out.”
“Eh? Well, he would!” was the man’s response. “He’s too damned suspicious of me to have time for much else!
“But I mustn’t blame him too much,” he added. “He has the most thankless job in this city. A man who works for a reformer has either got to be a crook, or be called one. What do you make of this now?”
Donaldson regarded him soberly. “It’s beginning to take pretty definite shape, isn’t it?
“They’ve found a man who looks almost exactly like Leonardos. The two strangers are to be located by the gang and summoned, to testify that they saw him leave that car in considerable excitement at Columbia Street. They want corroboration; civilian testimony is worth twice as much as police testimony in most cases. They’ll be able to bring almost any charge!
“This other Greek, wearing the right clothes, is a dead ringer for Leonardos. He purposely attracted attention to himself—”
The man at the desk shook his head.
“Not a Greek, Donaldson. An Italian.”
“Why do you believe so?”
“In the first place, because of his name, Tony. McHugh refused to take chances on a pure tissue of lies — Tony must do his stuff. Then you know Miss Ashton said the man in the car wasn’t reading his newspaper, only pretending.
“If you were in that fellow’s place, and had an open newspaper before you for appearances, you’d read without consciously doing so, even though you read the same paragraphs over and over. Wouldn’t you — eh? But this man’s eyes never moved — he didn’t read. Why didn’t he? Because he couldn’t. Eh? He’s not a Greek; he’s an Italian.”
He tapped the pen sketches with a lean forefinger. “We may be able to beat this thing yet. Have copies made out of this Italian’s picture. Send three or four good men to scour the South End for him. Send others to the North End. If we can hit this before it breaks—”
Somers and other operatives were dispatched, each with a sketch of the mysterious Tony as well as a photograph of Leonardos. All efforts, however, to locate the ringer, who had impersonated the young editor, were fruitless; and by Sunday evening Lane and Donaldson were convinced that the man had left the city.
On Monday the blow fell.
Donaldson first learned of it when he heard newsboys shrieking as he descended from the office of the National Detective Agency on State Street. Gradually the significance of their phrases came to him. He snatched a paper from an urchin’s hand.
The details were clear at last. Leonardos, editor of the Beacon, was under heavy bail, together with “Big Bill” Bonnell, a stick-up man with a long record, and Fred Loger, who was already facing trial on a bank robbery charge. Evidence had been unearthed, it was said, of a conspiracy between Leonardos and the two hold-up men to loot a chain of gambling houses on the busiest nights, when many thousands could be taken.
The account added that Loger and Bonnell had been arrested while attempting a robbery at one of the gaming parlors early Saturday morning, after police had shadowed them from a meeting place in the cellar of the ruined South End Church at Mortimer Avenue and Columbia Street. Loger’s subsequent admissions had led to the apprehension of Leonardos, who was said to have been present at the meeting.
“You see?” Donaldson remarked, as he sat in his comfortable living room that evening with Under Cover Lane. “Loger’s part in the game is clear enough. He’s there to turn State’s evidence. Why shouldn’t he, when he’s already facing a long term on another charge?”
His companion lit a cigarette and nodded bitterly.
“Their aim,” Donaldson continued, “is to deal our campaign a terrific blow by showing that our supposed leader has been in cahoots with bandits. Brought to court with these two hardened criminals, Leonardos will be prejudged as surely as fate. Unless we can prevent it—”
“We must find Tony,” the undercover man insisted.
“Yes; that’s our one chance. But I have no doubt that he’s been sent many miles away. He probably doesn’t live near here, anyway, or they wouldn’t have felt safe in using him. I suggest that we interview every railroad and steamship ticket agent.”
Lane nodded. “And while we’re about it, let’s match them at their own game. They engaged Miss Ashton to draw the witnesses’ pictures so they’d be sure of locating them afterward. Now, if Tony looks just like Leonardos, then Leonardos looks just like Tony.