“Eh? Get me? Don’t rely wholly on an inanimate sketch when you interview the ticket agents. Present Leonardos in person. His face might jog the ticket seller’s memory. But don’t let him talk — his voice may not match Tony’s so closely.”
The effect of the accusation upon the young editor had been peculiar. His was an artistic and idealistic temperament; not at all a suitable type to deal with crime and corruption. It wasn’t so much the serious charge that had unnerved and crushed him; it was the experience of being placed in the dock between habitual lawbreakers, vicious gunmen.
“It will be in the Greek papers, of course,” he told Donaldson in an odd, harsh voice. “My family will see it.”
He breathed a shuddering sigh. “Will you stand by me? The worst is to come. I know it would kill my mother if she should read of my being sent to prison.”
“But if it was an unjust conviction—”
Leonardos shook his head hopelessly. “She wouldn’t understand.”
“Well, you’re not in prison yet, old man.”
“Will you stand by me Donaldson?” begged the younger, seeking his face with his deep, dark eyes. “You are almost the only friend I have—”
“No; you have at least one other, although you may not realize it — a very powerful friend. We’ll do our part, and you must help.”
There was little time in which to work. The district attorney, aroused by the discovery that a reformer had stooped to crime, had promised to push the trial with all possible speed. While Donaldson and Leonardos went that night to begin their rounds of the ticket agents in the several depots. Under Cover Lane moved quietly through the underworld in the guise of Foxcroft, on the alert for the slightest clew.
He did not make inquiries, for he knew better; his years of constant hazard had taught him never to do that. A casual question regarding the missing man’s whereabouts might do no immediate harm; but later, if Tony were found, it would be remembered! Throughout the evening Foxcroft drifted back and forth, to various dives and hangouts, watching the faces, listening for chance remarks.
At Cassidy’s, a den where two shifts of keen-eyed men accepted horse race bets throughout the afternoon and served as gamekeepers at green-covered tables by night, Lane picked up his sole scrap of information. It came unexpectedly, from a group who had stepped from the gaming room to a spacious bar at the rear.
“Tony ain’t in town now, is he?”
“Naw. He lit out Saturday.”
“A game sport, Tony.”
“Smart driver, too... eh, Pete?”
“Dat’s right — go on, kid me, damn youse!” exploded the man addressed. “Youse t’ink I minda da spill, loosa da booze. But dat is not so; it’s his damn crazy drive in town I mind — lika to get pinch—”
“Yeah,” agreed another, “Tony starts to make a left turn off the avenue — he pulls ’way over to the right curb and tries to make it from there!”
“Shouldn’t have let him drive. Might have known—”
The group moved on, and Foxcroft heard no more.
VII
The next two days brought further set-backs.
Donaldson, in his efforts to locate an agent who had sold the unknown Tony his transportation, had met only failure. By Wednesday evening he and Leonardos had visited every ticket window and stateroom office in the city, at various hours; and they were ready to admit the probability that some other person had paid the Italian’s fare.
But when Donaldson reported this to Under Cover Lane, the latter’s firm jaw tightened. A glitter appeared in his pale eyes.
“No, no, man — I won’t say it — I won’t say yet that we’re beaten! There’s just a chance; there’s one more reference that might prod some fellow’s memory.”
He leaned across sharply, poking the other’s knee.
“You go the rounds once again — take Leonardos and the pictures — ask each agent if he remembers selling such a man a ticket to Atlantic City.”
Donaldson was curious.
“Eh? A guess — that’s all,” said Lane.
A curly-haired young man, in the second grilled window of a long row, shook his head with a pleasant grin as Donaldson and Leonardos approached.
“You’ve tried me before,” he said. “Sorry I can’t help you.”
At the older investigator’s words, however, he suddenly snapped his fingers together and stared at Leonardos.
“By Jove! I do recall you now, sir! If you’d mentioned Atlantic City before—”
“Is there any way you can fix the date?” asked Donaldson.
The agent considered for an instant. “Yes! I know just when it was — last Saturday morning! I was standing part of Berry’s trick; he had a severe headache and went to a doctor for a prescription—”
The two men were jubilant as they left the depot. The editor hurried to his office.
“My new hat’s off to you!” declared Donaldson to Lane. “But please enlighten my feebler mentality as to how you guessed it.”
The undercover man seemed irritated by the tone.
“Well — if you must hear it — I had three reasons. First, the remarks I overheard at Cassidy’s gambling joint. Tony tried to make a left turn from the right curb.”
“Oh. That’s permissible in Atlantic City—”
“Permissible, man? It’s obligatory! Of course, I don’t say that’s the only place where there’s such a regulation. But Atlantic City has gang-controlled interests very much like the ones here. And it has a large percentage of Italians.”
He hastily busied himself, thus averting his face, as an operative arrived to report to Donaldson.
In the afternoon, Somers of the National Detective Agency and another youth left the city by train, still carrying their photographs and ink drawings. Donaldson’s hopes were high as the pair departed. But as day after day passed and brought only expense accounts and reports of failure, his anxiety rapidly deepened. He knew that there wouldn’t be time to redeem another false start.
The district attorney was making every effort to bring the defendants to an immediate trial. Kent, the shrewd lawyer defending Leonardos, fought desperately for delay.
“It’s all in the bag. This proves it!” Donaldson pointed out. “Bonnell isn’t trying to prolong it; both he and Loger probably have been promised quick paroles. It’s Leonardos they want.”
“Eh? Well, they’ll know they’ve been in a fight before they get him!” returned Lane, thrusting out his lean, pointed chin.
A week dragged along, and another report came from the two absent operatives. Again it was negative.
“They’ll never find him!” rasped the undercover man.
The next night there was a new figure sauntering through the streets of Atlantic City — a large man, plainly dressed, with a soft hat pulled over his eyes to avoid recognition. Yet Donaldson knew that in all probability he had been identified. He was well known at the resort.
Hidden between the railroad and the famous Boardwalk, and extending westward from New York Avenue, exists a side of Atlantic City’s life of which most visitors know little — a secret and sinister side. It was through this district that the investigator was strolling, constantly watchful, searching every face. Twice he was almost certain that he was being followed. Groups of men at corners appeared to stare at him with hostility.
He turned south on Missouri Avenue and ascended to the Boardwalk, mingling with its throngs. Here, he knew, a shadow’s task would be more difficult. He moved along with the crowd, pausing occasionally to gaze at the brilliant windows of the shops.