His glance fell upon an unoccupied chair, approaching eastward in the slowly moving line. He stepped across.
“I ain’t allowed to pick up passengers,” said the man.
Donaldson handed him a dollar.
“Down to the Steel Pier — I’m tired walking,” he said.
He watched to see if any of those walking westward turned to follow. The man pushing the chair observed his backward glance.
“Out for a little entertainment tonight, guv’nor?” he offered.
Donaldson grunted. “I’m off the night clubs.”
“This place ain’t no club, boss. A cabaret show — the finest at the resort, or your money back.”
“Oh, yes?”
“Yes, sir. On New York Avenue. The Sunset Café. Lots of pretty girls.”
“Only cost you a sawbuck,” he added. “See the doorman. See Tony DiRocco.” As he said the last he bent close to Donaldson, his twisted smile revealing an almost toothless mouth.
The other returned to his hotel in elation. Tony DiRocco, doorman at the Sunset Café, could not be summoned from the State of New. Jersey; but there were other plans. Late that night he sent a code telegram.
Then came the Monday when Leonardos was notified that he would be called to trial on the following morning. Defense summonses were sent out. Somers, the freckled youth with glasses, was detailed to interview Beatrice Ashton. This task was not unpleasant to the operative. He had seen the girl several times before.
“McHugh hasn’t called upon you again?”
“Not yet.”
“You’re sure that you’d be willing to testify if needed, knowing what it would mean?”
Her lips came firmly together. “I’m willing.”
“You’ll not be called if we can avoid it. What about being transferred to New York by your firm?” he asked anxiously.
“I can make the change at any time.”
“Good,” said Somers. “Then try to arrange it for to-morrow. It... it might be advisable.”
There was a strained note in his voice that he couldn’t hide.
Early in the morning he and Donaldson visited Leonardos’s office. The editor of the Beacon was putting his desk in order.
“In case I don’t return!” he explained grimly.
“What nonsense,” scoffed the young operative.
“Where were you late last night, Leonardos?” asked Donaldson.
“I was out driving.”
“Out driving?”
“Yes!” he replied, his deep, dark eyes lighting for an instant. “I hired a car. I drove past Conlon’s three gambling houses. The windows were dark, the doors boarded, the paraphernalia destroyed. Gentlemen” — he drew a long breath — “my automobile drive last night has given me great courage. Are you ready? Let’s go to the court!”
VIII
The trial was well advanced. The police testimony had been brief but damaging. Two special officers and a route patrolman had been standing at Mortimer Avenue and Columbia Street at about twelve thirty on the night in question. They had observed Leonardos alighting hastily from an electric car. His furtive actions had caused them to watch him, and they had seen him enter the cellar beneath the ruins of the church.
Investigation had revealed two other men in the cellar. Loger and Bonnell had been followed and captured in the act of attempting a holdup at a dive on West Middleboro Street. After long questioning, the former had admitted his part in a conspiracy to commit grand larceny. He had named Leonardos.
Loger had become the State’s principal witness. In hard, sharp syllables he had told of the plot to loot a chain of gaming houses. He and Bonnell and others were the actual robbers, while Leonardos, from investigator’s information, had chosen the nights when business in the various gambling houses was at its peak.
The bandit was cross-examined at length by Kent, Leonardos’s counsel. His long criminal record was shown, but he stuck doggedly to his story. When he stepped from the stand the jury appeared impressed.
The two defendants displayed contrasting reactions. Bonnell was slouched in an attitude of stolid indifference, while Leonardos was rigid, following every move with troubled eyes.
The State called Edmund Gormley.
A man of sixty, thick-set and heavy build, advanced and took oath. The district attorney assumed an ingratiating tone.
“Where do you live. Mr. Gormley?”
“I now live at 65 Kirby Street,” replied the witness, speaking with a precise Canadian accent.
“Do you recognize either of the defendants?”
“Yes, sir. The one on my right,” replied Gormley.
“That is the defendant Leonardos. When and where have you seen him previous to this morning?”
The jury then heard of the peculiar incident in the Mortimer Avenue car at the corner of Columbia Street.
“Were you alone in the car?”
“No, sir. My son, Clinton Gormley, was with me.”
“How do you fix the date as August 31, Mr. Gormley?”
“Because, since September 1 there has been no Mortimer Avenue car at that hour.”
“Your witness,” said the district attorney.
There was a slight stir in the jury box. The character of this witness was obviously above question.
Kent rose quietly, adjusting his gold-rimmed spectacles.
“Er... Mr. Gormley. You said that August 31 was the last date when a Mortimer Avenue electric car ran at that particular time?”
“It was, sir.”
“But that fact was announced to the public in advance, by means of new schedules, wasn’t it?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Now, Mr. Gormley, do you feel positive that the man with the Greek newspaper, whom you saw in the car that night, was Mr. Leonardos?”
“I should not have testified to the fact if I didn’t feel positive, sir.”
“You feel quite sure that it couldn’t have been any one else?”
“I do.”
Kent took two photographs from his desk.
“Will you kindly glance at these, and tell us if you can identify either as a photograph of Mr. Leonardos — and, if so, which one?”
The prosecutor was wary. “I pray your honor’s judgment,” he said, rising. “I don’t think the witness’s opinion in regard to these photographs—”
There was a pause while Kent sought to have the snapshots admitted as exhibits. He was allowed to repeat the question.
“Indeed, sir,” was Gormley’s response as he glanced at the two pictures, “I believe they are both excellent photographs of the defendant Leonardos. This one, in particular, is unmistakable.”
“Mr. Gormley, if you should be shown positive proof that the photograph you have selected is not of Mr. Leonardos, what would you say then?”
“Your honor, I ask that the question be stricken out.”
Judge Kenyon considered. “It may be stricken out,” he ruled.
“Your honor will note my exceptions,” requested Kent.
“They are saved.”
“That’s all, Mr. Gormley,” Kent said.
Clinton Gormley then took the stand and corroborated his father’s testimony. Asked by Kent if he could identify either photograph, he chose one unhesitatingly. Of the other he felt reasonably sure.
“Are you aware that you have not selected the same one as your father?”
The young man showed confusion.
“Of course he’s not aware of it,” the court interposed. “You haven’t demonstrated the fact.”
“It’s marked on the back, your honor,” replied Kent mildly.
He had no further questions, and the State rested its case.
The first witness called by Kent was the defendant, Leonardos. In a clear voice he told of his whereabouts on the night in question. He narrated his experience in his apartment at twelve thirty. Under Kent’s questioning, he denied emphatically any knowledge of the criminal plot by Loger and Bonnell. “It’s a damnable lie!” exclaimed Leonardos — and the court reproved him.