“How about the van that came to get his things? Did you see it? See the name on it? See where it came from?”
“I just seen it from the window — that’s all. There were two of them. But not like regular moving vans. They was open top. Like them big lorries you see going around down at the water front loading off ships. I figured he must have gone down to the ship line dock and scared ’em up somehow.”
“Borrowed from the Silk Loft gang,” opined Burgess to Fitzpatrick.
“Sure.”
“What about the dog — the kid’s collie? Leave him with you?”
“Lord, no! That kid of theirs would have died of a broken heart if they ever took that collie away from him. The dog goes with him and his wife and kid into a car.”
“A taxi?”
“Not from where I was lookin’ it didn’t seem to be a taxi. A private car — a big touring car.”
“Lawrence Preston — that was his name, hey?”
“Yes.”
“Well, of course, after to-night he got wise we have been spotting him here and he’s come straight back from the job and bolted,” said Burgess.
The discomfited detectives went in the rear to call Flaherty off, and the three were once again in the car and the chauffeur had just started the engine whirring when Burgess suddenly commanded, “Stop!”
He jumped out and called the superintendent, who had turned to go back indoors.
“Just a minute,” he shouted. “What was the name of Preston’s kid — the first name?”
“Jack.”
“Thanks.”
“Well, what?” demanded Fitzpatrick when Burgess got back into the car.
“You mean asking the kid’s name, I suppose?”
“Sure.”
“Can’t you get it?”
“No.”
Burgess whispered into Fitzpatrick’s ear.
The older detective clapped him on the shoulder.
“The bean is working,” he said in a congratulatory manner.
When they returned to the branch bureau there was a report on the desk of the senior detective, Fitzpatrick. When he read it he grimaced sourly.
“Some lucky breaks we are getting on this job!” said he to Burgess, handing him the paper.
The report came from Police Headquarters, Jersey City. It conveyed the information that a few hours before Connecticut Blackie and Bugs Reilly had actually been in the hands of the State police somewhere in the vicinity of Newark, and had slipped out of them!
By what method, in what other automobile Liverpool Jack made his get-away from Lakewood that night was never found out. But the evidence was plain he had parted from his accomplices, and that Blackie and Bugs, driven by the ferret-faced marvel, returned to New York in the car in which Blackie, Liverpool and the tricky chauffeur had traveled to Lakewood.
On the return the car was overhauled by a State Road Inspector. The trio in it were probably on the point of throwing up their hands or — drawing their pistols. But the inspector’s words were merely:
“What about your tail-lights there and what’s the matter with headlights — only one going? That don’t go around these parts, New York.”
Blackie, probably with the thirty thousand dollar post office loot under his legs in the tonneau as he spoke, talked fast and well. He emitted apologies in the most polite manner. He asked the inspector to believe that it wasn’t neglect or scorn of the laws of motor travel in so intelligent a State as New Jersey that had caused them to offend. The matter of the lights had been an unavoidable misfortune of motor travel. The bulbs had failed back and front. There hadn’t been sufficient extras to fix things up properly and they had been anxiously on the lookout for an all-night oil station or garage in which to repair the deficiency. Blackie got by. The inspector told the crooks the situation of the nearest oil station and had waved them on their way.
“Ed,” said Fitzpatrick, “if that kid hunch of yours doesn’t pan out, we’re licked.”
“If Liverpool Jack sticks to New York I’m thinking it’s bound to work out. We’ll have to wait, say, four or five days. I figure the Silk Loft crowd stored Jack’s stuff for him for a day or two till he could rent another apartment, then give him and his family two to four days more to get settled in their new home, and then we’ll try the scheme out.”
As a matter of fact, Burgess bided his time for a week. Then he went to the public school little Jack “Preston” had attended in the Riverside section and consulted the principal.
“Have you transferred any pupils from your school to the others in the city recently — within a week?”
“Three,” said the principal. “I’ll get the registry book.”
Of the three entries was one stating that Master John Preston had been transferred to a school in West One Hundred and Twenty-Sixth Street. It recorded the change of address of the boy, and the new one led the detectives to an apartment directly opposite the schoolhouse which Master John Preston was marked to attend in the future. The name “Preston,” necessarily retained by the fugitive criminal in order to effect the school transfer, appeared in the hallway letter box. The apartment was on the top floor.
Then Burgess and Fitzpatrick “went to school.” At all hours. That is to say, they consulted with the principal, taking him into their confidence, and he afforded them a small room on the top floor of the schoolhouse which had a window directly overlooking the windows of the Preston apartment. For three days they watched, observing the comings and goings of Mrs. Preston, and the gambolings after school of Jack and his big, festive collie. But no sign was vouchsafed of Liverpool Jack.
If he were warily remaining away for a time while he established a counter-espionage on the detectives to find out if they were tracing him to his new abode, his measures had been ineffectual. Because on the fourth night of their vigil — they watched at night more assiduously than in the day, because it would be at such a time Liverpool Jack would be most likely to appear at his home — they saw a tall man, one who fitted Liverpool’s description, step down the street and enter the apartment house opposite. It was past two o’clock in the morning. Not a light was showing in any of the windows of the big flathouse. But shortly after the big man had entered below a light flared from the front windows of the Preston apartment. The sleuths trained night glasses on the windows, but the curtains were of a heavy silken material, shutting off a view of the room.
They were first tempted to go directly over and arrest the man. But caution warned them against acting hastily. Supposing the man should prove not to be Liverpool Jack, but a crook friend sent by Liverpool from his place of hiding to convey a message to his wife? That would be only tipping their hand and sending Liverpool off on another route of escape. They felt they must be absolutely certain that the man they had seen enter was none other than Liverpool before pouncing on him.
They “spelled” each other in watches through the night, each snatching short sleeps on a cot they had installed in their tower room.
Somewhat after nine o’clock in the morning, and just as Burgess was going out to snatch a bite of breakfast, after which Fitzpatrick might allay his appetite, Fitzpatrick, at the window, called Burgess back.
Fitzpatrick already had his eyes screwed on glasses trained on one of the windows of the Preston flat. The heavy curtains had been completely drawn aside. A florid-faced man with a big gray mustache was sitting in full sight behind the pane. He was ensconced in an armchair, smoking a long, fat cigar and reading the morning newspaper.
“Liverpool Jack, all right,” said Burgess.