“Could you find him — even if my patient risked a hemorrhage?” snapped the ambulance surgeon sarcastically. His answer, however, displeased Freeman, for the dark head moved irritably on the pillow. Myra stepped forward and placed her ear against her father’s lips.
“He says to bring him a pencil and paper, then,” she interpreted. “Father is very determined,” she went on with a slight smile. “I think it would be better for him to have his way, even if he has to exert himself somewhat.”
The ambulance surgeon rose with what he meant to be freezing politeness. “My patient is properly bandaged and all he needs is absolute rest. If you disregard my orders I can only withdraw from the case,” he said. “I expect other calls, but if I were a physician regularly called in I—”
“Thank you,” said Myra. She was quiet and polite, but the two words were a dismissal. They revealed to Doyle that she was no mere golden-haired, dark-eyed doll. No general in command of an army in battle could have accepted responsibility more instantly, or with more finality. The ambulance surgeon snapped his bag of instruments shut, bowed, and walked from the room without a word. Myra followed him out and returned with pencil and paper, and on the bed Freeman gave a grim little nod of approval when he saw her.
“How many men?” said Doyle. “One? Two?”
A nod stopped him. Myra sat on the bed and put a pencil in her father’s fingers, holding the paper where he could reach it without lifting his arm.
“If daddy thinks he can do anything, he can. He’s like that,” she said proudly. “Still, we mustn’t ask too many questions.”
“Two men both very unusual in appearance,” wrote Freeman’s pencil. “Saw one directly under street light taking out sacks. Short and misshapen like a monkey or a spider. Head twisted to left and held on one side as though by injury. He fired.”
“Lefty the Monk!” whispered Doyle. “That twisted neck identifies him like a finger-print! But who’d figure that Lefty—”
“Would be in anything big?” snapped the reporter. “He’s half-witted. Killing a girl for her rings, like he did in that boarding house case a year ago, was about his speed. He’s too peculiar looking to be a member of a regular gang.”
“Other driving Ford touring car with side curtains out,” wrote Freeman. “Never left seat, but leaned out to point to me. Face covered with black beard. Was very tall. Head even with car top. I am not mistaken.” The pencil went back and underlined these words twice. “He jerked back head as little man shot. I will swear he bumped himself on car top and that he must be over six feet six.”
“Six feet six and bearded?” Peck echoed. “I pass up that guy! Don’t know any crooks that can pinch hit for telegraph poles. See here, Doyle, this testimony don’t make sense! Lefty the Monk never figured out a job like this. What’s more, some bystanders are witnesses to every stick up. Why’d any sensible crook pick a rod like Lefty, who’d be identified at a glance?”
“The moving van murder didn’t make sense either. Until later;” said Doyle grimly. “A guy that would have a dress rehearsal for a new kind of poison bomb wouldn’t leave anything to chance. If he picked a marked man like Lefty the Monk I’ll bet he had a reason.”
The detective turned to Freeman. “Are you sure about the other man’s height?” he asked slowly. “Could you identify him in court?”
Freeman nodded. “Yes. Yes. Positively — by shape of head and set of shoulders,” he wrote.
“Then we’ll get him,” said Doyle with satisfaction. “A crook as tall as that is a marked man, and he must know it. There can’t be a dozen of them in all Seattle, and they’ll have a hard time slipping out of town as soon as we put in a general alarm. Which is what Lieutenant Wollson would call waiting,” the detective went on exultantly. “Meantime I’ll grill Lefty and find out who he’s been running around with.” The detective’s blue eyes widened as a new thought struck him. He turned to the reporter.
“About that boarding house case that Lefty was acquitted of!” he exclaimed. “Everybody knew that Lefty was guilty, but the district attorney couldn’t shake his alibi because he had a witness who wasn’t a gangster or a crook. Wasn’t that witness a mighty tall man?”
“Seems to me like he was,” grunted the reporter. “He was clean-shaven, though. A mining engineer down on his luck and, living in a tenement till he picked up a job. I don’t remember his name, but I can find it out in ten minutes from the files as soon as I can get back to the office. He wasn’t a crook, though, Slats.”
“Beards can grow and every crook makes a start some time,” said the detective sententiously. “I’m rounding up all the tall men, but he’ll do to start with. It’s like you said — an eyewitness can be expected at every holdup, even though a crook plans the job for a rainy night. Here’s a guy so tall that he don’t dare step out of the car himself. He’s got to get another crook to help him. If he’s a gangster, that’s easy. But assume he isn’t. Only an educated chemist could fix those poison bombs.
“How could he do better than to take a little half-witted gunman he can convict of murder by a word, and who don’t dare to double cross him? How many witnesses would notice the driver of the car with a monkey like Lefty right out in the street handling the sacks and doing the shooting? It’s Lefty that risks the rap.”
“Big boy, I’ll bet you’ve doped it right!” Peck exclaimed. “Go make your pinch while I write my story and search the files! Biggest crime of the year solved in ten minutes by a camera eyewitness and a lucky Irish cop — thanks to the assistance of the Herald. The commissioner will make you a sergeant for this, Slats.”
There was a feeling of triumph in the little corner bedroom which even the wounded witness shared. A criminal who had not hesitated at murder to perfect his plans had been balked by the incalculable trifle that has wrecked so many perfect crimes. The girl and the three men had each been instrumental in solving a mystery. They were pleased with themselves — so much so that the counterstroke came like the flash of lightning out of a clear sky.
A bullet crashed through the window shade. The electric light over Freeman’s bed exploded. Doyle reached for his own revolver, but in the sudden darkness which left him blind he heard a hissing, boiling sound. A powerful odor of fresh peaches rose to his nostrils.
“Poison gas! Hold your breath and get the girl out!” he shouted to Peck.
Ten words only, uttered in an instant, and yet as he caught his breath a giant and invisible hand seemed to grip his throat and paralyze his chest. He could not breathe. His heart pounded slower and slower in his ears. Behind him the lighted oblong of the door opened as Peck dragged Myra away, but Doyle was lurching toward the bed. With senses slipping he flung the bed clothes over Freeman’s face and gathered the wounded man into his arms. The effort took the last of his strength. He lurched into the hall, collided with the opposite wall, and tottered backward. Somehow he closed the door of the bedroom, then he pitched unconscious upon the witness he had rescued.
Chapter III
The Bait
Faintly Doyle heard voices. The fumes of ammonia bit at his nostrils. He opened his eyes, and found the fat, scowling face of Lieutenant Wollson bending over him.
“Murder — yard,” Doyle gasped.
“Gone, kid,” growled the lieutenant, not unkindly. “Lie down, now. You’ve been out for an hour. The surgeon damn near gave you up.”
“Freeman — the witness?”
“Still out,” Wollson grunted. “You’ve done all you could. Leave this to me. The reporter slipped me the dope.”