Tarney, following one clew, visited each court-room in the building and talked with every likely lawyer he saw. He went out into the street and called on other criminal law firms in the neighborhood. Sometimes he met men on the sidewalk with whom he talked. Now and then he stepped into saloons, looked around and either left with a shrug or jumped at some man to whisper to him. This part of his work done, Tarney spent the rest of the day dashing into and out of pawnshops. He never stayed long in a place; just long enough to say a few stern words, make a few gestures, and to write down the one word “Ball.”
“The old man wants it, see?” That was the only sentence he spoke aloud.
Thompson went to the bridge. At the New York end he spoke to a man who stood idly watching the crowd, then to a policeman. Each told him something that interested him, but he went on across the bridge afoot, stopping twice on the way over to address ordinary-looking persons. At the Brooklyn end also he addressed men who knew him. A short, swift tour of the pawnshops in lower Brooklyn, and he rode back to New York. He called at several saloons and a few more pawnshops.
“And the old man wants it back,” was the way Thompson closed the interviews.
At five minutes to six, Tarney emerged from the crowd in Twenty-third Street and approached the southeast corner of Sixth Avenue. A big policeman was standing there, but at sight of Tarney, he moved off without a sign of recognition. The detective leaned against the corner. At three minutes to six Thompson arrived. They turned off at once to a restaurant, where Thompson led the way to a corner table, and taking the chair which commanded a view of the whole room, he sat down. Tarney sat opposite him. They ordered a course dinner, with wine, and, saying nothing, ate it. Over the cigars, they exchanged a few words.
“Been to the Hen and Chickens?” Thompson asked.
“Nope. Everywhere else. Left that till tonight. You stop at Kelly’s?”
“Nope. No use till to-night.”
It was eight o’clock when Thompson, walking alone in the shadow of the tenements on a dark side street, turned suddenly into a noisy saloon. He pushed open the swinging fly doors and stood still between them, holding off a wing in each hand. The room was full of men, some at tables, others at the bar, others again in a back room. All stopped whatever they were doing, and looked at Thompson. There was silence. They stared, and half raised glasses were put down on the bar. The bartender was the first to recover.
“ ’Lo, Tom,” he said. “Have something?”
A man in the back room went quickly out of the side door. Another followed him slowly.
“Keg here?” Thompson asked.
“Yes,” said a voice, and a short, well-dressed man came out of the back room. His face was hard, though the skin was soft and pale, and his hands were long and very fine.
“Want me?” he asked.
Thompson came in and let the doors swing shut.
“No, I don’t ‘want’ nobody,” the detective said, smiling a little.
The whole atmosphere of the room changed. The crowd relaxed. Interrupted drinks were swallowed, and liquor flowed, everybody laughed.
“Come here,” said Thompson.
He caught Keg Kelly by a buttonhole and drew him into the corner, and Thompson talked for one minute with great firmness.
“And the old man wants it back again,” he said at last. “Good night.”
The next morning at 9 o’clock Thompson stood on the corner of Mott Street and Houston, Tarney at Mott and Bleecker, with the rear entrance of police headquarters between them. They seemed to be holding receptions. Queer old foreigners, dilapidated loafers, “sports,” out-and-out “toughs,” went up to them one at a time. Most of them made apologetic gestures, were cursed, and slunk away; a few smiled, spoke a few words and delivered small parcels.
The detectives left their corners simultaneously, and approaching police headquarters, went together down into the basement. There they looked over “the stuff,” as they called it, eleven watches of all sizes and shapes. Thompson took off Tarney’s hat and held it out while Tarney put his watches in, then he gave it to Tarney while he “unloaded.”
“ ‘Wall,’ ” he said, “Microwitz wasn’t sure of the name. Take it back to him.”
Tarney put it in his pocket.
“ ‘Ball.’ Maybe that’s it,” said Thompson, looking at the next watch, “but it’s pretty small. I’ll let the old man see it.” He kept that. “And here’s another ‘Ball.’ I guess that’s it. Keg sent both of these. Beaut’, ain’t it? Here’s a ‘Call.’ Take it, and this, too, ‘Wahl.’ Say, here’s a ‘Hall.’ It is a haul, sure enough; regular poem. What’s this, another ‘Hall.’ Those other little ones are n. g. Keep ’em. I’ll let the old man take his pick of these two ‘Balls.’ But I guess this big fellow is the one he passed the word for.”
Mr. Wayland Morrison Ball had a few friends in to lunch with him in his office at noon that day. He had promised to show them something interesting, and had explained enough to make them all very much interested to hear more. They looked at the clock when they came in.
“Exactly 12:20, he said,” Mr. Ball repeated, “on the minute. He’s a remarkable man. Why, I tell you he told me things I didn’t know myself — who were in the car, what they did, which ones sang, which ones talked, and—”
A shrewd little broker smiled.
“Well, he did,” Mr. Ball insisted. “He even described how the watch was taken off the chain, exactly. And that other case of ours here, you know. He asked me about that, but he thought I knew more than I did. He knows who took the bonds.” Mr. Ball lowered his voice. “And we don’t know that to this day. He told me what the thief did with them, where they went, through whose hands they passed. It was the most astonishing thing.”
The bankers and brokers didn’t half believe Ball. They ate of the lunch, drank a sip of tea or water or wine, and glanced up at the clock. Some of them tried to tell detective stories they had read, but Ball said such tales were all rot.
“This is the real thing,” he insisted. “Chief Reilly — you ought to have seen the way he looked at me, and the questions he asked — sharp, keen. He’s a wonderful man, wonderful. Everything right to the point, every word, every gesture, every glance—”
It was 12:20, and everybody knew it. They were silent, watching the clock or looking at their watches. Some of them stopped eating. The next ten minutes dragged, but they passed, 12:25, 12:26, 27. The men were all nervous now, and serious. At last it was 12:28. There was no sign, and Mr. Ball was anxious, but he smiled confidently. “It isn’t time yet,” he said.
A minute more crept by; you could hear the clock tick above the ticker. The long hand on the clock moved on slowly till it was against the figure VI; not a sign. It was over the VI.
A rap at the door. Everybody started, and the company laid down their napkins to look, but remembered, and turned their eyes away.
“Come in,” said Mr. Ball, rising expectantly.
“Two... two men — gentlemen to see you—”
“Show them in.”
The clerk slipped aside. Thompson and Tarney entered side by side, as solemn as undertakers.
“Mr. Ball?” said Thompson, looking at the banker.
“I am Mr. Ball.”
“The compliments of Chief Reilly,” the detective said. He laid the watch on the table. Then he and Tarney turned and went out.
The watch lay there on the table, every eye fixed upon it. No one moved. The gentlemen glanced around at one another, then up at their host. Mr. Ball smiled a little, rather proudly.