“Yes. What do you make of that?”
“He’s crooked. Got a record, I’ll bet, and shaking in his boots for fear that we’ll get a line on him.”
When breakfast was over Heywood got out a pad of ink and a piece of cardboard, and, after many dire threats, succeeded in taking our prisoner’s finger-prints.
“What’s the matter with you?” the reporter taunted as he worked. “Afraid, aren’t you? If you were on the level you would be glad to have us identify you, but since you are as crooked as a hound’s hind leg it hurts, doesn’t it?”
The big young man snarled a profane answer, and Heywood nonchalantly shoved him back onto the cot.
“Lay there and shut up,” he said, “and when I come back you’ll talk or we’ll turn you over to the police.” He turned to me. “Let me have the key to your house. You stay on the job here and see that our desperate friend don’t run away with the kitchen stove. I won’t be gone long.”
“Agreed,” said I, “and while you’re at headquarters see if you can get the record on the jewel theft. I know you haven’t got much to go on, but somebody around there should know the details.”
Heywood was getting into his coat.
“By the way.” He turned with his hand upon the doorknob and smiled owlishly. “Did you get the name of the poor, unfortunate lad who is serving the two years in prison?”
“I did not.”
“Of course,” he said maliciously, “that would have been bad judgment on the lady’s part. Too easy to trace, eh?”
“Get out,” said I bluntly. “You are the original cynic.”
Chapter XII
Big Hutch, Bad Man
After Heywood left I dozed comfortably in a chair for an hour, with my pistol handy beside me, and awakened considerably refreshed. My mind immediately returned to the question of trapping Barton into revealing some connection with the black capsule. I picked up a telephone directory and looked for his number. There it was:
Joshua Barton, diamond importer, Forest 4600.
I called and asked for Barton’s private office.
“Is Mr. Barton in?”
“No, he is out on business right now. This is his secretary. Can I do something for you?”
This was just what I had hoped for.
“Yes,” said I. “This is the Globe. In connection with a business story we are printing, we were trying to recall when Mr. Barton made his last trip to Paris. Could you tell me?”
“In September — last September.”
“Thank you.” I hung up the receiver. So far so good. There was nothing to do now but await Heywood’s return. If the facts he brought back with him fitted my half of the puzzle then nothing could shake me in the belief that Joshua Barton, respectable though he might be as far as appearances went, was, in truth, the member of a criminal organization.
I fell now to wondering what Blake had done when it was found that I had made my escape from the island. Had they fled, fearing that I might return with the police, or had they stood their ground on the theory that I would play the game out by myself? And Sonia, where was she? How would I find her again to give her the letter?
I dozed again and did not awaken until Heywood came stamping into the room, swinging his arms and grinning from ear to ear.
“We’ve got ’em?” he exulted. “We’ve got ’em now! Your little lad in the kitchen is bad medicine. His name is Hutchins. Big Hutch they call him down at headquarters, a stick-up man and a killer.
“He was in the holdover on suspicion about the same time that your friend Copeland was pinched, and, unless I miss my guess, he’s the bird that gave Copeland the capsule. But that isn’t all. No, sir. I’ve got a woman who identifies Hutchins’s picture as the fellow she saw go into Copeland’s room just after you and the other guy left. What do you think of that?”
“Huh,” I said. “Looks very much like we’ve got a murderer on our hands. Did you get the capsule?”
“Sure did. It was waiting for me, snug as a bug in a rug.”
“And the information on the Paris robbery?”
“Easy. Easy as pie. It was quite a famous case. All the boys knew about it. There was an Englishman named Denton living in Paris. He had an immensely valuable collection of diamonds. A crowd of thieves broke into his place, held him up, blew his safe and escaped with the best of his stones. They got away clean.
“The Paris police traced the gems to an American, but before they could grab their man the stuff had been passed on to another fellow. They finally narrowed their search down to a youngster named Drummond, but he beat them to the gun and got on a boat bound for the United States, so they cabled to customs authorities at New York and had Mr. Drummond plucked when he landed. The stuff was found on him.
“He hadn’t declared the jewels, so the customs agents sent him over the road for two years for smuggling. When he gets out the French are going to make a try for him. If they get him back to Paris he’ll get plenty.”
“The robbery occurred in September, I suppose,” said I.
“It did,” agreed Heywood. “But how you knew it is one on your uncle.”
“I knew it, because Joshua Barton was in Paris in September.”
“What?”
“Absolutely. I just called his office and his secretary assured me that Mr. Barton had a fine time in Paris in September. Do you still think he’s the lily-white gentleman?”
“Well, of course, it looks bad, but just because a man was in Paris doesn’t convict him of robbery.”
“No, it doesn’t, but it convinces me that he’s in on this some place.”
Heywood was pacing the floor nervously.
“We can work on that later,” he flung out. “I’m beginning to believe you are right on Barton. God, what a story it would make. I’m getting as jumpy as an alley cat. Scared green that the lid will fly off this thing some place before we get it rounded up. Let’s talk to Hutchins and see what he has to say for himself.”
We went into the kitchen, where our prisoner was lying motionless upon his cot. I lifted him into a sitting position, and Heywood thrust a lean forefinger under his nose as he began to talk.
“Listen to me, Hutchins,” he said coldly. “We know all about you. We know you gave Copeland the capsule, and that you followed him to his lodgings and murdered him. We’re disposed to be reasonable. Come across and we’ll make it easy for you. Hold out on us and I promise that you’ll get the limit.”
“What do you want to know?” asked Hutchins cautiously. “And how can I tell that you won’t double cross me?”
“You’re in no position to worry about that,” snapped Heywood. “Who gave you that capsule?”
Hutchins squirmed within his bonds. The perspiration stood out on his forehead.
“I told you I’d make you sweat,” said Heywood, grinning. “Well, how about it? Do you care to speak up or not?”
“Blake,” growled Hutchins. “Blake gave me the capsule.”
“Why?”
“He... ah... you see—”
“Why?”
“Because he had a row with somebody and this fellow had tried to get the letter away from him.”
“Who was the fellow?”
“I don’t know. Blake never told me. Just said to take the thing and keep it until he wanted it again. Then when I lost it he told me to get on the job and recover it.”
“Do you know Joshua Barton?” I interrupted.
“No.”
“You are a liar!” barked Heywood vehemently. “Doc, call the cops. We’ll turn this dog over to them and see that they hang him. I’ll teach him to sit up there and tell me a string of bald-faced lies.”