What a break for Morey! The green covered package tightly held in clenched hand would mean added prestige and possibly promotion to the detective, but would also mean good-by for the Kid. A four time loser in Folsom can expect only a back gate parole, and the Kid was not yet forty.
His face showed no change of expression, but his brain was racing madly. He must find some way out.
Of course he could toss the package overboard and trust to lack of evidence, but his rep was bad, and anyway, the Kid hated to definitely cut loose from his chance to get something out of the previous night’s ten grand prowl.
As the boat neared the dock he slowly edged himself into the crowd of passengers crowding together for disembarkment, but from the tail of his eye he noted that Morey was trying to keep closely behind him. He hummed absently to himself.
A sudden lurch of the boat caused by the stopping of the screw threw the Kid against a man standing in front of him, and he noticed that this man was holding a travelling bag in hand, a bag which bore on the end towards the Kid the inscription:
He next noted that the object of his scrutiny was wearing a topcoat of vivid plaid, one whose bulging side pockets bore witness of frequent and rough usage.
But the Kid failed to notice that next to this man stood another, wearing almost a duplicate of this coat, which had evidently come from the same maker.
There was a jostling of the crowd as the gangplank was lowered, and in the same moment the Singing Kid felt the anticipated touch on his shoulder. His hand, still cunning despite his fear, made a quick movement, and the green covered package dropped within the pocket of an unsuspecting recipient.
“All right, Kid,” said Morey softly, “let’s go.”
“Yeah?” replied the Kid sneeringly. “Where and why? What’s the rap?”
“We’ll talk that over when we reach the hall,” responded Morey. “Don’t make any funny moves or you may learn something sooner.”
Knowing he was clear of anything incriminating, and that resistance was futile, Puggy O’Conner, the Singing Kid, walked arm in arm down the gangplank with his captor and within thirty minutes was being booked at the City Hall.
The Goddess of Chance, whom some call Old Lady Luck, decreed that the wearers of the twin coats should enter the same train together, and sit side by side. The stranger glanced casually at Pritchard, noted his coat and started to speak, but refrained, and, opening a paper, was soon buried in its contents.
Pritchard, however, was not so reticent.
“These are sure hot bennies,” he smiled.
His companion looked up inquiringly, then seeing at what the remark aimed, laughed.
“In more ways than one. Mine nearly baked me today, and I’m sure going to ditch it tonight for the summer. I’m firing on the S.P. to Stockton, and I sure don’t need it there.”
“I’ll have to do the same, I guess,” said Pritchard. “It’s getting pretty warm now for one.”
The train slowed down for San Pablo stop in Emeryville, and Pritchard rose from his seat.
“Well so long,” he said to his seat mate. “Drop in and see me sometime. We may have more than bennies in common,” and he handed a card from his pocket. The stranger glanced at it, and handed him one in return, as the train pulled to a stop.
On the sidewalk, Pritchard set down his bag and removed his coat which he threw carelessly over one arm. As he stooped for his bag, however, the coat fell to the walk and he reached for it with a muttered curse. He missed the collar and lifted it by the bottom, but as he did so, he heard the soft tinkle of coins hitting the pavement. A glance showed him they were small so he left them laying and strode down the street to a building whose sign showed it to be a combination pool-room and cigar stand.
With a brief word of greeting to the inmates, he entered the back room, mounted a stairway, and disappeared from sight.
His late train companion looked at the card left him in casual curiosity, but whistled softly to himself as he read the inscription.
“Big Mike himself,” he murmured. “Believe me, I’ll sure look him up.”
His coat becoming too warm, he arose, took it off and threw it carelessly across the back of his seat. Immersed in his paper, he almost missed leaving the train at his destination, but as he realized where he was, he leaped to his feet and was just in time to get out before the conductor closed the door.
His forgotten coat still remained on the back of his seat, since there were no passengers left to call his attention to his forgetfulness.
About that time there was another party sweating, and that was Puggy O’Connor, alias the Singing Kid. Seated in a straight backed uncomfortable chair, faced by a phalanx of detectives, Puggy was undergoing the “third.” His hair was somewhat rumpled and he had lost his accustomed jauntiness of demeanor.
“You ain’t got nothing on me,” he snarled. “I been going straight since I was sprung. I’m through with the old game for I don’t want no body-snatcher’s parole for mine.”
“You should have thought of that before you cracked that crib at the Lake,” said Morey coldly. “You didn’t feel that way when you were copping that bunch of ice there.”
“I ain’t been by the Lake in years,” shouted Puggy, “and I never copped no ice there or anywhere else. You’ve got the wrong guy, but I suppose you Dicks will frame me, because you’re so dumb you can’t pick up the right one. You have to have a fall guy some place, so you elected me.”
“Yes?” answered Morey smoothly. “Then where did you get the ice you were trying to put over the fence at I key’s on Fourth Street in San Francisco this afternoon? I suppose you found them.”
The Kid froze into silence for a moment, his worst fears confirmed. Then Morey had seen him there. Evidently he had been tailed.
“This is a frameup,” he muttered, “and I want a mouthpiece. If I put anything over the fence, you’ve probably got it, and if I had it and didn’t, it must be on me.”
Further questioning being useless, Morey gestured to a uniformed patrolman.
“Take him away, and book him as a vag,” he said.
When they had left, Morey turned to his fellows.
“He’s a wise one and knows his back is to the wall, for another conviction means life for him under the habitual criminal act. I really haven’t anything on him but if Ikey hadn’t looked out of the window this afternoon and seen me, Puggy would have put it over.
“If we can’t break him we’ll have to let him go, but I was certain we’d find some stones on him. I watched him closely, and he had no chance to ditch anything. I’m darned if I know how he did it. That Lake job had every appearance of being his, and I still believe it was.”
When the Kid was regretfully released after two days in the hold-over, his first thought was to get in touch with the man Pritchard of Emeryville. His incarceration had scared him for he feared the club of the four-time loser which hung over his head, so he resolved to secure what cash he could on the stones and leave for parts where he would not be so well known.
In Emeryville he had little trouble in locating his man, but was surprised to find that Pritchard was what might be called “the Big Shot” of the night life there.
Big Mike’s interests were many and varied, so Puggy studied for a long time to find the best angle of approach. He could not go to him direct with his story. He would have to become acquainted with him first, so with small difficulty, Puggy secured a job singing in one of Big Mike’s night clubs.