Ken Corning slowed his car, switched out the lights, and pulled in close to the curb. The taxicab ahead of him swung abruptly to the right, came to a stop. Flint got out, paid off the driver, and ran across the sidewalk, up the steps which led to a porch, then across the porch.
The residence was that of Edward Jason, the foreman of the Grand Jury.
Ken Corning sat in the roadster and smoked for some fifteen minutes. At the end of that time, Flint had not left the house. Corning stepped on the starter, tossed away his cigarette and drove back to his office.
Jangling peals of the telephone bell greeted Ken Corning as he fitted his latch-key to the door of the office. He hurried across the room, scooped the receiver to his ear and said: “Hello.”
Helen Vail’s voice was guarded.
“Chief,” she said, “I’ve been trying to catch you for an hour.”
“Something important?” he asked.
“Yes. I wonder if you can come over.”
“Where are you?”
“At the Monadnock,” she said. “I’ve got apartment 318.”
“All right,” he told her. “I’ve got one more job to do before I get there. It’ll be about half an hour.”
“I’ll be waiting,” she told him. “Don’t knock, just walk right in.”
Corning took the elevator to the street and walked three blocks to an office building. On the seventh floor he entered the offices of the Intercoastal Detective Agency.
He gave his name to a young woman at the switchboard and asked for Tom Dunton.
“Third door on the left,” she said. “The last office.”
Corning opened the door, walked along the corridor, and entered a small office barely large enough to contain a desk and two chairs. A man of about fifty, with broad shoulders, got to his feet and extended his hand.
“Hello, Corning. Haven’t seen you for a long while.”
Corning shook hands, sat down, and started in talking business.
“A man named Oscar Lane,” he said, “arrested for purse snatching. Bail has been fixed in the sum of five hundred dollars cash or one-thousand-dollar bond. No one has bailed him out. He’s in jail.”
“All right,” said Dunton. “What can we do?”
“Bail him out,” said Corning.
He took a wallet from his coat pocket and counted out currency. When he had finished, he pushed the pile across to Dunton. Dunton picked it up and counted it, then reached for a receipt book.
“Five hundred dollars,” he said. “Who do we say is putting it up?”
“Take some name that sounds like an alias — John Jones or Sam Black, or something like that. Get a man who looks a little seedy to go in and put up the bail. He’ll say that Lane is a friend of his.”
“And then, what?”
“After you get him out on bail, I want him shadowed. I want to know where he goes and with whom he talks. Put enough men on the job to keep him under constant surveillance. Don’t let him get away no matter what happens.”
“Sometimes you can’t help it,” Dunton told him. “You know that. A man can always give an operative the slip.”
“This is one of the times you’ve got to help it,” Corning told him.
“We’ll do the best we can,” Dunton said.
Corning took the receipt, folded it, pushed it into his pocket, and turned to the door.
“How’s the Fred Parkett case coming?” asked Dunton. “Going to get him off?”
“Maybe.”
“They say it’s a cinch he’s going to be convicted. Some of the wise guys were telling me there was nothing to it. I told them that any case you were handling was loaded with dynamite for the prosecution. I offered to bet even money that you get him off. Was it a good bet?”
Ken Corning narrowed his eyes and looked at Tom Dunton.
“If Oscar Lane,” he sand, “gets out of jail and gets in touch with Dick Carr, a detective, go ahead and bet ail the money you can get.”
“Are you telling me this so that I’ll be sure to keep Lane shadowed?” asked Dunton, grinning.
“I’m telling you that so you can win some money,” Corning told him, and walked out of the office.
Ken Corning pushed his way into apartment 318.
Helen Vail was stretched out in an overstuffed chair, with her feet on a davenport. She seemed very much at ease.
Ken Corning looked around the apartment. “Something’s wrong with you,” he said.
“What’s wrong? Haven’t I done what you told me to?”
“That’s just the trouble,” he said. “You haven’t cut any corners yet.”
“I know when to cut corners and when to do just what I’m told,” she said. “Any time I’ve disregarded instructions it’s worked out all right,”
“Any time it doesn’t, you’re canned,” he told her. “What’s the dirt?”
“Mabel Fosdick’s checking out,” she said. “She’s going somewhere. I think she’s leaving for good.”
“Know where she’s going?”
“It’s some place out of the state. I don’t know just where. She’s not supposed to tell anybody.”
“How about the other girl, Edith Laverne?”
“She’s staying here apparently.”
“Thought the girls had jobs here.”
“They have. But Mabel Fosdick had something offered her that will take her out of the state. She’s packing up and intends to get out a little after midnight.”
“What kind of girls are they?” asked Corning.
“Mabel Fosdick is on the square. I’d trust her,” said Helen Vail. “The Laverne woman is different. She’s one of those mealy mouthed women who are always worrying about their reputations, and all that stuff. Mabel Fosdick is right out in the open with everything she does.”
“You think it’s unexpected, this business of Mabel Fosdick’s getting out?”
“Yes, I’m certain it is. I was commencing to get friendly with her.”
“Has some man been calling here this evening?”
“Not that I know of.”
“She’s mysterious about it?”
“Yes, whatever it is. It’s some job that has been given her, and she’s been told not to say anything about what it is, or where it’s going to take her.”
“What’s Mabel Fosdick going to do with her furniture? Is she going to take it with her?”
“The apartment’s furnished. All she’s got is her personal belongings. She has a big trunk, a small trunk, two or three suitcases, and a hat box.”
“You’ve been up there?”
“I helped her pack.”
“Good girl.”
“I can tell you something else — she keeps a diary.”
“Now,” said Ken Corning, “you’re getting somewhere. That diary is what I want. Could you get a chance to look in it?”
“No, it’s one of the kind that are locked and have a key. She was right there all the time and I didn’t have a chance to get it.”
“Where is it, in one of the suit-cases?”
“Yes.”
Ken Corning looked at his watch.
“Okey,” he said. “You took the apartment under an assumed name?”
“Sure.”
“All right. You’d better vanish.”
“What are you intending to do?”
“I don’t know. What’s the number of Mabel Fosdick’s apartment?”
“Four nineteen. It’s on the floor above.”
“She’s in there now?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know if she’s got her tickets purchased?”
“I think her tickets have been sent to her.”
“What does she look like?” asked Corning.
“She’s about as tall as I am; about twenty-four or twenty-five years old. She’s got a gray coat with a fur collar. She’s a brunette, and runs pretty heavy to lipstick. But she’s a good kid and she looks it. Trim and pretty, but not loud.”