“Hello, Jocko,” he said. “You look like you’d wised up to something. Spill it!”
“Jocko” grinned at the bookie. From his pocket he produced a newspaper clipping. He handed it to Zimmer, who noted that it had been torn from the real estate ads. One paragraph had been circled with a pencil. It stated:
FOR RENT: 14 room mansion. Ridley, L. I. Month to month; reasonable rental to right party. J-683.
“What’s this about?” queried Zimmer. “Doesn’t look like it had anything to do with the guy we’re looking for.”
“Hasn’t it, though?” Jocko chuckled wisely. “Well, wait until I spill the dope, Zimmer. You told me to use my noodle when I snooped around the Torrington. Well, that’s what I’ve been doing. No lobby-watching for me. We knew Rayne was gone from the place. Kerry found that out when he called by telephone.”
“I know all that. Go ahead.”
“All right,” Jocko became graphic. “I’m on my way to the Torrington, see? But instead of going in the lobby, I takes to the back street. I spots a beanery where a bell hop was coming out. I figured the joint is going to be my ticket, maybe.
“In about an hour, out comes a guy from the back door of the Torrington. Looking sore, he was, like he’d been given the bounce. He goes into the beanery and sits at the counter. I ankles in and gets along side of him. It wasn’t long before we was talking. He hands out a squawk. He’d been a bell hop in the Torrington; they’d just handed him his walking papers.
“He pans the hired help, so I asks him about the guests. He begins to pan them, too. Says the crabby old gents always was the worst. I keep pumping him; he remembers some names. One of them, he says, was named Rayne, an old geezer with a cane. Eighty years old.”
Jocko paused. Zimmer growled impatiently. He wanted the rest of the story. Jocko resumed:
“The bell hop says he’d like to have looked in Room 620 — that was Rayne’s room — and some other rooms besides. Old guys, he says, was always leaving things after they’d checked out. This bell hop shows me a pass-key, see? But he’s scared to use it. So I slips him ten bucks; he takes it and gives me about a dozen room numbers.
“I put them all down, to cover the one that counted. That was Room 620. The bell hop slides along to look for another job; I go around front and head through the lobby. Up to Rayne’s room, to take a look around. I see this clipping, sticking out of the telephone book. You get it now, Zimmer? Maybe Rayne’s rented that house—”
Zimmer grabbed up the telephone. He dialed a number that escaped Jocko’s notice. The tout heard the bookie talk. He read the clipping aloud over the wire. His call finished, Zimmer spoke to Jocko.
“That’s all you were needed for,” he told the tout. “But I want the bunch of you on tap to-night. Round up the other fellows and have them up here. I may need a couple of you.”
SHORTLY after Zimmer had made his call to The Creeper, Rick Parrin answered the telephone in his private office. The fake sales promoter listened, and acknowledged his understanding. He hung up and turned to a tall, gloomy-faced man who was seated by the window.
“It was The Creeper, Gus,” confided Rick. “I’m putting you on the job. Get up to the Elite Garage and take out that cigar salesman’s car. You know the one I mean — it has a big box on the back.”
“Where’ll I take it, Rick?” queried Gus.
“To Ridley, Long Island. It’s only a dozen miles out, near the Sound. Fake that you’re on a cigar-selling route; but while you’re there, get a line on a fourteen-room mansion that’s just been rented cheap. Spot the place; bring me back the layout.”
“And learn who’s living there?”
“If you can, without getting anybody suspicious.”
Gus departed. Rick settled back behind his mahogany desk, smiling as his fingers thrummed the glass-topped table.
IT was after four o’clock when Rick received a call from Gus. Rick grunted answers, jotting down facts upon a pad. He concluded by giving brief instructions; his tone was commending.
“Come on in, Gus… Yeah, a swell job! I’ll talk to you when you get here… Sure. Leave the old bus at the Elite Garage. It belongs there.”
Rick hung up. He dialed a number; this telephone was not connected with the office switchboard. A response came. Rick gave the information that he had received from Gus.
“Rayne’s living there, all right… No, nobody with him. Gus heard some people talking in a cigar store… Yeah, they’re wondering about the funny old duck. Saw him go out this morning; he hasn’t been back since… The house? It’s a cinch to find. On Locust Avenue, last corner before Long Island Sound… Yes, the house sits by itself…
“Sure. Gus drove past it twice and studied it carefully. A house with gables… Yes. Two gables, and the one on the right is where Rayne hangs out… That’s what the fellows in the cigar store were wondering about. Why the old gent picked the third floor to live in alone… That’s right. The lights gave them the idea. No lights except in that gable…”
Rick paused. He listened carefully, jotting down new notations, orders direct from The Creeper. When he had finished, Rick delivered a final acknowledgment.
“I get it,” he said. “Leave it to me, chief… Yes, I’ll be there to pick up after the grab… The regular countersign… Yes, I’ll have some fellows there to back me… I see. Good. The follow-up will come later… Great stuff, Chief…”
Rick hung up. He went to the outer office and spoke to one of the regular typists.
“See if you can locate two or three of the salesmen,” he instructed. “Carning first; then two others. Tell them I want to see them.”
His order given, Rick strolled back into the inner office, wearing a wise grin. He was looking forward to a pay-off. Well did he know the speed with which The Creeper could follow up an advantage once it had been gained.
IN the seclusion of a hotel room, another man was at that moment receiving an important call. It was Reggie Spaylor, the amateur sportsman. He had taken residence — for the time being — at an expensive hostelry near Grand Central Station.
“It will be easy, chief,” Reggie was saying over the telephone. His sophisticated smile was proof that he was talking with The Creeper. “You are right. Absolutely! That seems the best way to do it… Yes, I have the cash. Plenty left from that last bundle you sent me… Nick’s telephone number? I have it right here. The new one…
“Dalmatia 4-8673. Yes, that’s his old hide-out… Yes, he can get in touch with those gymnasts of his… It was all attended to, long ago; but I left it to Nick… Quite right; it would not be wise for me to associate with those fellows…
“I understand. The lights will be the zero hour… Persuasion is a good word. It is the exact method that I shall use… I understand. Two gables; the right one will be lighted…”
That call ended. Another of The Creeper’s henchmen had received his instructions. Between the hours of three and five, The Creeper had located Montague Rayne, learned the details of the old man’s new habitat and had arranged a definite campaign for the acquisition of the Latin scroll.
ALL that time, Harry Vincent had been lounging in the lobby of the Torrington. He had seen no one worth watching, except the man with the derby hat; and that fellow had become more and more lethargic.
Five o’clock arrived; it was time for Harry to make a report to Burbank.
Leaving the lobby, Harry entered a near-by cigar store. He put in his call. Burbank, always methodical, showed no expression of disappointment at Harry’s fruitless vigil. The contact man gave instructions, in quiet, steady words.