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Updated: June 8, 2025
With a strange feeling of elation the detective led the way up the steps to the veranda and knocked. There was no answer. He glanced at the chief significantly, and tried the door. It was locked. "Try the back door," directed Chief Arkwright tersely. "If that's locked we'll go in anyway." They passed around the house to the rear, and Mr. Birnes laid one hand upon the door-knob.
Birnes to know. "It may be that I will have something further to report this evening," he told Mr. Latham. "If not, I'll see you to-morrow, here." He went out. Ten minutes later he was talking to a friend in police headquarters, over the telephone. The records there showed that the license for the particular cab he had followed had been issued to one William Johns.
Birnes chuckled; and there, alongside it, stood William Johns, swapping Billingsgate with the driver of a hansom, the while he kept one eye open for a prospective fare. It was too easy! Mr. Birnes paused long enough to congratulate himself upon his marvelous acumen, and then he approached the driver. "You are William Johns?" he accused him sharply. "That's me, Cap," the cabby answered readily.
Birnes reentered the room, his face aglow with triumph. Mr. Wynne glanced almost hopelessly at Mr. Czenki, then turned again to the detective. "I should say there were more than sixty thousand dollars' worth of them," Mr. Birnes blurted. "There were at least a million dollars' worth. Mr. Schultze intimated as much to me; now Mr. Latham confirms it."
In the course of a day a thousand women, more or less, answering that description in a general sort of way, ride back and forth on the elevated trains. Mr. Birnes sighed as he remembered this; still it might produce results. Then came another idea. "Did you happen to look in the cab after the young woman left it?" he inquired. "No." "Had any fares since?" "No." Mr.
"They were his, as far as we know," replied Mr. Latham. "How much were they worth?" Mr. Latham looked him over thoughtfully. "I am not at liberty to tell you that, Mr. Birnes," he said at last. "There are a great number of them, and they are worth they are worth a large sum of money. And they are all unset. That's enough for you to know, I think." It seemed to be quite enough for Mr.
It was an hour's ride to Coaldale, a sprawling, straggly village with only four or five houses in sight from the station. When the three men left the train there, Mr. Birnes walked over and spoke to the agent, a thin, cadaverous, tobacco-chewing specimen of his species. "We are looking for an old gentleman who lives out here somewhere," he explained.
"Yes, a scar that's it;" the prisoner acquiesced, "from his chin almost around to his ear." Mr. Birnes came to his feet, while the official police stared. The chief sat down again and crossed his fat legs. "Why, what do you know, Birnes?" he queried. "I know the man, Chief," the detective burst out confidently. "I'd gamble my head on it. I knew it! I knew it!" he told himself.
Birnes scuttled across the street, and by a dexterous jump swung on the car as it fled past. Mr. Wynne had gone forward and was taking a seat; Mr. Birnes remained on the back platform, sheltered by the accommodating bulk of a fat man, and flattered himself that Mr. Wynne had not seen him. By peering over a huge shoulder the detective was still able to watch Mr. Wynne.
Birnes, who was utterly absorbed in the recital. "Those carrier-pigeons were not exchanged by express, because the records would have furnished a clew to Mr. Birnes' men; I personally took them back and forth in a suitcase before I approached Mr. Latham with the original proposition." He was giving categorical answers to a few of the multitude of questions to which Mr.
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