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Updated: June 8, 2025
He leaned forward in his chair and stared coldly at Haney. "Perhaps," he suggested slowly, "perhaps he had a scar on his face?" Haney returned the gaze dully for an instant, then suddenly he nodded his head. "Yes, a scar," he said. "From here?" Mr. Birnes placed one finger on the point of his chin and drew it across his right jaw.
Latham! . . . . This is Detective Birnes. . . . I've been able to locate some diamonds, but it's necessary to know something of the quantity of those you mentioned. You remember Mr. Schultze said something about . . . . Yes. . . . Yes. . . . Oh, there were? . . Unexpected developments, yes. . . . I'll call and see you to-night about eight. . . . Yes. . . . Good-by!" Mr.
This was child-talk; he permitted himself to express his opinion by a jerk of his head, and was silent. Diamonds like those out of meteors! Bosh! There was a rap on the door, and a clerk thrust his head in. "Mr. Birnes to see you, sir," he announced. "Show him in," directed Mr. Latham. "Sit down, both of you, and let's see what he has to say."
"He lives by hisself part of the time; then again sometimes his grand-darter lives with him." Granddaughter! Mr. Birnes almost jumped. "A granddaughter, yes," he said with a forced calm. "Rather a pretty girl, twenty-two or three years old? Sometimes she dresses in blue?" "Yes," the agent agreed. "'Spect them's them.
"Suppose, for the moment, that Red Haney lied, and that Mr. Czenki is not the murderer, then As a matter of fact your salary isn't twenty-five thousand a year, is it?" He was on his feet now, with blazing eyes, and one hand was thrust accusingly into Mr. Wynne's face. It was simulation; Mr. Birnes understood it; a police method of exhausting possibilities.
Whether he listened or not he turned and gazed straight at Mr. Birnes until, finally, the detective recognized the necessity of getting out of sight. With a final explosion he handed a bill to Jimmy and turned to go up the steps of the house. He had no business there, but he must do something.
"Therefore he's close to where he is going." But Mr. Wynne seemed in no hurry; instead he stood still for a minute gazing after the retreating vehicle, which fact made it necessary for Mr. Birnes to start a dispute with Jimmy as to just how much the fare should be. They played the scene admirably; had Mr. Wynne been listening he might even have heard part of the vigorous argument.
"Keep that chap in sight and when he stops you stop." Mr. Wynne's cab jogged along comfortably up the avenue, twisting and winding a path between the other vehicles, the while Mr. Birnes regarded it with thoughtful gaze. Its number dangled on a white board in the rear; Mr. Birnes just happened to note it. "Grand Central Station, I'll bet a hat," he mused.
"Far be it from me to deceive you, Cap," responded the cabby with irritating levity. "I done that same." "Who was that man?" demanded Mr. Birnes coldly. "Search me! I never seen him before." The detective regarded the cabby with accusing eyes. Then, quite casually, he flipped open his coat and Johns caught a glimpse of a silver shield. It might only have been accident, of course, still
Wynne had still not looked back, so the detective trailed along behind, opening the envelope as he walked. A note inside ran briefly: My address is No. East Thirty-seventh Street. If it is necessary for you to see me please call there about six o'clock this afternoon. Now here was, perhaps, as savory a kettle of fish as Mr. Birnes had ever stumbled upon.
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