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Updated: June 4, 2025
To-morrow he would make it his business to find out who and what that dignified old Mexican was! As he registered this mental resolution, the door opened and in walked the object of his cogitations; he was accompanied by Lew Ballard and another Mexican at sight of whom Coogan paled perceptibly. He knew them both now!
"I am Henry Wilton," I explained to the man in charge. "There was a body left here by Detective Coogan to my order, I believe." "Oh, yes," he said: "What do you want done with it?" I explained that I wished to arrange to have it deposited in a vault for a time, as I might carry it East. "That's easy done," he said; and he explained the details. "Would you like to see the body?" he concluded.
The Mexicans looked inquiringly at Ballard but he dismissed the matter with a careless, "Oh, just some drunken bunch of cowpunchers or railroad tarriers with more ammunition than sense; that kind of thing is getting altogether too prevalent; the authorities ought to put a stop to it! Say, that's a dandy bottle of fizz, Coogan! Do you drink of the wines of Champagne much in Arneca, Señores?"
"Great was the horror and distress in the Cragiemuir household the next morning when the shockingly discolored body of the ill-fated Coogan was found. Major Cragiemuir, who was attached to the man, was sorely grieved by his death; and as there were no relatives to claim the body had the poor fellow buried from the K Street house, which was closed until after the funeral.
It was very good of you to come, Mr. ?" she paused invitingly. "Coogan," supplied the Flopper. "Michael Coogan." "Let me offer you a chair, Mr. Coogan," said Thornton, a little ironically, pushing one toward the Flopper. "Or would you be more comfortable on the floor?" The Flopper's eyelids fell covering a quick, ugly glint. "T'anks!" he said and swung himself, by his arms, into the chair.
Again and again as the stricken giant reeled tottering about, came that snake-like glide and merciless thrust until finally, his veins drained of their vital flood, Coogan fell on his face in the crimsoned snow.
One day, in the middle of winter, and in quickly gathering shadows, Pete Coogan, their foreman, was walking the track back towards the village and had reached the big cut whose other end led to the bridge at Carcajou.
Besides, if this Coogan has got faith enough to crawl that mile, who knows what might happen make him crawl." Mr. Higgins, with a grim nod, headed a determined exodus from the hotel office and Madison strolled out onto the veranda. Needley was in a furor. The news spread like an oil-fed conflagration.
One was from Detective Coogan, and read: "Inquest this afternoon. Don't want you. Have another story. Do you want the body?" The other was in a woman's hand, and the faint perfume of the first note I had received rose from the sheet. It read: "I do not understand your silence. The money is ready. What is the matter?" The officer's note was easy enough to answer.
He had hung about the Unallied garage on evenings when he was too poor to go to vaudeville. He had become decidedly friendly with the night washer, a youngster from Minneapolis. Trotting up to the washer, who was digging caked snow from the shoes of a car, he blurted: "Say, Coogan, I've beat my job at 's. How's chances for getting a taxi to drive? You know I know the game." "You?
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