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Updated: May 5, 2025
He looked up mechanically as the Tocsin walked to a broken mirror at the rear of the miserable room; nodded mechanically in approval as she began deftly to retouch the make-up on her face where the tears had left their traces and resumed his abstracted gaze before him. Box number four-two-eight John Johansson the Crime Club the identity of the man who was posing as Henry LaSalle!
"John Johansson box number four-two-eight! And like a fool I never thought of it! Don't you see? Don't you know now yourself? She stood up, clinging to him; a wild relief, that was based on her confidence in him, in her eyes and face, even while she shook her head. "No," she said frantically. "No I do not know. Tell me, Jimmie! Tell me quickly! You mean at Makoff's?" "No!
"WHERE!" Jimmie Dale, suddenly stock-still, almost shouted the word. "He telephoned from where! Say that again!" She looked at him in amazement, half rising from her chair. "Jimmie, what is it?" she cried. "You don't mean that " He was beside her now, his hands pressed upon her shoulders, his face flushed. "Box number four-two-eight!" He laughed out hysterically in his excitement.
If they were able to catch Travers as the chauffeur, they would have had something tangible to work back from" Jimmie Dale was talking more to himself than to the Tocsin now, as though he were muttering his thoughts aloud. "How did they get track of him? When? Where? What has it led to? And what in Heaven's name," he burst out suddenly, "is this box number four-two-eight!"
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