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Updated: June 3, 2025
Sorry, Miss Sherwood, but we've got a search warrant for your place. We just want to have a look at the room Brainard used. No telling what kind of crooked stuff he's been up to. And to make the search warrant O.K. I had it issued in this county and brought along a county officer to serve it. Show it to the lady, Smith." "I have no desire to see it, Mr. Gavegan.
Gavegan was at a table with a minor producer of musical shows, to whom Barney had been of occasional service in securing the predominant essential of such music namely, shapely young women.
Gavegan told me they'd have him rounded up by noon to-morrow." Barney was more conscious of Maggie's interest than was Maggie herself, and again was desirous of destroying it or diverting it. "Generally I'm for the other fellow against the police. But this time I'm all for the coppers. I hope they land Larry he's got it coming to him. Remember that he's a stool and a squealer."
But Larry got a tip somehow, and made his get-away." "When did it happen?" "Must have happened a little time after we all left the Duchess's." "But but, Barney how did you learn it so soon?" "Just ran into Officer Gavegan over on Broadway and he told me," lied Barney.
"Well, what is it?" Gavegan whispered out of that corner of his mouth which was not occupied by his cigar. He did not look at Barney. "Any clue to Larry Brainard yet?" Barney whispered also out of a corner of his mouth, glass at his lips. Like-wise he seemed not to notice the man beside him. "Naw! Still out West somewhere.
Barney gave no sign of recognition, and Barlow, after a casual glance at him, returned to his food. Barney, in solitude at one end of the bar, slowly sipped with a sort of indignation against his kickless purchase. Presently Gavegan was beside him, having most convincing ill-luck in his attempts to light his cigar from a box of splintering safety matches which stood at that end of the bar.
"Know where he went to? where he hangs out? know anything else?" "That's everything. Thought I'd better slip it to you as quick as I could." "This time that bird'll not get away!" growled Gavegan, still in a whisper. "Twenty-four hours and he'll be in the cooler!" Finally Gavegan managed to get a flame from one of those irritatingly splintery Swedish matches made in Japan.
Miss Sherwood made no move to follow the officers into that more intimate apartment, and the other two watchers remained with her. A minute passed. Then Gavegan reentered, a puzzled, half-triumphant look on his red face, holding out a square of paint-covered canvas. "Found this thing in Brainard's chiffonier. What the he I mean what's it doing out here?"
I ask only that you take him out of the house at once." With that she moved from the room, not looking again at either Hunt or Larry. For a brief space there was silence, while Gavegan let his triumph feed gloatingly upon the sight of his prisoner. This brief silence was broken by a low, strange sound, like a human cry quickly repressed, that seemed to come from just outside the French windows.
There was grim, triumphant purpose on the hard features of Gavegan, conceited by nature and trained to harsh dominance by long rule as a petty autocrat. "Hello, Gavegan," Larry greeted him pleasantly. "Gee, but you look tickled! Did the Duchess give you a bigger loan than you expected on the Carnegie medal you just hocked?" "You'll soon be cuttin' out your line of comedy."
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