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Updated: May 24, 2025
"What big guy?" The cordiality faded from the bartender's ruddy countenance and he stepped back significantly. "You know Pad!" Morrow shot back on a desperate bluff. "The fellow's name's Charley Pennold, and Pad wants him right away. He didn't tell me to ask you about him, but he made it pretty plain to me that he'd got to get him." "Say!" The bartender approached cautiously.
He must contrive by hook or crook to obtain a glimpse of the mysterious newcomers, and learn the cause of their interest in the Brunells and their affairs. They were in all probability emissaries of Paddington's possibly one of them was Charley Pennold himself. At that same moment Henry Blaine sat in his office, receiving the report of Ross, one of his minor operatives.
Pennold, going to the bank ostensibly to assure those in authority there of his cordial willingness to assist in the search for the heir, incidentally assured himself of Alfred Hicks' seemingly legitimate occupation. A later visit to Mrs.
Be that as it may, Morrow, the dapper young bank-clerk, found in the Pennold household a grizzled, middle-aged man, with shifty, suspicious eyes and a moist hand-clasp; behind him appeared a shrewish, thin-haired wife who eyed the intruder from the first with ill-concealed animosity.
Guy, I'm going to take you off the Brunell trail for a while, and put you on this man Paddington. I'll have Suraci look up Charley Pennold and get a line on him. In the meantime, leave your key to the map-making shop with me. I may want to have a look at that forgery outfit myself." "You're going to take me off the Brunell trail!"
He tailed Pennold to his home, then went in person with his report to the great Blaine himself, who heard him through in silence, and then brought his mighty fist down upon his desk with a blow which made the massive bronze ink-well quiver. "That's our man! You've got him, Suraci. Good work! Now wait a little; I want you to take some instructions yourself over to Morrow."
But scarcely had he descended the steps of the ramshackle little porch when the voice of Mame Pennold reached him, pitched in a shrill key of emotional exultation. "Oh, Wally, Wally! Thank God you ain't a snitcher! Thank God you didn't tell!"
Walter Pennold took his pipe from his lips and stared at her. "What d'you s'pose brought him back? Think he's broke, an' wants a touch?" "No-o," his wife responded, somewhat doubtfully. "He looked prosperous, all right, by the flash I got at him, an' he's walkin' real brisk and businesslike. Maybe he's back on the job."
Evidently Pennold was a little bit rusty in the use of the old code. Our bait landed the fish all right, Guy. The money we planted in the bank of Brooklyn and Queens certainly brought results. No wonder poor old Jimmy Brunell was all broken up when he received such a message. More crafty than Pennold, he realized that it was a trap, and we were on his trail at last.
Blaine won't give you away, if you'll answer my questions frankly and make a clean breast of it, and this is your only chance." Pennold licked his dry lips. "What do you want to know?" he asked, at last. "When did Jimmy Brunell turn his last trick?" "Years ago; I've forgotten how many. It's no harm speakin' of it now, for he did his seven years up the river for it his first and only conviction.
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