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Updated: May 24, 2025
He added confidentially: "The ponies are still running, you know, even if the betting-ring is closed and there are other ways " He paused significantly. "I see, a sport, eh?" Pennold darted a quick glance at his wife. "Well, don't let it get the best of you, young feller. Remember what I told you about Jimmy Brunell at least, what the report of him was.
The middle-aged man with the shifty eyes spat cautiously, and then, rubbing his stubby chin with a hairy, freckled hand, observed: "Well, young man, I'm Pennold, all right. I do some business with the Brooklyn & Queens people small business, of course, for we poor honest folk haven't the money to put in finance that the big stock-holders have.
But s'pose the bulls are after him for somethin', and the bank's hood-winked as well as us, where are we if we mix up in this? Tell me that!" "There's another side of it, too, Mame." Pennold walked to the window, and regarded the sordid lines of washed clothes contemplatively.
I understand he has been dead for years at least nothing has been heard of his activities since I have been in the sleuth game." "Did you ever hear of any of his associates?" "I can't say that I have, sir, except Crimmins and Dolan; Crimmins died in San Quentin before his time was up; Dolan after his release went to Japan." "I want to find Brunell. His closest associate was Walter Pennold.
You can look at it for yourselves; you've both seen them before." He opened the paper and spread it out for them to read. "Walter Pennold, alias William Perry, alias Wally the Scribbler, number 09203 in the Rogues' Gallery. First term at Joliet, for forgery; second at Sing Sing for shoving the queer.
With a last furtive backward glance, Pennold mounted the steps and rang the bell nervously. The door was opened from within so suddenly that it seemed as if the man who faced his visitor on the threshold must have been awaiting the summons.
He didn't recognize me, and thought I was one of his enemies one of Paddington's men, like young Charley Pennold. "You remember, I told you I found the kitten in the deserted house and brought it home for Mrs. Quinlan to take care of?
"They've got me, Mame!" "Got you? They'll never get you!" her startled scream rang out. "Wally, d'you know what the next term means? It's a lifer, on any count! I don't know what he means about any silver plate, but it's a bluff! Don't let him get your nerve!" "Is it a bluff, Pennold?" asked Morrow, with dominant insistence. The broken figure huddled in the chair shuddered uncontrollably.
With the last instructions of his chief ringing in his ears, the following morning Guy Morrow set out for Brooklyn, to interview his erstwhile friends, the Pennolds, in his true colors. Mame Pennold, who was cleaning the dingy front room, heard the click of the gate, and peered with habitual caution from behind the frayed curtains of the window.
The voice ceased suddenly, as if a hand had been laid across her lips, and after a moment's hesitation, Morrow swung off down the path, conscious of at least one pair of eyes watching him from behind the soiled curtains of the front room. What had the woman meant? Pennold obviously had kept something back, but was it of sufficient importance to warrant his returning and forcing a confession?
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