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Updated: May 28, 2025
Despite his night of ceaseless work, Henry Blaine, clear-eyed and alert of brain, was seated at his desk at the stroke of nine when Suraci was ushered in the young detective who had trailed Walter Pennold from Brooklyn to the quiet backwater where Jimmy Brunell had sought in vain for disassociation from his past shadowy environment.
He was small and thin and dark; clean shaven, with a face like an actor, narrow shoulders and a sort of caved-in chest. He walked with a slight limp, and was a little over-dressed for the exclusive, conservative, high-society crowd that flock to 'The Breakers." "That's our man, Suraci that's Paddington, to the life!" Blaine exclaimed.
"Well, Suraci, what did you learn from the hotel employees?" "One of the bell-boys told me that this man, Addison, arrived with only a bag, announcing that his luggage would be along later and that he anticipated remaining a week or more.
He sprang from the car and up the steps, and the Doctor found himself following, with Ross and Suraci on either side. The driver turned their car around and ran it upon the lawn, its searchlight trained on the circling drive, its engine throbbing like the throat of an impatient horse.
"That third man who came for me last night the one with the French accent and the cough and the rest who are in this kidnaping plot? Will you get them, too?" "Ross and Suraci are enough to guard Mac Alarney and Al on their way to the lock-up," the detective responded quietly. "The others will go on up to the sanitarium and clean the place out. They'll get French Louis, all right.
The lights are flaring in the windows of his rooms, and you can see his shadow he's pacing up and down like a caged animal!" "All right, Suraci. Go back and tell Ross to have one of his men telephone to me at once if Rockamore leaves his rooms before nine. That will be all for you to-night. I've got to do the rest of the work myself."
It's as good as any I could give you, and here are two photographs of him which I got from his mother yesterday afternoon. Take a good look at him, Suraci, fix his face in your mind, and then if you should manage, or happen, to locate him, you can't go wrong. I know your memory for faces." The "shadow" departed eagerly upon his quest, and Blaine settled down to an hour's deep reflection.
"Yes, sir. The bell-hops don't think he came back, either. They don't remember seeing him again." "Very well. You've done splendidly, Suraci. I couldn't have conducted the investigation better myself. Do you need any rest, now?" "Oh, no, sir! I'm quite ready for another job!"
Whatever their import, they quite evidently afforded him immense satisfaction, and as the early dusk settled down, his eyes began to glow with the light of battle, which those closest to him in his marvelous work had learned to recognize when victory was in sight. Suraci noted it when he entered to make his report, and the glint of enthusiasm in his own eyes brightened like burnished steel.
It might have been well had he looked once more over his shoulder, for there, crouching against the veranda rail where he had managed to overhear the last of the conversation, was that short, swarthy figure which had followed so indefatigably on his trail for three days which had clung to him, closely but unseen, through all his devious journey of that morning. Suraci had not failed.
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