V
When Never-Fail Blake alighted from his sleeper in Montreal he found oneof Teal's men awaiting him at Bonaventure Station. There had been a hitchor a leak somewhere, this man reported. Binhart, in some way, had slippedthrough their fingers.
All they knew was that the man they were tailing had bought a ticket forWinnipeg, that he was not in Montreal, and that, beyond the railwayticket, they had no trace of him.
Blake, at this news, had a moment when he saw red. He felt, during thatmoment, like a drum-major who had "muffed" his baton on parade. Thenrecovering himself, he promptly confirmed the Teal operative's report bytelephone, accepted its confirmation as authentic, consulted a timetable,and made a dash for Windsor Station. There he caught the Winnipegexpress, took possession of a stateroom and indited carefully wordedtelegrams to Trimble in Vancouver, that all out-going Pacific steamersshould be watched, and to Menzler in Chicago, that the American citymight be covered in case of Binhart's doubling southward on him. Stillanother telegram he sent to New York, requesting the Police Department tosend on to him at once a photograph of Binhart.
In Winnipeg, two days later, Blake found himself on a blind trail. Whenhe had talked with a railway detective on whom he could rely, when he hadvisited certain offices and interviewed certain officials, when he hadsought out two or three women acquaintances in the city's sequesteredarea, he faced the bewildering discovery that he was still without anactual clue of the man he was supposed to be shadowing.
It was then that something deep within his nature, something he couldnever quite define, whispered its first faint doubt to him. This doubtpersisted even when late that night a Teal Agency operative wired himfrom Calgary, stating that a man answering Binhart's description had justleft the Alberta Hotel for Banff. To this latter point Blake promptlywired a fuller description of his man, had an officer posted to inspectevery alighting passenger, and early the next morning received atelegram, asking for still more particulars.
He peered down at this message, vaguely depressed in spirit, discardingtheory after theory, tossing aside contingency after contingency. And upfrom this gloomy shower slowly emerged one of his "hunches," one of hisvague impressions, coming blindly to the surface very much like anearthworm crawling forth after a fall of rain. There was something wrong.Of that he felt certain. He could not place it or define it. To continuewestward would be to depend too much on an uncertainty; it would involvethe risk of wandering too far from the center of things. He suddenlydecided to double on his tracks and swing down to Chicago. Just why hefelt as he did he could not fathom. But the feeling was there. It was aninstinctive propulsion, a "hunch." These hunches were to him, working inthe dark as he was compelled to, very much what whiskers are to a cat.They could not be called an infallible guide. But they at least kept himfrom colliding with impregnabilities.
Acting on this hunch, as he called it, he caught a Great Northern trainfor Minneapolis, transferred to a Chicago, Milwaukee & St. Paul express,and without loss of time sped southward. When, thirty hours later, healighted in the heart of Chicago, he found himself in an environment moreto his liking, more adaptable to his ends. He was not disheartened by hisfailure. He did not believe in luck, in miracles, or even in coincidence.But experience had taught him the bewildering extent of the resourceswhich he might command. So intricate and so wide-reaching were the secretwires of his information that he knew he could wait, like a spider at thecenter of its web, until the betraying vibration awakened somefar-reaching thread of that web. In every corner of the country lurked anon-professional ally, a secluded tipster, ready to report to Blake whenthe call for a report came. The world, that great detective had found,was indeed a small one. From its scattered four corners, into which hissubterranean wires of espionage stretched, would in time come someinkling, some hint, some discovery. And at the converging center of thosewires Blake was able to sit and wait, like the central operator at atelephone switchboard, knowing that the tentacles of attention werecreeping and wavering about dim territories and that in time they wouldrender up their awaited word.
In the meantime, Blake himself was by no means idle. It would not be fromofficial circles, he knew, that his redemption would come. Time hadalready proved that. For months past every police chief in the countryhad held his description of Binhart. That was a fact which Binharthimself very well knew; and knowing that, he would continue to move as hehad been moving, with the utmost secrecy, or at least protected by someadequate disguise.
It would be from the underworld that the echo would come. And next to NewYork, Blake knew, Chicago would make as good a central exchange for thisunderworld as could be desired. Knowing that city of the Middle West, andknowing it well, he at once "went down the line," making his roundsstolidly and systematically, first visiting a West Side faro-room andcasually interviewing the "stools" of Custom House Place and South ClarkStreet, and then dropping in at the Cafe Acropolis, in Halsted Street,and lodging houses in even less savory quarters. He duly canvassed everylikely dive, every "melina," every gambling house and yegg hang out. Heengaged in leisurely games of pool with stone-getters and gopher men. Hevisited bucket-shops and barrooms, and dingy little Ghetto cafes. He"buzzed" tipsters and floaters and mouthpieces. He fraternized with tilltappers and single-drillers. He always made his inquiries after Binhartseem accidental, a case apparently subsidiary to two or three otherswhich he kept always to the foreground.
He did not despair over the discovery that no one seemed to know ofBinhart or his movements. He merely waited his time, and extended newramifications into newer territory. His word still carried its weight ofofficial authority. There was still an army of obsequious underlingscompelled to respect his wishes. It was merely a matter of time andmathematics. Then the law of averages would ordain its end; the neededcard would ultimately be turned up, the right dial-twist would at lastcomplete the right combination.
The first faint glimmer of life, in all those seemingly dead wires, camefrom a gambler named Mattie Sherwin, who reported that he had metBinhart, two weeks before, in the cafe of the Brown Palace in Denver. Hewas traveling under the name of Bannerman, wore his hair in a pomadour,and had grown a beard.
Blake took the first train out of Chicago for Denver. In this latter cityan Elks' Convention was supplying blue-bird weather for underground"haymakers," busy with bunco-steering, "rushing" street-cars and "liftingleathers." Before the stampede at the news of his approach, he picked upBiff Edwards and Lefty Stivers, put on the screws, and learned nothing.He went next to Glory McShane, a Market Street acquaintance indebted forcertain old favors, and from her, too, learned nothing of moment. Hecontinued the quest in other quarters, and the results were equallydiscouraging.
Then began the real detective work about which, Blake knew, newspaperstories were seldom written. This work involved a laborious andmonotonous examination of hotel registers, a canvassing of ticketagencies and cab stands and transfer companies. It was anything butstory-book sleuthing. It was a dispiriting tread-mill round, but he wasstill sifting doggedly through the tailings of possibilities when acode-wire came from St. Louis, saying Binhart had been seen the daybefore at the Planters' Hotel.
Blake was eastbound on his way to St. Louis one hour after the receipt ofthis wire. And an hour after his arrival in St. Louis he was engaged inan apparently care free and leisurely game of pool with one Loony Ryan,an old-time "box man" who was allowed to roam with a clipped wing in theform of a suspended indictment. Loony, for the liberty thus doled out tohim, rewarded his benefactors by an occasional indulgence in the"pigeon-act."
"Draw for lead?" asked Blake, lighting a cigar.
"Sure," said Loony.
Blake pushed his ball to the top cushion, won the draw, and broke.
"Seen anything of Wolf Yonkholm?" he casually inquired, as he turned tochalk his cue. But his eye, with one quick sweep, had made sure of everyface in the room.
Loony studied the balls for a second or two. Wolf was a "dip
" with aninternational record.
"Last time I saw Wolf he was out at 'Frisco, workin' the Beaches," wasLoony's reply.
Blake ventured an inquiry or two about other worthies of the underworld.The players went on with their game, placid, self-immured,matter-of-fact.
"Where's Angel McGlory these days?" asked Blake, as he reached over toplace a ball.
"What's she been doin'?" demanded Loony, with his cue on the rail.
"She's traveling with a bank sneak named Blanchard or Binhart," explainedBlake. "And I want her."
Loony Ryan made his stroke.
"Hep Roony saw Binhart this mornin', beatin' it for N' Orleans. But hewasn't travelin' wit' any moll that Hep spoke of."
Blake made his shot, chalked his cue again, and glanced down at hiswatch. His eyes were on the green baize, but his thoughts were elsewhere.
"I got 'o leave you, Wolf," he announced as he put his cue back in therack. He spoke slowly and calmly. But Wolf's quick gaze circled the room,promptly checking over every face between the four walls.
"What's up?" he demanded. "Who'd you spot?"
"Nothing, Wolf, nothing! But this game o' yours blamed near made meforget an appointment o' mine!"
Twenty minutes after he had left the bewildered Wolf Ryan in the poolparlor he was in a New Orleans sleeper, southward bound. He knew that hewas getting within striking distance of Binhart, at last. The zest of thechase took possession of him. The trail was no longer a "cold" one. Heknew which way Binhart was headed. And he knew he was not more than a daybehind his man.
The Shadow Page 5