In his office next morning, Inspector Burke was fuming over the failure of his conspiracy.He had hoped through this plot to vindicate his authority, so sadly flaunted by Garson and Mary Turner.Instead of this much-to-be-desired result from his scheming, the outcome had been nothing less than disastrous.The one certain fact was that his most valuable ally in his warfare against the criminals of the city had been done to death.Some one had murdered Griggs, the stool-pigeon.Where Burke had meant to serve a man of high influence, Edward Gilder, by railroading the bride of the magnate's son to prison, he had succeeded only in making the trouble of that merchant prince vastly worse in the ending of the affair by arresting the son for the capital crime of murder.The situation was, in very truth, intolerable.More than ever, Burke grew hot with intent to overcome the woman who had so persistently outraged his authority by her ingenious devices against the law.Anyhow, the murder of Griggs could not go unpunished.The slayer's identity must be determined, and thereafter the due penalty of the law inflicted, whoever the guilty person might prove to be.To the discovery of this identity, the Inspector was at the present moment devoting himself by adroit questioning of Dacey and Chicago Red, who had been arrested in one of their accustomed haunts by his men a short time before.
The policeman on duty at the door was the only other person in the room, and in consequence Burke permitted himself, quite unashamed, to employ those methods of persuasion which have risen to a high degree of admiration in police circles.
"Come across now!" he admonished.His voice rolled forth like that of a bull of Bashan.He was on his feet, facing the two thieves.His head was thrust forward menacingly, and his eyes were savage.The two men shrank before him--both in natural fear, and, too, in a furtive policy of their own.This was no occasion for them to assert a personal pride against the man who had them in his toils.
"I don't know nothin'!" Chicago Red's voice was between a snarl and a whine."Ain't I been telling you that for over an hour?"Burke vouchsafed no answer in speech, but with a nimbleness surprising in one of his bulk, gave Dacey, who chanced to be the nearer of the two, a shove that sent the fellow staggering half-way across the room under its impetus.
With this by way of appreciable introduction to his seriousness of purpose, Burke put a question:
"Dacey, how long have you been out?"
The answer came in a sibilant whisper of dread.
"A week."
Burke pushed the implication brutally.
"Want to go back for another stretch?" The Inspector's voice was freighted with suggestions of disasters to come, which were well understood by the cringing wretch before him.
The thief shuddered, and his face, already pallid from the prison lack of sunlight like some noxious growth of a cellar, became livid.His words came in a muffled moan of fear.
"God, no!"
Burke left a little interval of silence then in which the thieves might tremble over the prospect suggested by his words, but always he maintained his steady, relentless glare on the cowed creatures.It was a familiar warfare with him.Yet, in this instance, he was destined to failure, for the men were of a type different from that of English Eddie, who was lying dead as the meet reward for treachery to his fellows....When, at last, his question issued from the close-shut lips, it came like the crack of a gun.
"Who shot Griggs?"
The reply was a chorus from the two:
"I don't know--honest, I don't!"
In his eagerness, Chicago Red moved toward his questioner--unwisely.
"Honest to Gawd, I don't know nothin' about it!"The Inspector's fist shot out toward Chicago Red's jaw.The impact was enough.The thief went to his knees under the blow.
"Now, get up--and talk!" Burke's voice came with unrepentant noisiness against the stricken man.
Cringingly, Chicago Red, who so gloried in his strength, yet was now altogether humble in this precarious case, obeyed as far as the getting to his feet was concerned....It never occurred to him even that he should carry his obedience to the point of "squealing on a pal!" Had the circumstances been different, he might have refused to accept the Inspector's blow with such meekness, since above all things he loved a bit of bodily strife with some one near his own strength, and the Inspector was of a sort to offer him a battle worth while.
So, now, while he got slowly to his feet, he took care to keep at a respectful distance from the official, though his big hands fairly ached to double into fists for blows with this man who had so maltreated him.
His own self-respect, of its peculiar sort, was saved by the interference of Cassidy, who entered the Inspector's office to announce the arrival of the District Attorney.
"Send 'im in," Burke directed at once.He made a gesture toward the doorman, and added: "Take 'em back!"A grin of evil humor writhed the lips of the police official, and he added to the attentive doorman a word of direction that might well be interpreted by the malevolent expression on his face.
"Don't be rough with 'em, Dan," he said.For once, his dominating voice was reduced to something approaching softness, in his sardonic appreciation of his own humor in the conception of what these two men, who had ventured to resist his importunities, might receive at the hands of his faithful satellites....The doorman grinned appreciatively, and herded his victims from the place.And the two went shamblingly in sure knowledge of the things that were in store.Yet, without thought of treachery.They would not "squeal"! All they would tell of the death of Eddie Griggs would be: "He got what was coming to him!"The Inspector dropped into his swivel chair at the desk whilst he awaited the arrival of Demarest, the District Attorney.The greetings between the two were cordial when at last the public prosecutor made his appearance.
