Part 3 (1/2)
”Cop stuff,” said he, to himself. ”What do you think of that?”
When he returned once more to the room in which he had left the others, Scanlon found Dennison b.u.t.toning up his top-coat.
”I'll be in to-morrow,” said the man; ”and my togs will be sent around to-day.”
When he had departed, Scanlon looked at Ashton-Kirk.
”I guess you'll have to take your work-out with the big Greek,” said he.
”Stanwick's my next stop; and I'm going to get the first train.”
”Stanwick?” Ashton-Kirk's keen eyes regarded him inquiringly.
”Funny thing, ain't it? Here I didn't know a thing about this murder, and then I get it piled in on me from two places. That was Tom Burton's wife just in to see me--Nora Cavanaugh.”
”Oh, yes, to be sure. She is--or was--his wife, wasn't she?”
”She had a fine lot of excitement with her. Dennison ain't the only one who saw Burton last night. He called on Nora after the show, and wanted money, as, it seems, he always did. But she refused him and he went away sore.”
”He was an utter scamp,” said Ashton-Kirk. ”It's rather remarkable, though, how he managed to keep just outside the reach of the law.”
”Nora's been pestered by the cops, and she wants me to have them called off,” said Bat. ”And she's asked me to go out to Stanwick and see what they are doing there.”
”The police?”
”Yes. I don't know just what it's all about; but Nora knows, and that's enough for me.”
Ashton-Kirk smiled as the big man went to a closet and took out a long coat and a soft hat.
”Miss Cavanaugh is fortunate in the control of such an obedient geni,”
said he, quietly. ”But good luck on your trip; and while you are gone, I'll grapple with the Greek, as you suggest.”
CHAPTER III
THE CLOUD GROWS DARKER
Stanwick was a ”made” suburb; ten years before its site had been occupied by farms; but a keen-eyed realty man had seen promise in it and bought it up, shrewdly. The streets were wide, the walks were narrow and lined with trees that would one day spread n.o.bly. The houses were built in rows, each independent of the other, mounted upon little terraces, fronted by guards of iron railing and prim little flower gardens. Bat Scanlon, as he regarded it, nodded knowingly.
”It's the kind of a place where the seven-twenty is the chief topic in the morning, and the five-fifteen in the afternoon,” he told himself.
”The habits of the rubber plant are common property; and every man in every street thinks his roses have it all over the man's next door.”
Duncan Street proved much like the others; and No. 620 had all the characteristics to be expected of it. When Scanlon stopped before it he found a little group of idlers standing on the walk, each member of which stared at him with a curiosity that was active and acute.
”h.e.l.lo, Kelly!” saluted Bat, as he recognized a portly policeman at the little iron gate.
”How are you, Bat?” responded the policeman, in a surprised tone. ”What are you doing away out here?”
”Just thought I'd run out and take a look around,” said Scanlon. He had seen to the training of the athletic team of the police department for several years, and was well known to most of the officials and many of the patrolmen. And it just happened that the man on guard at the gate, due to Bat's instructions, had been the winner of the heavyweight wrestling honors in the last inter-city tournament. ”Anything new?”