Part 8 (2/2)
”Tie a knot in that.”
”Say the man was gray-haired, clean-shaven, straight, with a scar high up on his forehead, generally covered up by his hair.”
”That's battened down, my lad. Go on.”
”Say that you saw him enter yonder warehouse, and later depart without his packet.”
”Easy as dropping my mudhook.”
”That's all.” Norton gave the captain the money. ”Good-by and many thanks.”
”Don't mention it.”
Norton left the slip and proceeded to the office of the warehouse. He approached the manager's desk.
”h.e.l.lo, Grannis, old top!”
The man looked up from his work surlily. Then his face brightened.
”Norton? What's brought you here? Oh, yes; that balloon business.
Sit down.”
”What kind of a man is the captain of that old hooker in the slip?”
”s.h.i.+fty in gun running, but otherwise as square as a die. Looks funny to see an old tub like that fixed up with wireless; but that has saved his neck a dozen times when he was running it into a noose. Not going to interview me, are you?”
”No. I'm going to ask you to do me a little favor.”
”They always say that. But spin her out. If it doesn't cost me my job, it's yours.”
”Well, there will be a person making inquiries about the mysterious aeronaut. All I want you to say is, that he left a packet with you, that you've put it in that safe till he calls to claim it.”
Grannis nibbled the end of his pen. ”Suppose some one should come and demand that I open the safe and deliver?”
”All you've got to do is to tell them to show the receipt signed by you.”
The warehouse manager laughed. ”Got a lot of sense in that ivory dome of yours. All right. But if anything happens you've got to come around and back me up. What's it about?”
”That I dare not tell you. This much, I'm laying a trap and I want some one I don't know to fall into it.”
”On your way, James. But if you don't send me some prize fight tickets next week for this, I'll never do you another favor.”
In reply Norton took from his pocket two bits of pasteboard and laid them on the desk. ”I knew you'd be wanting something like this.”
”Ringside!” cried Grannis. ”You reporters are lucky devils!”
”I'd go myself if there was any earthly chance of a real sc.r.a.p. You make me laugh, Gran. You're always going, always hoping the next one will be a real one. But it's all bunk. The pugs are the biggest fakers on top of the sod. They've got us newspaper men done to a frazzle.”
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