Part 12 (1/2)
Most of the newspaper men knew Craig intimately, and liked him, possibly because he was one of the few people to-day who realized the very important part these young men played in modern life. They crowded about, eager to interview him. But Craig was clever. In the rapid fire of conversation it was really he who interviewed them.
”Lockwood has been here a long time,” volunteered one of the men. ”He seems to have const.i.tuted himself the guardian of Inez. No one gets a look at her while he's around.”
”Well, you can hardly blame him for that,” smiled Craig. ”Jealousy isn't a crime in that case.”
”Say,” put in another, ”there'd be an interesting quarter of an hour if he were here now. That other fellow--de Mooch--whatever his name is, is here.”
”De Moche--with her, now?” queried Kennedy, wheeling suddenly.
The reporter smiled. ”He's a queer duck. I was coming up to relieve our other man, when I saw him down on the street, hanging about the corner, his eyes riveted on the entrance to the apartment. I suppose that was his way of making love. He's daffy over her, all right. I stopped to watch him. Of course, he didn't know me. Just then Lockwood left. The Spaniard dived into the drug store on the corner as though the devil was after him. You should have seen his eyes. If looks were bullets, I wouldn't give much for Lockwood's life. With two such fellows about, you wouldn't catch me making goo-goo eyes at that chicken--not on your life.”
Kennedy pa.s.sed over the flippant manner in view of the importance of the observation.
”What do you think of Lockwood?” he asked.
”Pretty slick,” replied another of the men. ”He's the goods, all right.”
”Why, what has he done?” asked Kennedy.
”Nothing in particular. But he came out to see us once. You can't blame him for being a bit sore at us fellows hanging about. But he didn't show it. Instead he almost begged us to be careful of how we asked questions of the girl. Of course, all of us could see how completely broken up she is. We haven't bothered her. In fact, we'd do anything we could for her. But Lockwood talks straight from the shoulder. You can see he's used to handling all kinds of situations.”
”But did he say anything, has he done anything?” persisted Kennedy.
”N-no,” admitted the reporter. ”I can't say he has.”
Craig frowned a bit. ”I thought not,” he remarked. ”These people aren't giving away any hints, if they can help it.”
”It's my idea,” ventured another of the men, ”that when this case breaks, it will break all of a sudden. I shouldn't wonder if we are in for one of the sensations of the year, when it comes.”
Kennedy looked at him inquiringly. ”Why?” he asked simply.
”No particular reason,” confessed the man. ”Only the regular detectives act so chesty. They haven't got a thing, and they know it, only they won't admit it to us. O'Connor was here.”
”What did he say?”
”Nothing. He went through all the motions--'Now, pens lifted, boys,'
and all that--talked a lot--and after it was all over he might have been sure no one would publish a line of his confidences. There wasn't a stick of copy in the whole thing.”
Kennedy laughed. ”O'Connor's all right,” he replied. ”We may need him sorely before we get through. After all, nothing can take the place of the organization the police have built up. You say de Moche is in there yet?”
”Yes. He seemed very anxious to see her. We never get a word out of him. I've been thinking what would happen if we tried to get him mad.
Maybe he'd talk.”
”More likely he'd pull a gun,” cautioned another. ”Excuse ME.”
Kennedy said nothing, evidently content to let the newspaper men go their own sweet way.
He nodded to them, and pressed the buzzer at the Mendoza door.
”Tell Senorita Mendoza that it is Professor Kennedy,” he said to Juanita, who opened the door, keeping it on the chain, to be sure it was no unwelcome intruder.