"Whiffo!" says I, gawpin' up the avenue after the cab. "And I pulled this down just by bein' halfway human! Oh, very well, very well! Here's where I strain something!"

Course, if I hadn't knocked around a newspaper office more or less, I wouldn't have known where to begin any more than--well, than the average private sec would. But them two years I spent outside the Sunday editor's door wa'n't all wasted. For instance, that's where I got to know Whitey Weeks. And now my first move is to pike down to old Newspaper Row and locate him. Inside of half an hour we'd done a lot too. We'd called up their headquarters' man on the 'phone and had him sketch off the case against one Allston, a butler.

"Yep, grand larceny," says Whitey, his ear to the receiver. "We know that. How much? Eh? Twenty thousand!"

"Ah, tell him to turn over: he's on his back!" says I. "Not twenty thousand cash?"

"That's what he says," insists Whitey, "all in hundreds. Lifted out of a secret wall safe."

"Ask him where this guy was b.u.t.tling,--in a bank," says I, "or at the Subtreasury?"

And Whitey reports that Allston was workin' for a Mrs. Murtha, West 76th Street; "Mrs. Connie Murtha, you know," he goes on, "the big poolroom backer, and one of the flossiest, foxiest widows in New York."

"Then that accounts for the husky wad," says I. "Twenty thousand! No piker, was he? Ask your man who's on the case?"

"Rusitelli & Donahue," says Whitey. "Mike's a friend of mine too; but he never talks much."

"Let's have a try, anyway," says I.

So we runs this partic'lar detective sergeant down, drags him away from a penuchle game, and Whitey begins by suggestin' that we hear how he's done some clever work on the Allston case.

"I got him right, that's all," says Mike. "And he'd faked up a nice little stall too."

"Anything on him when you rounded him up?" asks Whitey.

Donahue shakes his head disgusted. "Stowed it," says he.

"Some cute, eh?" says Whitey.

"Bah!" says Mike. "Who was it sprung that tale about his being a big English crook? The Yard never heard of him. I doped him out from the first, though. Plain nut! The Chief wouldn't believe it until I showed him."

"Showed him what?" says Whitey, innocent like.

"This," says the sleuth, haulin' out of his pocket a bulgy envelope. "I found that in his room. Take a look," and he lifts the flap at the end.

"What the deuce!" says Whitey.

"Sawdust," says Mike, "just plain, everyday sawdust. I had it a.n.a.lyzed,--no dope, no nothing. Now tell me, would anyone but a nut do a thing like that?"

We both agreed n.o.body but a nut would; also we remarks in chorus that Mr. Donahue is some cla.s.sy sleuth, which he don't object to at all. In fact, after I've explained how a relation of Allston's had asked me to look him up he fixes it so I can get a pa.s.s into the Tombs. Followin'

which I blows Whitey to one of Farroni's seventy-five-cent spaghetti banquets and then goes home to think a few chunks of thought.

As the case stood it looked bad for Daddums. A party like Mrs. Connie Murtha, with all the police drag she must have, wa'n't goin' to be separated from her reserve roll without makin' somebody squirm good and plenty. He might have known that, if it was him turned the trick. Or was he nutty, like Donahue had said? Before I went any further I had to settle that point, and while I ain't strong for payin' visits through the iron bars I was up early next mornin' and down presentin' my pa.s.s.

"You cub lawyers give me shootin' pains in the neck!" grumbles the turnkey that tows me in.

"How'd you guess I wa'n't the new District Attorney?" says I. "Here, have a perfecto for that pain." And that soothes him so much he loafs against the tier rail while I knocks on the door of Cell 69.

"I beg pardon?" says a deep, smooth voice, and up to the bars steps a tall, round-shouldered gent, with hair a little thin on top and a pair of reddish-gray butler sideboards in front of his ears. Not a bad face either, only the pointed chin is a little weak.

"I'm from Helma," says I.

That jolts him at the start. His hands go trembly, and twice he makes a stab at speakin' before he can get the words out. "Is--isn't she all right?" says he. "I left her in lodgings, you know. I--I trust she----"

"She quit," says I. "They was goin' to put her in a home. Picked me up on the street, you might say. But she's safe enough now."

"Safe?" says he, dartin' over a suspicious look. "Where?"

"Take my word for it," says I. "Maybe we can swap a little information later on. Now what about this grand larceny charge?"

"All rubbish!" says he. "Why, I hadn't been out of the house! They admit that. If I'd taken the money, wouldn't it have been found on me?"

"Then they pinched you on the premises?" says I. "I rather thought from what Helma said you'd been to see her that night?"

"Not since the night before," says he. "Helma was down in the kitchen with Cook when they came."

"Huh!" says I, rubbin' my chin as a help to deep thought. "The night before?"

I don't know why, either, but somehow that makes me think of sawdust, and from sawdust--say, I had it in a flash.

"Sorry, Allston," says I, "but on account of Helma I was kind of in hopes they was just makin' a goat of you. She's a cute youngster--Helma."

"She is all I have to live for, Sir," says he, bowin' his head.

"Then why take such chances as this?" says I. "Twenty thousand! Say, you know this ain't any jay burg. You can't expect to get away with a wad like that."

"I know nothing about the money," says he, stiffenin' up. "They'll have to find it to prove I took it."

"Big mistake No. 2," says I. "They got to convict somebody, and the arrow points to you. About fifteen years would be my guess. Now come, Allston, what good would you be after fifteen years' hard?"

He shivers, but shrugs his shoulders dogged. "Poor little Helma!" says he. "Where is she?"

"Excuse me, Mr. Allston," says I, "but that ain't the order of events.

It's like this: First off you tell me where the wad is; then I tell you about Helma."

Makes him groan a bit, that does, and he scowls at me stubborn. "They tried all that on at Headquarters," says he. "It's no use."

"You'd get off lighter if you told," says I.

"I've nothing to tell," he insists.

"How about swappin' what you know for two tickets to Australia?" I suggests.

"Hah!" says he. "Helma's been talkin'!"

"She's a chatty youngster," says I, "and she thinks a heap of her Daddums. I ain't sure, though, whether you come first--or Arabella."

If I hadn't been watchin' for it, I might not have noticed, but the quiver that begins in the fingers grippin' the bars runs clear up to the sagged shoulders. His mouth twitches nervous, and then he gets hold of himself.