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Read Ebook: Never-Fail Blake by Stringer Arthur
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Ebook has 998 lines and 54262 words, and 20 pages
He could see discretion drop like a curtain across her watching face.
"Connie Binhart!" she temporized. Blake, as his heavy side glance slewed about to her, prided himself on the fact that he could see through her pretenses. At any other time he would have thrown open the flood-gates of that ever-inundating anger of his and swept away all such obliquities.
"I guess," he went on with slow patience "we know him best round here as Charles Blanchard."
"Blanchard?" she echoed.
"Yes, Blanchard, the Blanchard we 've been looking for, for seven months now, the Blanchard who chloroformed Ezra Newcomb and carried off a hundred and eighteen thousand dollars."
"Newcomb?" again meditated the woman.
"The Blanchard who shot down the bank detective in Newcomb's room when the rest of the bank was listening to a German band playing in the side street, a band hired for the occasion."
"When was that?" demanded the woman.
"That was last October," he answered with a sing-song weariness suggestive of impatience at such supererogative explanations.
"I was at Monte Carlo all last autumn," was the woman's quick retort.
Blake moved his heavy body, as though to shoulder away any claim as to her complicity.
"I know that," he acknowledged. "And you went north to Paris on the twenty-ninth of November. And on the third of December you went to Cherbourg; and on the ninth you landed in New York. I know all that. That's not what I 'm after. I want to know where Connie Binhart is, now, to-day."
Their glances at last came together. No move was made; no word was spoken. But a contest took place.
"Jim, I can't tell you," she slowly asserted. "I can't do it!"
"But I 've got 'o know," he stubbornly maintained. "And I 'm going to."
She sat studying him for a minute or two. Her face had lost its earlier arrogance. It seemed troubled; almost touched with fear. She was not altogether ignorant, he reminded himself, of the resources which he could command.
"I can't tell you," she repeated. "I'd rather you let me go."
The Second Deputy's smile, scoffing and melancholy, showed how utterly he ignored her answer. He looked at his watch. Then he looked back at the woman. A nervous tug-of-war was taking place between her right and left hand, with a twisted-up pair of ecru gloves for the cable.
He laughed. His laugh was as mirthless as the cackle of a guinea hen. "But I 'm going to die hard, believe me! And if I go down, if they think they can throw me on that, I 'm going to take a few of my friends along with me."
"Is that a threat?" was the woman's quick inquiry. Her eyes narrowed again, for she had long since learned, and learned it to her sorrow, that every breath he drew was a breath of self-interest.
"No; it's just a plain statement." He slewed about in his swivel chair, throwing one thick leg over the other as he did so. "I hate to holler Auburn at a girl like you, Elsie; but I 'm going--"
"Auburn?" she repeated very quietly. Then she raised her eyes to his. "Can you say a thing like that to me, Jim?"
He shifted a little in his chair. But he met her gaze without a wince.
"This is business, Elsie, and you can't mix business and--and other things," he tailed off at last, dropping his eyes.
"I 'm sorry you put it that way," she said. "I hoped we 'd be better friends than that!"
"I'm not counting on friendship in this!" he retorted.
"But it might have been better, even in this!" she said. And the artful look of pity on her face angered him.
"Well, we 'll begin on something nearer home!" he cried.
He reached down into his pocket and produced a small tinted oblong of paper. He held it, face out, between his thumb and forefinger, so that she could read it.
"This Steinert check 'll do the trick. Take a closer look at the signature. Do you get it?"
"What about it?" she asked, without a tremor.
He restored the check to his wallet and the wallet to his pocket. She would find it impossible to outdo him in the matter of impassivity.
"That check was n't forged," contended the quiet-eyed woman.
"Steinert will swear it was," declared the Second Deputy.
She sat without speaking, apparently in deep study. Her intent face showed no fear, no bewilderment, no actual emotion of any kind.
"You 've got 'o face it," said Blake, sitting back and waiting for her to speak. His attitude was that of a physician at a bedside, awaiting the prescribed opiate to produce its prescribed effect.
"Will I be dragged into this case, in any way, if Binhart is rounded up?" the woman finally asked.
"Not once," he asserted.
"You promise me that?"
"Of course," answered the Second Deputy.
"And you 'll let me alone on--on the other things?" she calmly exacted.
"Yes," he promptly acknowledged. "I 'll see that you 're let alone."
Again she looked at him with her veiled and judicial eyes. Then she dropped her hands into her lap. The gesture seemed one of resignation.
"Binhart's in Montreal," she said.
Blake, keeping his face well under control, waited for her to go on.
"He 's been in Montreal for weeks now. You 'll find him at 381 King Edward Avenue, in Westmount. He 's there, posing as an expert accountant."
She saw the quick shadow of doubt, the eye-flash of indecision. So she reached quietly down and opened her pocket-book, rummaging through its contents for a moment or two. Then she handed Blake a folded envelope.
"You know his writing?" she asked.
"I 've seen enough of it," he retorted, as he examined the typewritten envelope post-marked "Montreal, Que." Then he drew out the inner sheet. On it, written by pen, he read the message: "Come to 381 King Edward when the coast is clear," and below this the initials "C. B."
Blake, with the writing still before his eyes, opened a desk drawer and took out a large reading-glass. Through the lens of this he again studied the inscription, word by word. Then he turned to the office 'phone on his desk.
"Nolan," he said into the receiver, "I want to know if there 's a King Edward Avenue in Montreal."
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