The dentist had been rather surprised that Jericho had pressed him for the job. There were other dentists with larger businesses who would have paid more. Yet Jericho was satisfied with this spot. There was a reason that his employer did not suspect.
From the doorway outside the steps that led to the dentist’s offices, Jericho commanded a perfect view of a Chinese laundry across the way. Hour after hour, the big African could spy the activities of two Celestials who kept bobbing back and forth between the front room of the laundry and the back.
Those two Chinese were Loon Goy and Hoy Wen. Formerly the tools of Tam Sook, they now served the master who had taken the merchant’s place. They were underlings of Diamond Bert Farwell, who had visited them in the guise of Tam Sook and who had left their place as an American.
Patiently, Jericho watched. This was the third day that he had kept tabs on the medley of customers that came in and out of the laundry. Loon Goy and Hoy Wen appeared to be doing an excellent business.
Most of the persons who visited their place either brought laundry or left with packages.
There were a few who had come and gone empty handed. Jericho had eyed such persons carefully; but all had passed his inspection. By this time, Jericho felt convinced that any persons who communicated with the Chinamen would certainly be bringing or taking laundry as a blind.
From his post, Jericho had fair opportunity for observation. Nevertheless, he could not see as closely as he wanted. Sometimes persons spent several minutes in the shop; but Jericho had not yet gained suspicions of any one individual.
FIVE o’clock passed. The big African lost his smile as he kept on handing cards to passers. Then, suddenly, Jericho’s grin returned. He saw a solemn-faced man enter the laundry. The fellow’s sober gait and severe garb marked him as a serving man of a well-to-do master.
This man had left a package of laundry two days before. He was obviously returning for it. But Jericho, sighting through the window, saw him pause and speak to one of the Chinamen. The solemn man held his hand cupped, as though displaying some object in his palm.
The Chinaman stopped as he was about to hand the fellow a package. Taking the bundle with him, he went to the back room; then returned and gave the package to the customer. That was enough for Jericho.
The African let a card fall to the sidewalk. In picking it up, he dropped others. He stepped forward to gather them. Finding them grimy, he stepped into the doorway, ostensibly to get replacements. But Jericho did not ascend the steps to the dentist’s office.
Instead, he thrust the gathered cards into an ample pocket of his uniform. He produced a new packet, these cards of various colors. Upon a blue card, he scrawled a few words of direction, with a short lead pencil.
As Jericho stepped back to the street, the customer was leaving the laundry. Jericho did not gaze in that direction. Instead, he spread a fan of advertising cards, flaunting them so that passers could reach for them.
Jericho’s dropping of the white cards had been a signal. A man had spied it from the corner, more than one hundred feet away. As Jericho reappeared, a figure came sauntering along the street. The arrival was Hawkeye.
Like other passers, the little spotter paused to grasp a card. But Hawkeye did not take one of the upper cards, those that were most readily available. Farther down in the fan, he spied the lone blue card. He plucked it from the group. Glancing at it curiously, Hawkeye kept on.
He had turned the card over in his hand. He was reading the penciled writing that he found on the under surface. Thrusting the card in his pocket, Hawkeye threw a shifty glance across the street. There he saw the solemn-faced man with the laundry bundle. Hawkeye took up the trail.
DOWN on the old-fashioned street where Marlin Norse’s wholesale establishment was located, an Italian fruit vendor was doing business along the curb. It was Pietro. He was finding business fairly good in this locality. Other venders had chosen the same street. There was nothing odd in Pietro’s appearance.
But the Italian had business of his own. With the same wary glance that he had used on pilfering street-boys in the East Side, Pietro was keeping an eye upon the jewelry store. He had seen a well-dressed customer enter. In natural fashion, Pietro pushed his fruitstand past the front of the store.
The man was not inside. Pietro paused to make arrangements among the piles of fruit. Turning, he glimpsed the well-dressed stranger coming from a door at the rear of the store. Evidently, the man had been in the office. As he pushed the cart along, Pietro saw a stoop-shouldered man following the other from the office door. He knew this fellow was Marlin Norse.
Past the building, Pietro gave the cart a jolt. A box of oranges toppled. Some of the fruit went rolling in the street. Pietro scrambled after the oranges and collected them. It was a signal, like the dropping of Jericho’s cards.
From a far corner, a taxi shot forward. Moe Shrevnitz was at the wheel. He came cruising up to the curb near the front of the jewelry store. The well-dressed customer arrived from Norse’s. Pietro purposely dropped an orange that he was replacing on his wheeled stand.
“Taxi?” growled Joe.
The man from the jewelry store gave a nod. He entered Moe’s cab. The taxi driver saw that his passenger was a man of about thirty-five, handsome and evidently prosperous. But the passenger did not spy Moe’s face. The collar of Moe’s coat was turned up.
Nor did the card behind the front seat enlighten the passenger as the cab pulled away. The photograph at which the fare stared was that of a fat-faced man. It bore the name of Tobias Coyle. Moe had planted that phony card.
“Castellan Apartments,” ordered the passenger.
Moe nodded without turning his head. The passenger added the exact location, which was not far from Times Square. Amid gathering dusk, the taxi speeded toward its destination.
THE Castellan Apartment Hotel was an imposing structure north of Times Square and just east of Seventh Avenue. While Moe Shrevnitz’s cab was on its way there, a man entered the lobby of the pretentious building. This fellow was the solemn-faced individual who had Hawkeye on his trail.
With the laundry package under one arm, the man stopped at the desk and inquired for the key to Room 1420. The clerk handed it to him. Hawkeye, who had followed into the lobby, heard the request as he stood at the news stand, looking over magazines.
The little spotter was well-dressed. Moreover, he had a way of rendering himself inconspicuous when he chose. He lounged about a few minutes after the man had entered an elevator. Then he started for the outer door.
At that moment, Moe Shrevnitz pulled up in front of the Castellan. Hawkeye, about to go through the revolving door, gained a glimpse of the alighting passenger. Acting on a hunch, the spotter strolled back to the news stand. He was buying a magazine when Joe’s passenger entered.
“Fourteen twenty,” said the man, as he approached the desk. “The key, please.”
“Just gave it to your man,” replied the clerk. “He went upstairs, Mr. Agland.”
“All right,” responded the arrival. “Thanks. I hadn’t expected Hubert back so soon. I sent him out on errands this afternoon.”
Hawkeye took a good look at Agland as the man swaggered to the elevator. Then the spotter moved from the lobby. He had a call to make; he decided to use an outside telephone. He wanted to report to Slade Farrow that Hubert, a suspicious visitor at the laundry, was in the employ of a man named Agland, who lived in Suite 1420 at the Castellan.