Kennedy looked hastily from the instrument to the man.
“I think I’ll take it along with us,” he said quietly.
Winters, true to his instincts, had been searching Muller in the meantime. Besides the various assortment that a man carries in his pockets usually, including pens, pencils, notebooks, a watch, a handkerchief, a bunch of keys, one of which was large enough to open a castle, there was a bunch of blank and unissued pawn-tickets bearing the name, “Stein’s One Per Cent. a Month Loans,” and an address on the Bowery.
Was Muller the “fence” we were seeking, or only a tool for the “fence” higher up? Who was this Stein?
What it all meant I could only guess. It was a far cry from the wealth of Diamond Lane to a dingy Bowery pawnshop, even though pawnbroking at one per cent. a month—and more, on the side—pays. I knew, too, that diamonds are hoarded on the East Side as nowhere else in the world, outside of India. It was no uncommon thing, I had heard, for a pawnbroker whose shop seemed dirty and greasy to the casual visitor to have stored away in his vault gems running into the hundreds of thousands of dollars.
“Mrs. Moulton must know of this,” remarked Kennedy. “Winters, you and Jameson bring Muller along. I am going up to the Deluxe.”
I must say that I was surprised at finding Mrs. Moulton there. Outside the suite Winters and I waited with the unresisting Muller, while Kennedy entered. But through the door which he left ajar I could hear what passed.
“Mrs. Moulton,” he began, “something terrible has happened—”
He broke off, and I gathered that her pale face and agitated manner told him that she knew already.
“Where is Mr. Moulton?” he went on, changing his question.