“MacNutt!” echoed Durkin, and as before, a great rage burned through him at the sound of the name.
Hope withered out of him, but he gave no sign. He wondered what, or just how much, MacNutt dare reveal, even though he did stand in with the Central Office.
It was dark a minute or two for him, as his mind still leaped and groped at the old blind wall. Then suddenly into the depths of his despair swayed and stretched a single slender thread of hope.
It was Custom House Charley’s saloon so artfully disguised as a soda-bar. There the second waiter was Eddie Crawford—the same Eddie Crawford who had worked with him on the Aqueduct pool-room plot, and had been discharged with him from the Postal-Union.
It seemed eons and eons ago, that poor little ill-fated plot with Eddie Crawford!
Eddie had struggled forlornly on as an inspector of saloon stock-tickers, had presided over a lunch counter, and had even polished rails and wiped glasses. But now he mixed drinks and dispensed bootlegger’s gin for Custom House Charley.
If Eddie was there—
“Look here, you two,” cried Durkin decisively, coming to a full stop to gain time. “I’ve struck it heavy and honest this time, and, as you people put it, I’ve got the goods on me. I can make it worth five thousand in spot cash to each of you, just to let this thing drop while you’ve still got the chance!”
The Central Office man looked at O’Reilly. Durkin saw the look, and understood it. One of them, at any rate, if it came to a pinch, could be bought off. But O’Reilly was different. “Look here, you two,” said Durkin, showing the fringe of his neatly banded packet of notes.
The Central Office man whistled under his breath. But O’Reilly seemed obdurate.