Half an hour later he stood in the presence of the Chief.
“You sent for me,” he said.
The Chief looked at him inquiringly. “What is your name?” he asked.
“Marowitz.”
The Chief’s face lit up. “Oh, yes,” he said. “From the Eldridge Street station. Do you speak the Yiddish jargon?”
Marowitz drew a long breath of relief.
“Yes, sir,” he answered. “I live in the Jewish quarter.”
“Good,” said the Chief. “I want you to lay aside your uniform and put on citizen’s clothes. Then go and look for a chap named Gratzberg. He is a Russian, and is wanted in Odessa for murder. He is supposed to be hiding somewhere in the Jewish quarter here. You’ll have no trouble in spotting him if you run across him. Here,”—the Chief drew a slip of paper from his desk—“here is the cabled description: Height, five feet seven; weight, about 150 pounds. Has a black beard. Blue eyes. Right ear marked on top by deep scar.”
He handed the paper to Marowitz.
“Keep your eyes open,” he said, “for marked ears. It’ll be a big thing for you if you catch him. When I was your age I would have given the world for a chance like this.”