“Where’s the chief of police?” I demanded. “You have officers here, I hope.”
“Yes, sir. The marshal is the chief of police, and he’s the whole show. The provost guard from the post helps out when necessary. But you’ll find the marshal at the mayor’s office or else at the North Star gambling hall, three blocks up the street. I don’t think he’ll do you any good, though. He’s not likely to bother with small matters, especially when he’s 97 dealing faro bank. He has an interest in the North Star. You’ll never see your property again. Take my word for it.”
“I won’t? Why not?”
“You’ve played the gudgeon for somebody; that’s all. Easiest thing in the world for a smart gentleman to slip into your room while you were absent, go through it, and make his getaway by the end of the hall, out over the kitchen roof. It’s been done many a time.”
“A traveling salesman saw me dressing. He went out before me but he might have doubled,” I gasped. “He had one of the beds—who is he?”
“I don’t know him, sir.”
“A round-bellied, fat-faced man—sold groceries and playing cards.”
“There is no such guest in your room, sir. You have bed Number One, bed Number Two is assigned to Mr. Bill Brady, who doubtless will be in soon. Number Three is temporarily vacant.”
“The man said he was about to catch the train east,” I pursued desperately. “A round-bellied, fat-faced man in pink striped shirt——”
“If he was to catch any train, that train has just pulled out.”