“Yes—but they’re harmless. I don’t think they had anything to do with the murder of Stockbridge. The other fellow might.”
“Who’s that, Chief?”
“Finklestein—the banker. The one who went before the Grand Jury and claimed exemption. He’s somewhere on the outside. I think Flynn is covering him. I sent him over to Jersey, where Finklestein has a place near Morristown. We’ll hear of him later.”
Delaney shifted his big feet and started counting on his fingers. He widened his eyes. “There’s one more,” he said, as Drew leaned back.
“Yes, there’s one more. I kept him for the last. He’s out of sight, reach and hearing. You know who I mean?”
“That guy who invented wireless boat, or flying boat, or them movie-picture things in seventeen colors. I know who you mean. He beat it, slick as any porch-climber. What’s his name, Chief?”
“Morphy’s brother, Cuthbert Morphy! He’s an electrical-engineer and the inventor of all their shady promotions. He’s the real brains of the mob. You never saw him?”
“No—did you?”
“Can’t say that I have!” declared Drew with a snap. “I call him one of my failures. I’ve made enough. Remember how Flood and Cassady searched for him after the others were arrested? He’s cost us thousands of dollars—without result. I charged it to Stockbridge.”
“Which way did he go, Chief?”