The dispatch was very interesting indeed. I was about to go down and show the telegram to Hiram, the contents of which would astonish him more than it did me, at least cheer him up a bit, but when I reached the street something happened to intensify my interest in Becker & Co. I ran into a man I very much wanted to talk with.
"Taylor, you are just the man I want to see," said he. "Come to lunch with me." It was the chief's assistant who grabbed me by the arm and led me into a nearby restaurant.
"I have just left the chief," the assistant continued, after we had seated ourselves, "and he has given me a hard nut to crack; complaints have piled up from wholesale and retail dealers that bad meat, hams and lard—even horse-meat—have appeared in this market, which bear the genuine stamps and tags of the Bureau of Animal Industry, and it has started a devil of a row," he whispered across the table. "You are still working on that car robbery case, and I thought you might pick up something for me. Who is Becker & Co.?" He ended by asking this question so suddenly that I could scarcely conceal my astonishment.
"I know there is a concern by that name, with a plant up the river somewhere. They are quite heavy shippers," I replied easily.
"You can get the freight records and perhaps give me a line on their operations, can't you?"
I knew then that Becker & Co. had been mentioned in some of the complaints. Before parting I promised to have some information for him by the next morning.
I spent the rest of the afternoon obtaining commercial reports on them and making arrangements to have their mail censored, and I did not reach my room until dinner time.
The door was open as usual between our rooms. Glancing into the other room, I saw Hiram lying on his bed asleep, which was something unusual for him, and there was something about his color that drew my attention at once. He did not stir when I came alongside the bed.
He was lying on his back with his head comfortably pillowed and his arms relaxed at his sides like a corpse. His face was bloodless, and his high, wavy black hair intensified by the white pillow. It reminded me of the time I saw him in the hospital at Hampton, Virginia, after his fearful experience in firing on the steamer; but his body had now filled out and was even athletic.
He was either very tired or—or had he lapsed into drink again—or was it drugs?