"Straw."
"It's Gibson, all right," snapped Brennan. John's nerves tingled throughout his body. A picture of Gibson as he was when he first saw him flashed into his mind. He saw the commissioner's perfectly moulded hair, black and shiny; he saw his neat straw hat in his lap.
"Dat's what I figured," said Murphy. "So last night I find a place near da door I seen them go in and waits for them, see? I wait all night, but nobody shows up. I figures dat if it's Gibson meetin' da 'Gink' you boys will want to be in on it, see? I know dat joint like it's my own, see?"
"We see, Murphy, perfectly," interposed Brennan.
"So, I know there's a basement, see? While I'm waitin' I take a chance and work da lock on da basement door, see? It's a padlock and I cop it, see? This mornin' I get a friend to make a key for it, see? and this afternoon I slip it back where it belongs."
"Murphy," said Brennan, "you're a wonder. Where's the key?"
Murphy reached into his pocket and produced it. Brennan glanced at his watch.
"What time was it when you saw Cummings and this other fellow?" he asked.
"I figure it was between twelve and one," replied Murphy.
"Good!" Brennan exclaimed. "It's half past ten now. We'll get down there and get the lay of the land in that basement. They may go there again, tonight."