“That’s it exactly,” replied the chief. “I am tired of this fooling. I want the case off my hands. Come along! Let’s get home.”
CHAPTER XIX.
A WELL OF FIRE.
“So you are living in this brick house, and running the delicatessen store as well?” said Nick the next evening, as he and his two assistants stood outside Bonesy Billings’ home. “This is better than being in a flat house downtown.”
“You bet it is,” assented Bonesy. “Besides, my work is up here in this section, and I’ve no reason to go downtown to live. There’s plenty of these old brick houses up here that can be rented for about what you’d pay for a flat around Ninety-seventh Street, and it’s much more airy and nice here. Then we have some roomers, that help out.”
“Who are they? Anybody I know, I wonder?” ventured Nick.
“Not likely. There’s a musician and his daughter—a nice young girl, and I have another one—that fellow the gang was trying to do up at Partrom’s last night. His name’s Gordon.”
“All!” remarked Carter, trying to be calm. “I’d like to see him again.”
“Well, I guess you can. I think he’s up in his room now. He isn’t working to-night. The superintendent of the mill has laid him off until inquiries are made into that fuss where you took a hand. It’s a rotten shame! Gordon wasn’t to blame for that. The others jumped on him, and he had to hold ’em off. He’s told me often that nothing can make him fight—and he ain’t no coward, either.”
“Look, chief. What’s that?” shouted Patsy Garvan excitedly, running toward the house. “Fire!”