Hurried and brief though it was, it told Chick enough to instantly start him in search of Toby Monk, and fortune favored him ten minutes later. He found the crook jitney driver about to depart with his car, which he had just finished washing in the stable yard where Patsy had, indeed, picked up a trail worth following.
Chick sauntered toward him, hands in his pockets, and glanced at the number plate on the front of the car. It was wiped as clean as cotton waste and elbow grease could make it.
Toby Monk gazed at him inquiringly, wondering whether he was to have an unexpected passenger.
“This your car?” Chick questioned, as he came nearer.
“Yes, sir, sure,” Monk nodded.
“That the number of it?”
“Yes, of course. What d’ye think?”
“I think, then, that you are Toby Monk. Am I right?”
“That’s my name, but——”
“Shove your hands in these, then, and be quick about it,” Chick snapped sharply, jerking out a pair of open handcuffs. “Don’t get gay or try to bolt or I’ll bring you down with a bullet. In with them, or I’ll break your wrists when I lock them.”