"Here's a name on this card—I want this man brought to me as soon as possible—by all means before night. Do you know him?"
"Very well by sight. I've looked him up before—don't you remember?"
"Oh, yes—the Peabody case. While drunk Parkins hit him over the head with a champagne bottle—yep—you brought Parkins in. It is a shame we didn't send him over at that time but he begged me to straighten him out and see that he reported for business next morning. I did it—and did it more than once since then. But this will probably be the last time we'll need hunt for him. His boss has something on him that will bring him to time—I hope. Parkins is a bad egg, so watch out for him, especially if he is in his cups. Now go to it—bring him to me if you have to give him a teaser."
For four hours Updyke sat in his chair, or paced the floor, awaiting word from his operative. He smoked incessantly while reading the evening papers and at six thirty o'clock ordered ham and eggs, and coffee. These had been set before him when the night telephone gong gave three loud clangs. That meant Updyke himself—in a hurry. He sprang to the receiver and in a quiet unruffled voice answered, "Shoot."
"Number twelve speaking—your party dashed through Patchogue about eleven this morning and was last seen going east at high speed. Lost trace until just a few minutes ago. Find that he has a fishing hut across South Bay on the ocean side. He's bound to come back this way—the question is, when?"
"Where are you now?"
"Patchogue."
"What do you advise?"
"Well, I have my motorcycle, and I feel certain he will come back this way. If I went over on the ocean side I might have sand trouble. He has four wheels and a ninety horse roadster. I think I'd better stay here," concluded "Number Twelve."