“Joe Wandersun is a bad hat. We have his record, because he fell foul of us once over false declarations in way-sheets. He’s got a shack at Sicamous.... I’ve had a message through from the station master there. Seems to be living more or less in retirement for the present. Sicamous, anyhow, is no more than a scattered handful of shacks, no scope for a man who lives by his wits. That’s what Wandersun has been doing for years. He’s done a term in prison for fraud; it reads as though it were the confidence trick. He’s a friend of Gunning’s.”
“Ah,” said Clement. “You’ve heard something about Gunning.”
“Our chap at Sicamous says he’s a remittance man. That’s a term in British Columbia for a man who won’t work—a fellow who lives by sponging. Gunning says he has mine claims, and is a booze artist.” The young man’s eyes twinkled. “That’s our expression for a man given to drink, Mr. Seadon.”
“Nothing against him?”
“Nothing proven—to our knowledge, but his habits are bad, and his company shady.”
“Have you found out anything about Siwash Mike?” asked The Chief.
“Nothing.”
“Neuburg?”
“I’m going to hear from the Dominion police—perhaps; or, rather, they’ll get on to you, sir. They don’t place him. But one of them said he had an idea that the description you gave was like a man the U. S. A. police were after. As far as he remembered, this man was wanted in Oregon, well, considerably more than two years ago. They are going to look into it, and get in touch with the U. S. A., too.”
From the way he spoke, Clement thought that the quiet young man was holding something back. Abruptly he leaned across the breakfast table. “Did they say what he was wanted for?”