“If we could get a look at him,” the young detective suggested.
“That’s what we’ve got to do, Bob. Come on. It’s getting lighter now. We’ll catch him in front of one of these doorways.”
It was getting lighter, but not because the blackness of the night was passing, nor because the blessed sun was rising, nor because the rain was ceasing—for none of these things were happening. It was still night and the rain was coming down harder than ever.
But down the lane of the sordid street more doors were opening, and from each one streaked a shaft of light. In some mysterious way, like the smoke signal of the Indians, it was being telegraphed through the district of crime that “pickings” were on the way. The aforesaid “pickings” being an intoxicated man with money in his pockets. This was the sort of victim much sought after by the dwellers of the “Barbary Coast,” as the district was called by the police.
The man who had accosted the singer, if such he might be called, had slipped away in the darkness, either to get help, to concoct some new scheme, or to await a more propitious occasion.
But, meanwhile, other would-be despoilers were on the scene. And Chief Duncan proposed to take advantage of the light they were letting into the darkness.
“Come on, Bob,” he whispered. “He’s in a good position now to get a look at.”
The man was again singing, or, rather, groaning about his desire to see where the elephant was hiding. And just as he came in focus of one of the better lighted doorways, the young detective and the officer walked alongside of him. As they did so another man darted from the lighted doorway as if to swoop down like some foul bird of prey.
But, seeing the other two figures—and a glance told him they were not of his ilk—he drew back.
It needed but a glance on the part of Bob and the chief to let them see that this man bore no resemblance whatever to the description they had of Rod Marbury. Neither in build, stature nor appearance did he bear any likeness to the suspected sailor.