Joe’s mouth fell open, and Dr. Stone stopped dead in his tracks.
“Where is he?” Captain Tucker demanded.
“Ask me. I ain’t clapped a peeper on him since this morning. Looks to me like he’s taken it on the lam. You got a line out for him, Cap?”
The captain shrugged. “Just checking up, Petey. What time did he shove off.”
“You’re asking me? I thought he was out working his graft. Then there’s a jabbering from his room, and there’s the monk all alone in there throwing fits.”
Dr. Stone’s voice cut in. “Where’s his room?”
Petey, stepping past the dog warily, led the way. The room was a squalor of untidiness. Dirty blankets were tumbled on the army cot bed, and a cracked mirror stood upon a paint-chipped dresser. The hand-organ, gaudy with cheap trappings, leaned in a corner and, attached to it by a light chain was a wizened, wrinkled, black-faced monkey. The animal flew into a rage, climbed the length of its chain and, from the top of a window-casing, shrieked and chattered.
“Ira was right,” Captain Tucker said harshly. “And we’re too late.”
Joe’s throat ached. Jolly Billy Foster taken by violence and held for ransom! Hidden away in some dark hole, probably, homesick and terror-stricken. He looked at his uncle. The blind man’s face had become intent.
“This room reeks,” Dr. Stone said, “with the stench of cheap shaving soap. Search it.”