“When did Jimmy Brunell turn his last trick?”
“Years ago; I’ve forgotten how many. It’s no harm speakin’ of it now, for he did his seven years up 179 the river for it––his first and only conviction. That was the time old Cowperthwaite’s name was forged to five checks amounting to thirty thousand, all told, and Jimmy was caught on the last.”
“Where was his plant?”
“In a basement on Dye Street. The bulls never found it. He was running a little printer’s shop in front, as a blind––oh, he was clever, old Jimmy, the sharpest in his line!”
“What became of his outfit, when he was sent up?”
“Dunno. It just disappeared. Some of his old pals cribbed it, I guess, or Jimmy may have fixed it with them to remove it. He was always close-mouthed, and he never would tell me. I knew where his plant was, of course, and I went there myself, after he was sent up and the coast was clear, to get the outfit, to––to take care of it for him until he came out. Oh, I ain’t afraid to tell now; it’s so long ago! I could take you to the place to-day, but the outfit’s gone.”
“And when he had served his term, what happened?”
“He came out to find that his wife was dead, and Emily, the little girl that was born just after he went up, was none too well treated by the people her mother’d had to leave her with. He’d learned in the pen’ to make maps, an’ he opened a little shop an’ made up his mind to live straight, an’––an’ so far as I know, he has.” Pennold faltered, as if from weakness, and for a moment his voice ceased. Then he went on: “I ain’t seen him for a long time, but we kept track of each other, an’ when you come with that cock-an’-bull story about the bonds, and the bank backed you up in it, why I––I went to see him.”
“You wrote him first. Why did you send a cipher letter?”