All West's indifference vanished instantly. He had to pry the paper out, so closely had it been wedged in beneath the closed knife blade, and it required a moment in which to straighten it out so that the writing was discernable. Even then the marks were so faint, and minute, he could not really decipher them until he made use of a magnifying glass lying on the desk. A woman's hand, using a pencil, had hastily inscribed the words on a scrap of common paper, apparently torn from some book--the inspiration of an instant, perhaps, a sudden hope born of desperation. He fairly had to dig the words out, letter by letter, copying them on an old envelope until he had the message complete: "
Please notify police to search Seminole quick."
West read this over, word by word, again and again. What did it mean? Did it mean anything? Had it any possible connection with the case in which he was interested? There was no signature, nothing to guide him; yet in some way the plea sounded real, was a cry of distress, an appeal for help. It could be given no other meaning, yet how long had it been lying there in the alley? Not any great length of time surely, for the polished silver was far too conspicuous to escape notice. It must have been dropped during the night, within a very short time of its discovery. But what did the words signify? "
Notify police" was clear enough, but "
search Seminole" meant absolutely nothing. What was "Seminole"--an apartment house? A hotel? A saloon? Perhaps the police would know; evidently the writer so believed, or she would never have used the name with such confidence. A familiar name to her, she assumed that the police would have no difficulty in instantly locating the place meant. The haste with which the message had apparently been written, its short, sharp words, bespoke urgent need, the consciousness of imminent peril. Plainly the writer had used the only means at hand in a hurried desperate effort to gain assistance.
"The police." The request had been for the police; then why not appeal to the police? Why not take the note now directly to headquarters, and let them help solve its mystery? At first West hesitated, yet a moment's thought convinced him this would be the logical course to pursue. He could accomplish nothing alone, unguided. His appealing to the police need not necessarily involve any disclosure relative to the Coolidge matter. He had found this note accidentally in an alley in the northwest section of the city; his being there need require no special explanation; he did not understand its meaning, but it was quite evidently a police matter, and consequently he placed it in their hands. That all sounded natural enough. Besides at this hour of the night there was no other place to which he could go for information.
He looked at Sexton, who was sleeping soundly, and decided not to awaken the man. He had no use for his services just now; the City Hall was only a few blocks away, and he might not be out more than an hour himself. He would leave a note so that if by any chance he should be delayed, Sexton would understand what had occurred. He scratched this off hastily, placed it in a conspicuous place, and swiftly departed, after extinguishing the light. He was no longer conscious of fatigue, or the pain of bruises, his mind eager to learn the meaning of this new discovery.
It had been a quiet night at the City Hall Station, and West encountered no difficulty in reaching the presence of the lieutenant in charge. The latter gazed at his caller curiously over an early edition of the morning paper, as the officer who had opened the door to the inner office, said rather doubtfully.
"This guy wants to see you personally, sir; he wouldn't talk to no one else."
"All right, Slavin; shut the door, and I'll hear what he has to say. What is it, my man?"
West explained swiftly and clearly, his manner of speech, as well as his statement as to who he was, evidently making a favourable impression on his listener, who interrupted the brief narrative with several respectfully asked questions. He look the note, spread it out on the desk, and studied it carefully.
"Looks genuine enough," he commented at last, "but not very clear. I don't know any place in this town called Seminole. Wait a minute though; perhaps one of the boys may have an idea."
He pressed a button on top of the desk, and in response to the summons, a side door opened, and a main in plain clothes entered.
"You rang, sir?"
"Yes, McAdams; this gentleman here--"
"Captain West, as I am a sinner!" he exclaimed. "Gee! but I am glad to see you again, old man! Say. By Gad! you don't remember me."
"Oh, but I certainly do, Mac," and West grasped the extended hand heartily. "It's a devil of a surprise, that's all. Saw you last at Brest, the day you sailed for home. So this was your job, Sergeant?"
"Been with the department ever since I was a kid. Put me in plain clothes since I came back. Lieutenant, this is Captain West, over across the pond with the Engineers; we were buddies for about two months. What was wanted, sir?"
"Well, Captain West has just been telling me a rather peculiar story, and wanted some information I thought perhaps you could give; you know the old town right now better than I do. First of all, do you recall any crook by the name of Hobart--Jim Hobart?"
"Hobart? Hobart? no, not off hand, I don't. How old a man is he, Captain?"
"Middle-aged, anyway; an active fellow enough, but his hair is quite grey."
"Do you know where he hangs out?"
"The last I saw of him was in a saloon known as Mike's Place over on Wray Street."
"Off Milwaukee; yes, I know. Mike is a big Pole, but has never had any serious trouble so far as I know. However, being there is no special recommendation to a guy, but I don't believe this man Hobart has been pulled since I've been on the force. And you don't recall the name, Lieutenant?"
"No; but he might be an old timer come back. Look him up in the index, Mac. That will soon tell you whether we have got any such mug, or not."
McAdams drew out a thick volume from a near-by cabinet, and ran his fingers swiftly down a long column of names, indexed under the letter "H." Suddenly he stopped, with an exclamation.
"The lad is here all right--Government offence, fifteen years ago, third arrest; mugged number 28113. Let's look him up, and see if he is the same man. Come over here, Captain."
"Is that the fellow?" he asked.
West studied the face seriously.
"Yes, I believe it is, Mac," he said at length. "He looks much older now, but those are his features all right. What was his game?"
"'Con' mostly, according to the record; only one conviction though, two years in Detroit for using the mails to defraud. Oh, yes, here is something different, 'assault with intent to kill'--indeterminate sentence to Joliet for that. Nothing heard of him since. So he is back, and at the old game again. Do you want him brought in, Captain?"
"No, not yet. I haven't anything against the man now but a suspicion. I wanted to learn his record, that's all. This inquiry was only incidental. What I'm really interested in just at present is something I picked up in the alley back of Mike's Place three or four hours ago. It's a note in a woman's hand-writing, and when I found it, it was hidden in a small silver pen-knife, such as a lady might carry. I thought it might have some connection with the case I'm trying to catch this fellow Hobart in."
"There is a woman in it, then?"
"Yes; but I haven't got things hitched up sufficiently to talk about it. The note itself is blind."
"In what respect?"
"Well, here it is. Can you make it out? I'll read it for you--'
Please notify police to search Seminole quick.'"
"No signature?"
"None."
"But that is plain enough, isn't it?"
"Yes, if you know what she means by Seminole; what is it? a street? an apartment house? a saloon? Do you know of anything under that name?"
McAdams stood motionless thinking.
"No, by thunder, I don't," he admitted reluctantly. "There is no street of that name in the city. There used to be a shady hotel over on Ontario Street called 'The Seminole,' but that was torn down ten years ago. I never heard of any other--did you, Dave?"
"No," answered the lieutenant slowly, sucking away at a cigar. "I just been looking over the directory, and I don't find nothing. Maybe it's the name of a boat--seems to me I've heard some such name before, but I don't just recollect where."
"A boat! Well, that's a straw anyway, and worth looking up." Mac picked up the telephone. "Who is on at the Harbour Master's office this time of night?"
"Winchell, usually, and he'll have a record there."
The detective jiggled the receiver impatiently.
"Yes, this is police headquarters calling. Give me the Harbour Master's office, please--I said the Harbour office. Oh, is this you, Dan? Bob McAdams speaking. Do you know of any boat on the lakes called the
Seminole? What's that? A lumber schooner at Escanaba? Never makes this port, you say? And you don't know of any other by that name? Sure, I'll hold the wire; look it up."
"Not a very promising lead," he said over his shoulder, "but Dan will have the dope for us in a minute."
He suddenly straightened up, the receiver at his ear.
"I didn't quite get that, Dan. A medium sized yacht, you say? Where is it? Oh, at the Jackson Park lagoon. I see; and who did you say owned it? What's that? I didn't quite catch the name--Coolidge? What Coolidge? Exactly; the fellow who killed himself out south. Hold the wire."
He swung about to face West, the receiver still at his ear.
"This mean anything to you?"
"It surely does," eagerly. "The girl I spoke of was Natalie Coolidge. By all the gods, we are on the right track."
"All right, Dan," resuming his conversation. "What's that? Coolidge had the boat up the river a few weeks ago trying to sell it. That's how you happened to remember the name--I see. Say, is there any one out at Jackson Park I could talk to at this hour? Who? Oh, yes, the Life Saving Station. Sure: somebody will be on duty there. Thanks, old man--good night."
He hung the receiver up on the hook, and reached for the telephone directory.
"Some luck, I say. Jackson Park--oh, yes, here it is. All right, Central; sure, that is the proper number. This is the City Hall Police Headquarters again; hustle it up, please. Hullo, Jackson Park Life Saving Station? Good; this is McAdams speaking from the City Detective Bureau. Is there a yacht out there in the lagoon called the Seminole? belongs to a man named Coolidge; medium sized boat, with gas engine. Yes; what's that? Not there now; went out into the lake about two hours ago. The hell it did! Who was aboard? do you know? Say that again; oh, you wasn't on watch when she sailed; your partner said what? Three men and a woman. All right, yes, I got it. Say now, listen; this is a police matter, so keep your eyes open. It will be daylight pretty soon, and if you get sight of that boat, call up the City Hall Station at once. Do you get me?"
He wheeled about, smiling whimsically.
"It's on again, off again, Flannigan. We had it, and we have it not. Dave I am getting interested; I feel the lure of the chase. What say you? Can you spare me for a day or two? You can? good enough; we'll comb the lakes until we find out who is sailing aboard the
Seminole. You're with me, old man?"
West extended his hand silently, and the fingers of the two clasped in a mutual pledge.