That placed Harry Ruppert; he was undoubtedly the man Mrs. Priestly and Darley had seen, and the man who had been seen leaving Upton's room.
My phone rang. Detective-sergeant O'Gar:
"That nigger Rhino Tingley of yours was picked up last night in a hock shop, trying to unload some jewelry, pretty good junk. We haven't been able to crack him yet―just got him identified this morning. I sent the stuff out to Leggett's, thinking maybe they'd know something about it, but they didn't."
"Try Halstead & Beauchamp," I suggested. "Tell them you think the stuff is Gabrielle Leggett's, but don't tell them the Leggetts have said 'no.'"
Half an hour later O'Gar phoned me from the jeweler's, telling me that Halstead had positively identified two pieces―a string of pearls and a topaz brooch―as articles Leggett had purchased there, gifts for his daughter.
"Fine!" I said. "Now will you do this? Go out to Rhino's house and put the screws on his woman, Minnie Hershey. Frisk the joint, rough her up, the more you scare her the better, but don't stay too long, and then beat it, leaving her alone. I've got her covered. I'll give you all the explanations later."
"I'll turn her white," O'Gar promised.
Dick Foley was in the operatives' room, writing a report on a warehouse robbery that had kept him up all night. I chased him out to help Mickey Linehan with Minnie.
"Both of you tail her if she leaves her joint after the police are through," I instructed him, "and as soon as you put her anywhere, one of you get to a phone and let me know."
I went back to my cubbyhole and burned cigarettes. I was destroying the third one when Eric Collinson called up to ask if I had learned anything yet.
"Nothing definite, but I've got prospects. If you aren't busy you might come over here and wait with me."
He said, very eagerly, that he would do that.
Five minutes later Mickey Linehan phoned:
"The high yellow's in the Primrose Hotel on Mason Street,"
The phone rang again by the time I had put it down.
"This is Watt Halstead," a voice said. "Can you come down?"
"Not right now. Perhaps not for several hours. Is it―?"
"It's about Edgar Leggett, and it's quite puzzling. The police brought in some jewelry this morning, asking if we could tell whether it belonged to Gabrielle Leggett. I recognized a string of pearls and a brooch which her father bought from us last year―the brooch in the spring, the pearls at Christmas. After the police had gone I, quite naturally, phoned Leggett, and he took the most peculiar attitude. He waited until I had told him all about it, then said, 'I thank you very much for your interference in my affairs,' and hung up. What do you suppose is the matter with him?"
"God knows. Thanks. I've got to run now, but I'll be in as soon as I can."
Eric Collinson had arrived while I was listening to the jeweler's story.
"Just a minute," I told the blond youngster, "and we'll dash out on what might not be a false alarm."
I called Information, got Fitzstephan's number, had it rung, and heard his drawled "Hello."
"You'd better get going with your
