“If I can find out that he has the books,” quoth Val, “it stands to reason that he must be implicated in the murder of poor old Mat—and it’s a sure thing he has ’em.” He was thankful that he had found out his address from Miss Pomeroy. That would help. If he had the books they were very probably in his apartment on the East Side.
There, then, was where Val must look. There was another important reason for getting those books. Very possibly there was a clue in them, somehow, to the lost wealth of the girl’s father. Otherwise, why should Teck be so anxious to get them back that he would even commit murder for them? That money belonged to Jessica Pomeroy, and Val decided that it was up to him to see that she got it.
Lost treasure! The love of a beautiful woman! The dark villainy of an unscrupulous scoundrel! It was good to be alive and to be caught up in the swirl of this affair, Val’s blood tingled in his veins, and he rose hastily, smiling gently. There was no time like the present. Ignace Teck, to be sure, was at Jessica’s—he called her that privately—home. That being the case, what was there to prevent Val from making a raid on the handless one’s rooms. Nothing. Teck had done that to him, so there was no ethical reason why he should not now return the compliment.
He walked out of the Giltmore and engaged Eddie Hughes in conversation.
“Eddie,” he said, “haven’t we got an automatic or two somewhere?”
Eddie brightened. He nodded. “At home,” he answered laconically. “Whom do you want croaked?”
“Nobody,” grinned Val. “We might need them for protection, though. Let’s go home and get them.”
