His lips relaxed a little in an ironical smile. The papers had overlooked the Man with the Crutch! It was Red Vallon who, all unconsciously, had joined together the broken thread. The gangster had come here to the den that noon. There had been a marked increase of deference in the man’s attitude and manner, a sort of unholy admiration, awe, respect and fear. The man, hardened though he was himself, was still visibly affected by the fact that he stood in the presence of the Rat, alias Bundy Morgan, who, as he believed, had coolly and imperturbably given gruesome evidence that, to gain his ends, he would neither hesitate nor stop at murder. Red Vallon had not forgotten, and was not likely to forget, his “object lesson!”
Red Vallon had told his story furtively, leaning across the table, talking in a guarded whisper. He had got it straight enough from one of his own men, who the police in turn believed was one of their own stool pigeons. Shortly before the confusion incident to the exit of Red Vallon’s men on the previous night, the exact hour not positively established, a man with a crutch, and carrying a small hand bag, was known to have crept cautiously out of the apartment house where Peters had his flat. After that the man had disappeared. “The police have elected the cripple as the guy that waltzed off with the swag while the rest of the bunch made a noise to smear up his tracks,” Red Vallon had said, with a malicious grin. “What’s the matter with pushing a good thing along, Bundy? What’s the matter with pushing out a few feelers, and trying to spot this crutch gazabo? The Pippin’s the one that put me wise, and the Pippin can make good nosing him out if any one can.”
There had come upon Billy Kane an overwhelming surge of relief. More than anything else on earth that he had suddenly wanted at that moment was—the Man with the Crutch.
“Yes!” he had answered gruffly, afraid almost to trust his voice.
“Sure!” Red Vallon had responded. “I thought you’d be strong for it! Mabbe it won’t last long, ’cause the guy ought to be able to clear himself unless we can hitch it onto him for keeps, but there’s nothing like heaving a little dirt in the eyes of the bulls, and shooting ’em off on the wrong lay. It’ll keep ’em guessing for a while anyhow. You leave it to me, Bundy. I owe you something for queering your game last night, though I guess there wasn’t any more of them rubies there besides the one you found, for the Pippin says the bulls didn’t get anything, and I owe you something for the lemon I’ve handed you so far in falling down on spotting the ruby collection in any of the speak-easy joints; but I won’t fall down here. You leave it to me! I’ll pull some slick stuff this time!”