Never-Fail Blake | Page 5

"I'm not counting on friendship in this!" he retorted.
"But it might have been better, even in this!" she said. And the artful
look of pity on her face angered him.
"Well, we 'll begin on something nearer home!" he cried.
He reached down into his pocket and produced a small tinted oblong of
paper. He held it, face out, between his thumb and forefinger, so that
she could read it.
"This Steinert check 'll do the trick. Take a closer look at the signature.
Do you get it?"
"What about it?" she asked, without a tremor.
He restored the check to his wallet and the wallet to his pocket. She
would find it impossible to outdo him in the matter of impassivity.
"I may or I may not know who forged that check. I don't want to know.

And when you tell me where Binhart is, I won't know."
"That check was n't forged," contended the quiet-eyed woman.
"Steinert will swear it was," declared the Second Deputy.
She sat without speaking, apparently in deep study. Her intent face
showed no fear, no bewilderment, no actual emotion of any kind.
"You 've got 'o face it," said Blake, sitting back and waiting for her to
speak. His attitude was that of a physician at a bedside, awaiting the
prescribed opiate to produce its prescribed effect.
"Will I be dragged into this case, in any way, if Binhart is rounded up?"
the woman finally asked.
"Not once," he asserted.
"You promise me that?"
"Of course," answered the Second Deputy.
"And you 'll let me alone on--on the other things?" she calmly exacted.
"Yes," he promptly acknowledged. "I 'll see that you 're let alone."
Again she looked at him with her veiled and judicial eyes. Then she
dropped her hands into her lap. The gesture seemed one of resignation.
"Binhart's in Montreal," she said.
Blake, keeping his face well under control, waited for her to go on.
"He 's been in Montreal for weeks now. You 'll find him at 381 King
Edward Avenue, in Westmount. He 's there, posing as an expert
accountant."
She saw the quick shadow of doubt, the eye-flash of indecision. So she
reached quietly down and opened her pocket-book, rummaging through

its contents for a moment or two. Then she handed Blake a folded
envelope.
"You know his writing?" she asked.
"I 've seen enough of it," he retorted, as he examined the typewritten
envelope post-marked "Montreal, Que." Then he drew out the inner
sheet. On it, written by pen, he read the message: "Come to 381 King
Edward when the coast is clear," and below this the initials "C. B."
Blake, with the writing still before his eyes, opened a desk drawer and
took out a large reading-glass. Through the lens of this he again studied
the inscription, word by word. Then he turned to the office 'phone on
his desk.
"Nolan," he said into the receiver, "I want to know if there 's a King
Edward Avenue in Montreal."
He sat there waiting, still regarding the handwriting with stolidly
reproving eyes. There was no doubt of its authenticity. He would have
known it at a glance.
"Yes, sir," came the answer over the wire. "It's one of the newer
avenues in Westmount."
Blake, still wrapped in thought, hung up the receiver. The woman
facing him did not seem to resent his possible imputation of dishonesty.
To be suspicious of all with whom he came in contact was imposed on
him by his profession. He was compelled to watch even his associates,
his operatives and underlings, his friends as well as his enemies. Life,
with him, was a concerto of skepticisms.
She was able to watch him, without emotion, as he again bent forward,
took up the 'phone receiver, and this time spoke apparently to another
office.
"I want you to wire Teal to get a man out to cover 381 King Edward
Avenue, in Montreal. Yes, Montreal. Tell him to get a man out there

inside of an hour, and put a night watch on until I relieve 'em."
Then, breathing heavily, he bent over his desk, wrote a short message
on a form pad and pushed the buzzer-button with his thick finger. He
carefully folded up the piece of paper as he waited.
"Get that off to Carpenter in Montreal right away," he said to the
attendant who answered his call. Then he swung about in his chair,
with a throaty grunt of content. He sat for a moment, staring at the
woman with unseeing eyes. Then he stood up. With his hands thrust
deep in his pockets he slowly moved his head back and forth, as though
assenting to some unuttered question.
"Elsie, you 're all right," he acknowledged with his solemn and
unimaginative impassivity.