The Gray Mask A Detective Story

The inspector’s tapping quickened to an expression of anger. His voice exposed a cherished resentment.

“No doubt about your having heard of our friend Hennion?”

Garth started forward, resting his closed fists on the desktop. His face was excited, unbelieving.

“Mean to say there’s a chance—”

The inspector ceased his tapping. He looked up slyly.

“A real one at last. You know what that means. It’s the job. Take it or leave it. I won’t ask you to go where I mightn’t have cared to go myself at your age.”

Garth thought rapidly. His chief had been right. The man who tried to trip Hennion didn’t worry about tomorrow’s breakfast until his eyes greeted the sun in the east.

With the rest of the bureau, he could point to half a dozen men as vassals of this almost mythical figure. Like the rest, he had frequently diagnosed obscure crimes as the workmanship of the Hennion group. But he also knew that nothing had ever been proven against this organization of criminals. It was unique because, in addition to prosaic brutality, it appeared to be informed by the brains of a brilliant and mysterious character.

“How much of a chance?” Garth asked.

All the drowsiness left the inspector’s eyes.

“Maybe to sit in with them tonight. I’ve never had a ghost of a show with a stool before, and this is the night of all nights. One of these crooks has been boasting. He said—and I have it straight—‘Tonight we play our ace.’ Get that, Garth! What must an ace mean to that lot, eh? And the president’s here, but he’ll be well looked after. Still, there are lots of prominent men in this town whose sudden death would make noise more like a home run than a funeral. Or, if it’s burglary, play it to scale.