“Got the dough?”
“Yes.”
Gatewood’s voice was thick and blurred—I could imagine the boiling that was going on inside him.
“Good!” came the brisk voice. “Put a piece of paper around it, and leave the house with it, right away! Walk down Clay Street, keeping on the same side as your house. Don’t walk too fast and keep walking. If everything’s all right, and there’s no elbows tagging along, somebody’ll come up to you between your house and the waterfront. They’ll have a handkerchief up to their face for a second, and then they’ll let it fall to the ground.
“When you see that, you’ll lay the money on the pavement, turn around and walk back to your house. If the money isn’t marked, and you don’t try any fancy tricks, you’ll get your daughter back in an hour or two. If you try to pull anything—remember what we wrote you about the Chink! Got it straight?”
Gatewood sputtered something that was meant for an affirmative, and the telephone clicked silent.
I didn’t waste any of my precious time tracing the call—it would be from a public telephone, I knew—but yelled up the stairs to Gatewood:
“You do as you were told, and don’t try any foolishness!”
Then I ran out into the early morning air to find the police detectives and the post office inspector.
They had been joined by two plainclothes men, and had two automobiles waiting. I told them what the situation was, and we laid hurried plans.