I recognized a familiar face under a uniform cap—Sergeant Roche of the harbor police—and pushed through the crowd to him.
“Just get here?” he asked as we shook hands. “Or were you in on it?”
“In on it.”
“What do you know?”
“Everything.”
“Who ever heard of a private detective that didn’t,” he joshed as I led him out of the mob.
“Did you people run into an empty boat out in the bay?” I asked when we were away from audiences.
“Empty boats have been floating around the bay all night,” he said.
I hadn’t thought of that.
“Where’s your boat now?” I asked him.
“Out trying to pick up the bandits. I stayed with a couple of men to lend a hand here.”
“You’re in luck,” I told him. “Now sneak a look across the street. See the stout old boy with the black whiskers? Standing in front of the druggist’s.”
General Pleshskev stood there, with the woman who had fainted, the young Russian whose bloody cheek had made her faint, and a pale, plump man of forty-something who had been with them at the reception. A little to one side stood big Ignati, the two menservants I had seen at the house, and another who was obviously one of them. They were chatting together and watching the excited antics of a red-faced