“That’s the situation as it stands now. The police are sweeping the streets, picking up everybody who needs a shave or can’t show a certificate of attendance signed by his parson, with special attention to outward bound trains, boats and automobiles. I sent Jack Counihan and Dick Foley down North Beach way to play the joints and see if they can pick up anything.”
“Do you think Bluepoint Vance was the actual directing intelligence in this robbery?” the Old Man asked.
“I hope so—we know him.”
The Old Man turned his chair so his mild eyes could stare out the window again, and he tapped his desk reflectively with the pencil.
“I’m afraid not,” he said in a gently apologetic tone. “Vance is a shrewd, resourceful and determined criminal, but his weakness is one common to his type. His abilities are all for present action and not for planning ahead. He has executed some large operations, but I’ve always thought I saw in them some other mind at work behind him.”
I couldn’t quarrel with that. If the Old Man said something was so, then it probably was, because he was one of these cautious babies who’ll look out of the window at a cloudburst and say, “It seems to be raining,” on the off-chance that somebody’s pouring water off the roof.
“And who is this arch-gonif?” I asked.
“You’ll probably know that before I do,” he said, smiling benignantly.