A block up the street I found Dick Foley in a hired drive-yourself Buick. I got in beside him, asking:
“What’s doing?”
“Spot two. Out three-thirty, office to Willsson’s. Mickey. Five. Home. Busy. Kept plant. Off three, seven. Nothing yet.”
That was supposed to inform me that he had picked up Lew Yard at two the previous afternoon; had shadowed him to Willsson’s at three-thirty, where Mickey had tailed Pete; had followed Yard away at five, to his residence; had seen people going in and out of the house, but had not shadowed any of them; had watched the house until three this morning, and had returned to the job at seven; and since then had seen nobody go in or out.
“You’ll have to drop this and take a plant on Willsson’s,” I said. “I hear Whisper Thaler’s holing up there, and I’d like an eye kept on him till I make up my mind whether to turn him up for Noonan or not.”
Dick nodded and started the engine grinding. I got out and returned to the hotel.
There was a telegram from the Old Man:
Send by first mail full explanation of present operation and circumstances under which you accepted it with daily reports to date
I put the telegram in my pocket and hoped things would keep on breaking fast. To have sent him the dope he wanted at that time would have been the same as sending in my resignation.
I bent a fresh collar around my neck and trotted over to the City Hall.