IX
This advertising brought results. By the following morning, reports were rolling in from all directions, from dozens of people who had seen the missing poet in dozens of places. A few of these reports looked promising—or at least possible—but the majority were ridiculous on their faces.
I came back to the agency from running out one that had—until run out—looked good, to find a note on my desk asking me to call up Axford.
“Can you come down, to my office now?” he asked when I got him on the wire.
There was a lad of twenty-one or -two with Axford when I was ushered into his office: a narrow-chested, dandified lad of the sporting clerk type.
“This is Mr. Fall, one of my employees,” Axford told me. “He says he saw Burke Sunday night.”
“Where?” I asked Fall.
“Going into a roadhouse near Halfmoon Bay.”
“Sure it was him?”
“Absolutely! I’ve seen him come in here to Mr. Axford’s office to know him. It was him all right.”
“How’d you come to see him?”
“I was coming up from further down the shore with some friends, and we stopped in at the roadhouse to get something to eat. As we were leaving, a car drove up and Mr. Pangburn and a girl or woman—I didn’t notice her particularly—got out and went inside. I didn’t think anything of it until I saw in the paper last night that he hadn’t been seen since Sunday. So then I thought to myself that—”
“What roadhouse was this?” I cut in, not being interested in his mental processes.
“The White Shack.”
“About what time?”
“Somewhere between eleven-thirty and midnight, I guess.”
“He see you?”
“No. I was already in our car when he drove up. I don’t think he’d know me anyway.”
“What did the woman look like?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see her face, and I can’t remember how she was dressed or even if she was short or tall.”
That was all Fall could tell me.
We shooed him out of the office, and I used Axford’s telephone to call up “Wop” Healey’s dive in North Beach and leave word that when “Porky” Grout came in he was to call up “Jack.” That was a standing arrangement by which I got word to Porky whenever I wanted to see him, without giving anybody a chance to tumble to the connection between us.
“Know the White Shack?” I asked Axford, when I was through phoning.
“I know where it is, but I don’t know anything about it.”
“Well, it’s a tough hole. Run by ‘Tin-Star’ Joplin, an ex-yegg who invested his winnings in the place when Prohibition made the roadhouse game good. He makes more money now than he ever heard of in his piking safe-ripping days. Retailing liquor is a sideline with him; his real profit comes from acting as a relay station for the booze that comes through Halfmoon Bay for points beyond; and the dope is that half the booze put ashore by the Pacific rum fleet is put ashore in Halfmoon Bay.
“The White Shack is a tough hole, and it’s no place for your brother-in-law to be hanging around. I can’t go down there myself without stirring things up; Joplin and I are old friends. But I’ve got a man I can put in there for a few nights. Pangburn may be a regular visitor, or he may even be staying there. He wouldn’t be the first one Joplin had ever let hideout there. I’ll put this man of mine in the place for a week, anyway, and see what he can find.”
“It’s all in your hands,” Axford said. “Find Burke without scandal—that’s all I ask.”