This might be to keep burglars out. It would serve equally
well to keep prisoners in.
At the nearest grocery store Clay made inquiries. He was looking, he
said, for James K. Sanger. He did not know the exact address. Could
the grocery man help him run down his party? How about the folks
living at Number 121?
"Don't know 'em. They've been in only for a few days. They don't
trade here."
Clay tried the telephone, but Information could tell him only that
there was no 'phone at 121.
On the whole Clay inclined to think that the letter was not a forgery.
In his frank, outdoor code there was no reason why Durand should hate
him enough to go to such trouble to trap him. The fellow had more than
squared accounts when he had beaten him up outside the Sea Siren. Why
should he want to do anything more to him? But he had had two warnings
that the ex-prize-fighter was not through with him--both of them from
members of the police force, one direct from the sergeant who had
helped rescue him, the other by way of the Runt from headquarters.
When he recalled the savage hatred of that flat, pallid face he did not
feel so sure of immunity. Clay had known men in the West, wolf-hearted
killers steeped in a horrible lust for revenge, who never forgot or
forgave an injury--until their enemy had paid the price in full. Jerry
Durand might be one of this stamp. He was a man of a bad reputation,
one about whom evil murmurs passed in secret. Not many years ago he
had been tried for the murder of one Paddy Kelly, a rival gangsman in
his neighborhood, and had been acquitted on the ground of self-defense.
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