"Yes, yes," said the detective, "I remember. But, you see, this is
serious business. Here's a murder on our hands, and from all I can
learn it's on account of your confounded schemes. We've got to know
where we stand, or there will be the Old Nick to pay. The papers will
get hold of it, and then--well, you remember that shake-up we had three
years ago."
"But you forget the 'old man,'" I returned. The name of that potent
Unknown seemed to be my only weapon in the contest with Detective
Coogan, and I thought this a time to try its force.
"Not much, I don't!" said Coogan, visibly disturbed. "But if it comes
to a choice, we'll have to risk a battle with him."
"Well, maybe we're wasting time over a trifle," said I, voicing my
hope. "Perhaps your dead man belongs somewhere else."
"Come along to the morgue, then," said he.
"Where was he found?" I asked as we walked out of the City Hall.
"He was picked up at about three o'clock in the back room of the
Hurricane Deck--the water-front saloon, you know--near the foot of
Folsom Street."
Detective Coogan asked a number of questions as we walked, and in a few
minutes we came to the undertaker's shop that served as the city
morgue. At the best of times it could not be a place of cheer. In the
hour before daybreak, with the chill air of the morning almost
suppressing the yellow gaslights, the errand on which I had come made
it the abode of dread. Yet I hoped--hoped in such an agony of fear that
I became half-insensible to my surroundings.
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