His thought turned to Alice Windham. In a kind of reverie he left the
Blue Wing, walking without sense of direction. It was getting dark; a
chilling touch of fog was in the air--almost, it seemed to Broderick,
like a premonition. On Clay, near Montgomery, he passed two men standing
in a doorway; it was too dark to see their faces. Some impulse bade him
stop, but he repressed it. Later he heard a shot, men running. But his
mood was not for street brawls. He went on.
CHAPTER XL
THE STORM GATHERS
It was Nesbitt who told Broderick of the murder. Nesbitt, of whom
Richardson had said the night before, "he slings a wicked pen."
"My God, Jim, this is awful!" Broderick exclaimed. "You're sure there's
no mistake ... I saw the two of them go out arm in arm."
"Mistake! I wish it were," cried Nesbitt angrily. "No, poor Billy
Richardson is dead. Cora's in jail.... They say Cora laughed when he
went to prison with Scannell.... Scannell and Mulligan!" He spat out the
words with a savage distaste.
"Let me show you something, Dave. A reporter from the New York _Express_
was out here gathering data--crime statistics for the year. He showed it
to me. Listen to this: Four hundred and eighty-nine murders in
California during ten months.
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