He was a swarthy little man, implacable as
an Indian and as pertinacious on a trail. He never forgot a face and no
amount of disguise could hide its identity from his penetrating glance.
Without great vision or imagination, he knew criminals as did few other
men; could reason from cause to effect within certain channels,
unerringly. He was heartless, ruthless--some said venal. But he caught
and convicted felons, solved the problems of his office by a dogged
perseverance that ignored defeat. For, with a mind essentially tricky,
he anticipated tricksters--unless their operations were beyond
his scope.
It was 10 o'clock at night, but he was still at work upon a case which,
up to now, had baffled him--a case of opium smuggling--when Robert and
Benito entered. At first he listened to them inattentively. But at
Robert's story of the woman, he became electrified.
"Rose Terranza! Dance hall girl back in the Eldorado days! Queen of the
Night Life under half a dozen names! Smiling Rose, some called her. Good
clothes and gold in her teeth! I've her picture--wait a minute." He
pulled a cord; a bell jangled somewhere. An officer entered.
* * * * *
Chinatown at midnight.
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