The Million-Dollar Suitcase. MacGowan Alice

would be exact enough for my purpose." And she followed a puzzled detective and, if I may guess, an equally wondering Worth Gilbert out into the street.

      CHAPTER VII

      THE GOLD NUGGET

      The neighbor to the south of the St. Dunstan was the Gold Nugget Hotel, a five story brick building and not at all pretentious as a hostelry. I knew the place mildly, and my police training, even better than such acquaintance as I had with this particular dump, told me what it was. Through the windows we could see guests, Sunday papers littered about them, half smoked cigars in their faces, and hats which had a general tendency to tilt over the right eye. And here suddenly I realized the difference between Miss Barbara Wallace, a scientist's daughter, and some feminine sleuth we might have had with us.

      "Take her back to the St. Dunstan, Worth," I suggested. Then, as I saw they were both going to resist, "She can't go in here. I'll wait for you if you like."

      "Don't know why we shouldn't let Bobs in on the fun, same as you and me, Jerry." That was the way Worth put it. I took a side glance at his attitude in this affair – that he'd bought and was enjoying an eight hundred thousand dollar frolic, offering to share it with a friend; and saying no more, I wheeled and swung open the door for them. The man at the desk looked at me, calling a quick,

      "Hello, Jerry – what's up?"

      "Hello, Kite. How'd you come here?"

      The Kite as a hotelman was a new one on me. Last I knew of him, he was in the business of making book at the Emeryville track; and I supposed – if I ever thought of him – that he'd followed the ponies south across the border. As I stepped close to the counter, he spoke low, his look one of puzzled and somewhat anxious inquiry.

      "Running straight, Jerry. You may ask the Chief. What can I do for you?"

      Rather glad of the luck that gave me an old acquaintance to deal with, I told him, described Clayte, Worth and Miss Wallace standing by listening; then asked if Kite had seen him pass through the hotel going out the previous day at some time around one o'clock, carrying a brown, sole leather suitcase.

      The readers of the Sunday papers who had been lured from their known standards of good manners into the sending of sundry interested glances in the direction of our sparkling girl, took the cue from the Kite's scowl to bury themselves for good in the voluminous sheets they held, each attending strictly to his own business, as is the etiquette of places like the Gold Nugget.

      "About one o'clock, you say?" Kite muttered, frowning, twisted his head around and called down a back passage, "Louie – Oh, Louie!" and when an overalled porter, rather messy, shuffled to the desk, put the low toned query, "D'you see any stranger guy gripping a sole leather shirt-box snoop by out yestiddy, after one, thereabouts?" And I added the information,

      "Medium height and weight, blue eyes, light brown hair, smooth face."

      Louie looked at me dubiously.

      "How big a guy?" he asked.

      "Five feet seven or eight; weighs about hundred and forty."

      "Blue eyes you say?"

      "Light blue – gray blue."

      "How was he tucked up?"

      "Blue serge suit, black shoes, black derby. Neat, quiet dresser."

      Louie's eyes wandered over the guests in the office questioningly. I began to feel impatient. If there was any place in the city where my description of Clayte would differentiate him, make him noticeable by comparison, it was here. Neat, quiet dressers were not dotting this lobby.

      "Might be Tim Foley?" he appealed to the Kite, who nodded gravely and chewed his short mustache. "Would he have a big scar on his left cheek?"

      "He would not," I said shortly. "He wasn't a guest here, and you don't know him. Get this straight now: a stranger, going through here, out; about one o'clock; carried a suitcase."

      "Bulls after him?" Louie asked, and I turned away from him wearily.

      "Kite," I said, "let me up to your roof."

      "Sure, Jerry." Released, the porter went on to gather up a pile of discarded papers.

      "Could he – the man I've described – come through here – through this office and neither you nor Louie see him?" I asked. The Kite brought a box of cigars from under the counter with,

      "My treat, gentlemen. Naw, Jerry; sure not – not that kind of a guy. Louie'd 'a' spotted him. Most observing cuss I ever seen."

      Miss Wallace, taking all this in, seemed amused. As I turned to lead to the elevator I found that again she wanted a question of her own answered.

      "Mr. Kite," she began and I grinned; Kite wasn't the Kite's surname or any part of his name; "Who is the guest here with the upstairs room – on the top floor – has had the same room right along – for five or six years – but doesn't – "

      "Go easy, ma'am, please!" Kite's little eyes were popping; he dragged out a handkerchief and fumbled it around his forehead. "I've not been here for any five or six years – no, nor half that time. Since I've been here most of our custom is transient. Nobody don't keep no room five or six years in the Gold Nugget."

      "Back up," I smiled at his excitement. "To my certain knowledge Steve Skeels has had a room here longer than that. Hasn't he been with you ever since the place was rebuilt after the earthquake?"

      "Steve?" the Kite repeated. "I forgot him. Yeah – he keeps a little room up under the roof."

      "Has he had it for as long as four years?" the young lady asked.

      "Search me," the Kite shook his head.