The Drums of Jeopardy (Chapter 9, page 1 of 6)

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Chapter 9

At the precinct station the squat man gave a name and an address to
the bored sergeant at the desk, passed out a cigar, lit one himself,
expressed some innocuous opinions upon one or two topics of the day, and
walked leisurely out of the precinct. He wanted to laugh. These pigheads
had never thought to question his presence in the backyard of the house
in Seventy-ninth Street. It was the way he had carried himself.
Those years in New York, prior to the war, had not been wasted. The
brass-buttoned fools!

Serenely unconscious that he was at liberty by explicit orders, because
the Department of Justice did not care to trap a werewolf before
ascertaining where the pack was and what the kill, he proceeded
leisurely to the corner, turned, and broke into a run, which carried
him to a drug store in Eightieth Street. Here he was joined by two men,
apparently coal heavers by the look of their hands and faces.

"They will take him to a hospital. Find where, then notify me. Remember,
this is your business, and woe to you if you fail. Where is it?" One of
the men extended an object wrapped in ordinary grocer's paper.

"Ha! That's good. I shall enjoy myself presently. Remember: telephone me
the moment you learn where they take him. He is still alive, bunglers!
And you came away empty-handed."

"There was nothing on him. We searched."

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