human
Hello! he said.
gpt
Had another row with your old man?
human
Old man! thought Evan.
gpt
Oh, nothing much,
human
Well, I must say you take your job pretty lightly,
gpt
So I have a job.
human
There was a story in the paper this morning about one of your lot. I brought it in. Sounds fishy.
gpt
A reporter assigned to police headquarters happened to see Inspector Durdan, chief of the Detective Bureau, and five plain clothes men climbing into a covered motor van on Mulberry street yesterday, and scenting a good story, followed in a taxi-cab. Naturally the Inspector does not personally take part except in raids of some importance. The chase led to No. 11 Van Dorn street. Van Dorn is an obscure little street on the far West side. An agitated individual was discovered on the steps of this house whom the reporter recognised as Mr. George Deaves, son of the multi-millionaire. He cried out to the police: 'He's gone in! He's gone in!' The police forced their way into the house. One was left at the door, and the reporter was not allowed to enter. Through the open door he saw other police inside, who must have entered from the back. They were searching the house. One called down-stairs: 'They've gone over the roofs towards MacDougall street,' whereupon several of the police started to run down the block to the corner of MacDougall and the reporter followed. He was just in time to see two men issue from a tenement house carrying what looked like the corpse of a third between them. The body was wrapped in an old cotton comforter. They threw it in a waiting taxi and made a getaway though the police fired in the air, and ordered them to stop. At police headquarters all information was refused. At Mr. Deaves' residence word was sent out that Mr. Deaves had not been out that morning. The woman who keeps the Van Dorn street house, a Mrs. Patten, either would not or could not tell what had happened.