"Now, Mr. Curtis, do you recognize him?"
"Yes," said Curtis---whose experiences in New York were revealing an
unsuspected side of his character, for in 56th Street, in Morris
Siegelman's, and now again in Market Street, he had proved himself what
Allen Breck would have termed "a bonnie fighter"--"yes, that is the man
who spoke to me in the Central Hotel. I imagine he is Martiny."
"Good! Put him in the car!"
The detective rushed off, but soon returned.
"Sorry to trouble you, but will you come this way a minute?" he said.
Curtis went with him. In Henry Street a small group was gathered in
the roadway. A policeman had proved himself a better shot than Rossi,
and Hunter's murder was already avenged in part.
The dead man was left to the district police, to be carried to the
mortuary in an ambulance. Steingall, with his prisoner, returned to
headquarters, while Clancy made a thorough search of the room the pair
had occupied in De Silva's house.
The Hungarian did not deny his name nor his share in the earlier crime.
"It is fate," he said doggedly in his broken French. "When they tell
me we have killed the man I know the police get us."
He would say no more. His words seemed to imply that neither he nor
Rossi meant to do other than maim the journalist whom they regarded as
de Courtois's dangerous helper; but he did not urge the plea.
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