CHAPTER 22Mr. Pinkerton, bound, gagged and blindfolded, winced at the increasing pain in his wrists and ankles and the dreadful ache of his back and arms, and tried desperately but weakly to pull the rope off his hands or to scrape the bandage from his mouth. At the same time he realized with a terrible certainty of conviction that he could not do it. His only hope was that the man in his brown suit—he could at least smell, and the odor of the camphor balls was still faintly noticeable—would keep his word. He had said, when they had forced him to write what he had done with the oilskin pouch, after they had torn and cut his clothes off him and ripped the lining out—or so Mr. Pinkerton correctly judged from the noise—that he would call the police when he had found Mr. Berkowitz, as he calle
