 Locating Brother Jarvis Pocket, who now ran a rescue mission along L.A.'s skid row, had been the only real break I'd had in the case so far. At least I hoped it would be. The one-time field director of the silent era had often visited with his old friend Tom Sanford, alias Barney Slade, might put us on the track of Slade's killer. I watched Brother Pocket as he paced back and forth across the small room, scratching his chin and thoughtfully glancing up at the blank spaces in the wall where the photographs had been.