'Is Mock Lake in this county?' I asked.
'No, Boulder County.'
'That's out of Noonan's territory. Suppose I take you over there and hand you to the sheriff?'
'No. He's Senator Keefer's son-in-law--Tom Cook. I might as well be here. Noonan could get to me through Keefer.'
'If it happened the way you say, you've got at least an even chance of beating the rap in court.'
'They won't give me a chance. I'd have stood it if there'd been a chance in the world of getting an even break--but not with them.'
'We're going back to the Hall,' I said. 'Keep your mouth shut.'
Noonan was waddling up and down the floor, cursing the half a dozen bulls who stood around wishing they were somewhere else.
'Here's something I found roaming around,' I said, pushing MacSwain forward.
Noonan knocked the ex-detective down, kicked him, and told one of the coppers to take him away.
Somebody called Noonan on the phone. I slipped out without saying, 'Good-night,' and walked back to the hotel.
Off to the north some guns popped.
A group of three men passed me, shifty-eyed, walking pigeon-toed.
A little farther along, another man moved all the way over to the curb to give me plenty of room to pass. I didn't know him and didn't suppose he knew me.
A lone shot sounded not far away.
As I reached the hotel, a battered black touring car went down the street, hitting fifty at least, crammed to the curtains with men.
I grinned after it. Poisonville was beginning to boil out under the lid, and I felt so much like a native that even the memory of my very un-nice part in the boiling didn't keep me from getting twelve solid end-to-end hours of sleep.
XV. Cedar Hill Inn
Mickey Linehan used the telephone to wake me a little after noon.
'We're here,' he told me. 'Where's the reception committee?'
'Probably stopped to get a rope. Check your bags and come up to the hotel. Room 537. Don't advertise your visit.'
I was dressed when they arrived.
Mickey Linehan was a big slob with sagging shoulders and a shapeless body that seemed to be coming apart at all its joints. His ears stood out like red wings, and his round red face usually wore the meaningless smirk of a half-wit. He looked like a comedian and was.
Dick Foley was a boy-sized Canadian with a sharp irritable face. He wore high heels to increase his height, perfumed his handkerchiefs and saved all the words he could.
They were both good operatives.
'What did the Old Man tell you about the job?' I asked when we had settled into seats. The Old Man was the manager of the Continental's San Francisco branch. He was also known as Pontius Pilate, because he smiled pleasantly when he sent us out to be crucified on suicidal jobs. He was a gentle, polite, elderly person with no more warmth in him than a hangman's rope. The Agency wits said he could spit icicles in July.
'He didn't seem to know much what it was all about,' Mickey said, 'except that you had wired for help. He said he hadn't got any reports from you for a couple of days.'
'The chances are he'll wait a couple more. Know anything about this Personville?'
Dick shook his head. Mickey said:
'Only that I've heard parties call it Poisonville like they meant it.'
I told them what I knew and what I had done. The telephone bell interrupted my tale in the last quarter.
Dinah Brand's lazy voice:
'Hello! How's the wrist?'
'Only a burn. What do you think of the crush-out?'
'It's not my fault,' she said. 'I did my part. If Noonan couldn't hold him, that's just too bad. I'm coming downtown to buy a hat this afternoon. I thought I'd drop in and see you for a couple of minutes if you're going to be there.'
'What time?'
'Oh, around three.'
'Right, I'll expect you, and I'll have that two hundred and a dime I owe you.'
'Do,' she said. 'That's what I'm coming in for. Ta-ta.'
I went back to my seat and my story.
