Ned Beaumont's face.
A thin mocking smile that the other man could not see twitched for an instant the corners of Ned Beaumont's mouth. He said: 'There's not much of a case against him when you come to look at it closely.'
Farr nodded slowly at the corner of his desk. 'Maybe, but his blowing town that same night don't look so damned good.'
'He had another reason for that,' Ned Beaumont said, 'a pretty good one.' The shadowy smile came and went.
Farr nodded again in the manner of one willing to be convinced. 'You don't think there's a chance that he really killed him?'
Ned Beaumont's reply was given carelessly: 'I don't think he did it, but there's always a chance and you've got plenty to hold him awhile on if you want to.'
The District Attorney raised his head and looked at Ned Beaumont. He smiled with a mixture of diffidence and good-fellowship and said: 'Tell me to go to hell if it's none of my business, but why in the name of God did Paul send you to New York after Bernie Despain?'
Ned Beaumont withheld his reply for a thoughtful moment. Then he moved his shoulders a little and said: 'He didn't send me. He let me go.
Farr did not say anything.
Ned Beaumont filled his lungs with cigar-smoke, emptied them, and said: 'Bernie welshed on a bet with me. That's why he took the run-out. It just happened that Taylor Henry was killed the night of the day Peggy O'Toole came in in front with fifteen hundred of my dollars on her.'
The District Attorney said hastily: 'That's all right, Ned. It's none of my business what you and Paul do. I'm—you see, it's just that I'm not so damned sure that maybe Despain didn't happen to run into young Henry on the street by luck and take a crack at him. I think maybe I'll hold him awhile to be safe.' His blunt undershot mouth curved in a smile that was somewhat ingratiating. 'Don't think I'm pushing my snoot into Paul's affairs, or yours, but—' His florid face was turgid and shiny. He suddenly bent over and yanked a desk-drawer open. Paper rattled under his fingers. His hand came out of the drawer and went across the desk towards Ned Beaumont. In his hand was a small white envelope with a slit edge. 'Here.' His voice was thick. 'Look at this and see what you think of it, or is it only damned foolishness?'
Ned Beaumont took the envelope, but did not immediately look at it. He kept his eyes, now cold and bright, focused on the District Attorney's red face.
Farr's face became a darker red under the other man's stare and he raised a beefy hand in a placatory gesture. His voice was placatory: 'I don't attach any importance to it, Ned, but—I mean we always get a lot of junk like that on every case that comes up and—well, read it and see.'
After another considerable moment Ned Beaumont shifted his gaze from Farr to the envelope. The address was typewritten:
M. J. Farr, Esq.
District Attorney
City Hall
City
Personal
The postmark was dated the previous Saturday. Inside was a single sheet of white paper on which three sentences with neither salutation nor signature were typewritten:
Why did Paul Madvig steal one of Taylor Henry's hats after he was murdered?
What became of the hat that Taylor Henry was wearing when he was murdered?
Why was the man who claimed to have first found Taylor Henry's body made a member of your staff?
Ned Beaumont folded this communication, returned it to its envelope, dropped it down on the desk, and brushed his mustache with a thumb-nail from center to left and from center to right, looking at the District Attorney with level eyes, addressing him in a level tone: 'Well?'
Farr's cheeks rippled again where they covered his jaw-muscles. He frowned over pleading eyes. 'For God's sake, Ned,' he said earnestly, 'don't think I'm taking that seriously. We get bales of that kind of crap every time anything happens. I only wanted to show it to you.'
Ned Beaumont said: 'That's all right as long as you keep on feeling that way about it.' He was still level of eye and voice. 'Have you said anything to Paul about it?'
'About the letter? No. I haven't seen him since it came this morning.'
Ned Beaumont picked the envelope up from the desk and put it in his inner coat-pocket. The District Attorney, watching the letter go into the pocket, seemed uncomfortable, but he did not say anything.
Ned Beaumont said, when he had stowed the letter away and had brought a thin dappled cigar out of another pocket: 'I don't think I'd say anything to him about it if I were you. He's got enough on his mind.'
Farr was saying, 'Sure, whatever you say, Ned,' before Ned Beaumont had finished his speech.
After that neither of them said anything for a while during which Farr resumed his staring at the desk- corner and Ned Beaumont stared thoughtfully at Farr. This period of silence was ended by a soft buzzing that came from under the District Attorney's desk.
Farr picked up his telephone and said: 'Yes Yes.' His undershot lip crept out over the edge of the upper lip and his florid face became mottled. 'The hell he's not!' he snarled. 'Bring the bastard in and put him up against him and then if he don't we'll do some work on him.
Yes. . . . Do it.' He slammed the receiver on its prong and glared at Ned Beaumont.
Ned Beaumont had paused in the act of lighting his cigar. It was in one hand. His lighter, alight, was in the other. His face was thrust forward a little between them. His eyes glittered. He put the tip of his tongue between his lips, withdrew it, and moved his lips in a smile that had nothing to do with pleasure. 'News?' he asked in a low persuasive voice.
The District Attorney's voice was savage: 'Boyd West, the other brother that identified Ivans. I got to thinking about it when we were talking and sent out to see if he could still identify him. He says he's not sure, the bastard.'
Ned Beaumont nodded as if this news was not unexpected. 'How'll that fix things?'
'He can't get away with it,' Farr snarled. 'He identified him once and he'll stick to it when he gets in front of a jury. I'm having him brought in now and by the time I get through with him he'll be a good boy.'
Ned Beaumont said: 'Yes? And suppose he doesn't?'
The District Attorney's desk trembled under a blow from the District Attorney's fist. 'He will.'
Apparently Ned Beaumont was unimpressed. He lighted his cigar, extinguished and pocketed his lighter, blew smoke out, and asked in a mildly amused tone: 'Sure he will, but suppose he doesn't? Suppose he looks at Tim and says: 'I'm not sure that's him'?'
Farr smote his desk again. 'He won't—not when I'm through with him—he won't do anything but get up in front of the jury and say: 'That's him.''
Amusement went out of Ned Beaumont's face and he spoke a bit wearily: 'He's going to back down on the identification and you know he is. Well, what can you do about it? There's nothing you can do about it, is there? It means your case against Tim Ivans goes blooey. You found the carload of booze where he left it, but the only proof you've got that he was driving it when it ran down Norman West was the eyewitness testimony of his two brothers. Well, if Francis is dead and Boyd's afraid to talk you've got no case and you know it.'
In a loud enraged voice Farr began: 'If you think I'm going to sit on my—'
But with an impatient motion of the hand holding his cigar Ned Beaumont interrupted him. 'Sitting, standing, or riding a bicycle,' he said, 'you're licked and you know it.'
'Do I? I'm District Attorney of this city and county and I—' Abruptly Farr stopped blustering. He cleared his throat and swallowed. Belligerence went out of his eyes, to be replaced first by confusion and then by something akin to fear. He leaned across the desk, too worried to keep worry from showing in his florid face. He said: 'Of course you know if you—if Paul—I mean if there's any reason why I shouldn't—you know— we can let it go at that.'
