The smile that had nothing to do with pleasure was lifting the ends of Ned Beaumont's lips again and his eyes glittered through cigar-smoke. He shook his head slowly and spoke slowly in an unpleasantly sweet tone: 'No, Farr, there isn't any reason, or none of that kind. Paul promised to spring Ivans after election, but. believe it or not, Paul never had anybody killed and, even if he did, Ivans wasn't important enough to have anybody killed for. No, Farr, there isn't any reason and I wouldn't like to think you were going around thinking there was.'
'For God's sake, Ned, get me right,' Farr protested. 'You know damned well there's nobody in the city any stronger for Paul and for you than me. You ought to know that. I didn't mean anything by what I said except that —well, that you can always count on me.'
Ned Beaumont said, 'That's fine,' without much enthusiasm and stood up.
Farr rose and came around the desk with a red hand out. 'What's your hurry?' he asked. 'Why don't you stick around and see how this West acts when they bring him in? Or'—he looked at his watch—'what are you doing tonight? How about going to dinner with me?'
'Sorry I can't,' Ned Beaumont replied. 'I've got to run along.'
He let Farr pump his hand up and down, murmured a 'Yes, I will' in response to the District Attorney's insistence that he drop in often and that they get together some night, and went out.
Walter Ivans was standing beside one of a row of men operating nailing-machines in the box-factory where he was employed as foreman, when Ned Beaumont came in. He saw Ned Beaumont at once and, hailing him with an uplifted hand, came down the center aisle, but in Ivans's china-blue eyes and round fair face there was somewhat less pleasure than he seemed to be trying to put there.
Ned Beaumont said, ''Lo, Walt,' and by turning slightly towards the door escaped the necessity of either taking or pointedly ignoring the shorter man's proffered hand. 'Let's get out of this racket.'
Ivans said something that was blurred by the din of metal driving metal into wood and they went to the open door by which Ned Beaumont had entered. Outside was a wide platform of solid timber. A flight of wooden steps ran down twenty feet to the ground.
They stood on the wooden platform and Ned Beaumont asked: 'You know one of the witnesses against your brother was knocked off last night?'
'Y-yes, I saw it in the p-p-paper.'
Ned Beaumont asked: 'You know the other one's not sure now he can identify Tim?'
'N-no, I didn't know that, N-ned.'
Ned Beaumont said: 'You know if he doesn't Tim'll get off.'
'Y-yes.'
Ned Beaumont said: 'You don't look as happy about it as you ought to.'
Ivans wiped his forehead with his shirt-sleeve. 'B-b-but I am, N-ned, b-by God I am!'
'Did you know West? The one that was killed.'
'N-no, except that I went to s-see him once, t-to ask him to g-go kind of easy on T-tim.'
'What'd he say?'
'He wouldn't.'
'When was that?'
Ivans shifted his feet and wiped his face with his sleeve again. 'T-t-two or three d-days ago.'
Ned Beaumont asked softly: 'Any idea who could have killed him, Walt?'
Ivans shook his head violently from side to side.
'Any idea who could've had him killed, Walt?'
Ivans shook his head.
For a moment Ned Beaumont stared reflectively over Ivans's shoulder. The clatter of the nailing-machines came through the door ten feet away and from another story came the whirr of saws. Ivans drew in and expelled a long breath.
Ned Beaumont's mien had become sympathetic when he transferred his gaze to the shorter man's china- blue eyes again. He leaned down a little and asked: 'Are you all right, Walt? I mean there are going to be people who'll think maybe you might have shot West to save your brother. Have you got—?'
'I-I-I was at the C-club all last night, from eight o'clock t-t-till after t-two this morning,' Walter Ivans replied as rapidly as the impediment in his speech permitted. 'Harry Sloss and B-ben Ferriss and Brager c-c-can tell you.'
Ned Beaumont laughed. 'That's a lucky break for you, Walt,' he said gaily.
He turned his back on Walter Ivans and went down the wooden steps to the street. He paid no attention to Walter Ivans's very friendly 'Good-by, Ned.'
From the box-factory Ned Beaumont walked four blocks to a restaurant and used a telephone. He called the four numbers he had called earlier in the day, asking again for Paul Madvig and, not getting him on the wire, left instructions for Madvig to call him. Then he got a taxicab and went home.
Additional pieces of mail had been put with those already on the table by his door. He hung up his hat and overcoat, lighted a cigar, and sat down with his mail in the largest of the red-plush chairs. The fourth envelope he opened was similar to the one the District Attorney had shown him. It contained a single sheet of paper bearing three typewritten sentences without salutation or signature:
Did you find Taylor Henry's body after he was dead or were you present when he was murdered?
Why did you not report his death until after the police had found the body?
Do you think you can save the guilty by manufacturing evidence against the innocent?
Ned Beaumont screwed up his eyes and wrinkled his forehead over this message and drew much smoke from his cigar. He compared it with the one the District Attorney had received. Paper and typing were alike, as were the manner in which each paper's three sentences were arranged and the time of the postmarks.
Scowling, he returned each to its envelope and put them in his pocket, only to take them out again immediately to reread and re-examine them. Too rapid smoking made his cigar burn irregularly down one side. He put the cigar on the edge of the table beside him with a grimace of distaste and picked at his mustache with nervous fingers. He put the messages away once more and leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling and biting a finger-nail. He ran fingers through his hair. He put the end of a finger between his collar and his neck. He sat up and took the envelopes out of his pocket again, but put them back without having looked at them. He chewed his lower lip. Finally he shook himself impatiently and began to read the rest of his mail. He was reading it when the telephone-bell rang.
He went to the telephone. 'Hello. . . . Oh, 'lo, Paul, where are you? . . . How long will you be there? . . . Yes, fine, drop in on your way. . . . Right, I'll be here.'
He returned to his mail.
Paul Madvig arrived at Ned Beaumont's rooms as the bells in the grey church across the street were ringing the Angelus. He came in saying heartily: 'Howdy, Ned. When'd you get back?' His big body was clothed in grey tweeds.
'Late this morning,' Ned Beaumont replied as they shook hands.
'Make out all right?'
Ned Beaumont showed the edges of his teeth in a contented smile. 'I got what I went after—all of it.'
'That's great.' Madvig threw his hat on a chair and sat on another beside the fireplace.
Ned Beaumont returned to his chair. 'Anything happen while I was gone?' he asked as he picked up the half-filled cocktail-glass standing beside ti-me silver shaker on the table at his elbow.
'We got the muddle on the sewer-contract straightened out.'
Ned Beaumont sipped his cocktail and asked: 'Have to n-make much of a cut?'
'Too much. There won't be anything like the profit there ought to be, but that's better than taking a chance on stirring things up this close to election. We'll make it up on the street-work next year when the Salem and Chestnut extensions go through.'
Ned Beaumont nodded. He was looking at the blond man's outstretched crossed ankles. He said: 'You oughtn't to wear silk socks with tweeds.'
