It was something gained, at any rate, that the other had hesitated to shoot. That lonely vigil at the top of the darkened stairs had either sobered him or shaken his nerve. The inspector slowly wormed himself a step higher.
“Don’t be a silly ass, Stebbins. It won’t do you any good to kill me. Think what you’d feel like when they came to pinion you in the condemned cell.” He crawled cautiously to a further step. “Think of the hangman adjusting the straps, and the parson reading the burial service.”
“I can hear you moving,” said the voice above, and Labar fancied that there was irresolution in the tone. “Don’t you try no monkey business now.”
“You’ll have a white cap over your face,” went on Labar, “and they’ll take you out in a little procession—”
“Shut up,” said the voice ferociously. “You can’t frighten me.”
“I don’t want to frighten you,” said Labar. “I don’t think you’re the kind of man to be frightened. You’ve got sense—not like some of those other fellows. Suppose you give me that gun and let me look after you. You’ll trust me, won’t you?”
There was no obvious reason why Stebbins should trust a detective who was trying to arrest him, but Labar did not feel that this was a time at which the other would consider the point deeply. He was concerned chiefly to hold the man in talk till such time as he was near enough to make a dash. If he could tackle the fellow round the knees, the steep flight of stairs would do the rest.
“And who the blazes are you?” demanded Stebbins.
The inspector mounted another stair. “I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Labar,” he said. “I’m anxious to do the fair thing by you.”
“What do you want me for?”
“I’ll tell you all about that later on.” Labar’s voice was coaxing. “Come on now. You throw me down that gun and we’ll have a talk.”
There was a pause. Labar was sure that he was almost within reach of his man, but his eyes could tell him nothing. It might be fatal to make a miscalculation.
Something fell behind him and clattered down the stairs. “There you are,” said the voice. “I’ll give in.”
The detective pulled himself to his feet, and groping forward felt an ankle. He moved up two or three steps and thrust his arm through the other’s arm. “I knew that you had common sense,” he declared amiably. “Half a moment till I strike a match. It’s as dark as the pit in here. We don’t want to break our necks.”
Together they emerged from the front door just as Moreland was thinking of organising a rescue party of one, and as the crash of glass behind them told of a smashed skylight.
XVIII
There was no charge made against Stebbins that night, and inquiries from the newspapers which were anxious to know more of the cause of the affray were met with a stubborn silence. Labar, in fact, had gone home after searching Stebbins carefully with his own hands. The rest he felt could wait till he had some reasonable time for sleep. A night’s detention would do Stebbins no harm, and might put him in a frame of mind to answer some questions that Labar had decided to defer till his own mind was fresh.
With eight hours sleep, a bath, and a little medical attention to his hurt, the inspector felt almost as spruce as he looked, when he arrived at Grape Street in the morning. He cleared up a few odds and ends and had Stebbins brought to his room. In the cold light of day that man answered imperfectly to any conception of a desperate gunman. He was a loose, tall man with a thin sallow face and weak chin. He had neither shaved nor brushed his hair, and his shifty eyes were sunk in deep circles. He eyed Labar nervously, as the detective motioned away his escort, and placed a seat where the light from the window would fall on the detained man’s face.
“Sit down,” said the detective pleasantly. “Have a cigarette. You look pretty jagged this morning.”
In silence Stebbins took the cigarette and seated himself with hunched shoulders on the chair that was indicated. Labar leaned forward and gave him a light.
“Had time to have a good think about things, haven’t you? What made you fly off the handle last night? Bit jumpy, weren’t you?”
“I can’t remember anything about last night,” said Stebbins. “Must have been drunk.”
“Well, I wouldn’t altogether say that.” Labar’s tone was that of friendly disagreement. He stirred a little paper package that lay on the edge of his desk with a long forefinger. “I guess you’d had a shot too much, but it wasn’t drink, eh?”
“Right oh,” agreed the other languidly. “I was doped.”
“Want me to have that written down?” asked Labar. “You know I may have to use any statement you may make as evidence?”
“You’ve got me. I may as well shoot the whole works.” He stretched out a shaking hand and Labar gently removed the package of heroin beyond reach. “Give me just a nip of that and I’ll tell you where I got it.”
“No. You must ask the doctor presently. Now tell me why you didn’t skip as you were advised to?”
“Advised to?” Stebbins shook his head blankly.
Labar held a dirty piece of paper in front of him and read. “The point is full of the greatest possible interest to me. I shall be glad to see you at some time and discuss it in detail. You will of course let me know when you are coming. These things can be settled so much more easily by word of mouth.”
There was a gleam of intelligence in Stebbins’ eyes that swiftly faded to be replaced by a sullen mask of bewilderment. “That’s Greek to me,” he declared.
“I thought you were going to come clean,” observed Labar mildly. “Let me remind you of one or two things. I
