“Nicely. Maybe I’ll have news for you this evening.”
“Did you get those specimens of Whitacre’s writing from Ogburn? Or shall I have someone else take care of it?”
“I’ll get them this evening,” I promised.
I wasted ten minutes trying to reach Ogburn at his office before I looked at my watch and saw that it was after six o’clock. I found his residence listed in the telephone directory, and called him there.
“Have you anything in Whitacre’s writing at home?” I asked. “I want to get a couple of samples—would like to get them this evening, though if necessary I can wait until tomorrow.”
“I think I have some of his letters here. If you come over now I’ll give them to you.”
“Be with you in fifteen minutes,” I told him.
“I’m going down to Ogburn’s,” I told Dean, “to get some of Whitacre’s scribbling while you’re waiting for your man to come from Headquarters to take charge of this place. I’ll meet you at the States as soon as you can get away. We’ll eat there, and make our plans for the night.”
“Uh-huh,” he grunted, making himself comfortable in one chair, with his feet on another, as I let myself out.
Ogburn was dressing when I reached his apartment, and had his collar and tie in his hand when he came to the door to let me in.
“I found quite a few of Herb’s letters,” he said as we walked back to his bedroom.
I looked through the fifteen or more letters that lay on a table, selecting the ones I wanted, while Ogburn went on with his dressing.
“How are you progressing?” he asked presently.
“So-so. Heard anything that might help?”
“No, but just a few minutes ago I happened to remember that Herb used to go over to the Mills Building quite frequently. I’ve seen him going in and out often, but never thought anything of it. I don’t know whether it is of any importance or—”
I jumped out of my chair.
“That does it!” I cried. “Can I use your phone?”
“Certainly. It’s in the hallway, near the door.” He looked at me in surprise. “It’s a slot phone; have you a nickel in change?”
“Yes.” I was going through the bedroom door.
“The switch is near the door,” he called after me, “if you want a light. Do you think—”
But I didn’t stop to listen to his questions. I was making for the telephone, searching my pockets for a nickel. And, fumbling hurriedly with the nickel, I muffed it—not entirely by accident, for I had a hunch that I wanted to work out. The nickel rolled away down the carpeted hallway. I switched on the light, recovered the nickel, and called the “Quirks’ ” number. I’m glad I played that hunch.
Dean was still there.
“That joint’s dead,” I sang. “Take the landlady down to Headquarters, and grab the Landis woman, too. I’ll meet you there—at Headquarters.”
“You mean it?” he rumbled.
“Almost,” I said, and hung up the receiver.
I switched off the hall light and, whistling a little tune to myself, walked back to the room where I had left Ogburn. The door was not quite closed. I walked straight up to it, kicked it open with one foot, and jumped back, hugging the wall.
Two shots—so close together that they were almost one—crashed.
Flat against the wall, I pounded my feet against the floor and wainscot, and let out a medley of shrieks and groans that would have done credit to a carnival wild-man.
A moment later Ogburn appeared in the doorway, a revolver in his hand, his face wolfish. He was determined to kill me. It was my life or his, so—
I slammed my gun down on the sleek, brown top of his head.
When he opened his eyes, two policemen were lifting him into the back of a patrol-wagon.
I found Dean in the detectives’ assembly-room in the Hall of Justice.
“The landlady identifies Mae Landis as Mrs. Quirk,” he said. “Now what?”
“Where is she now?”
“One of the policewomen is holding both of them in the Captain’s office.”
“Ogburn is over in the Pawnshop Detail office,” I told him. “Let’s take the landlady in for a look at him.”
Ogburn sat leaning forward, holding his head in his hands and staring sullenly at the feet of the uniformed man who guarded him, when we took the gaunt landlady in to see him.
“Ever see him before?” I asked her.
“Yes”—reluctantly—“that’s Mr. Quirk.”
Ogburn didn’t look up, and he paid not the least attention to any of us.
After we had told the landlady that she could go home, Dean led me back to a far corner of the assembly-room, where we could talk without disturbance.
“Now spill it!” he burst out. “How come all the startling developments, as the newspaper boys call ’em?”
“Well, first-off, I knew that the question Who killed Bob Teal?
could have only one answer. Bob wasn’t a boob! He might possibly have let a man he was trailing lure him behind a row of billboards on a dark night, but he would have gone prepared for trouble. He wouldn’t have died with empty hands, from a gun that was close enough to scorch his coat. The murderer had to be somebody Bob trusted, so it couldn’t be Whitacre. Now Bob was a conscientious sort of lad, and he wouldn’t have stopped shadowing Whitacre to go over and talk with some friend. There was only one man who could have persuaded him to drop Whitacre for a while, and that one man was the one he was working for—Ogburn.
“If I hadn’t known Bob, I might have thought he had hidden behind the billboards to watch Whitacre; but Bob wasn’t an amateur. He knew better than to pull any of that spectacular gumshoe stuff. So there was nothing to it but Ogburn!
“With that to go on, the rest was ducksoup. All the stuff Mae Landis gave us—identifying the gun as Whitacre’s, and giving Ogburn an alibi by saying she had talked to him on the phone at ten o’clock—only convinced me that she and
