"You wrecked that damn subway!" said Byles, whipping round and pointing the Spanish Inquisition at HM. "That's a very serious offence. People were hurt..." "Who was hurt, son?"
"Money was stolen from a change booth. That’s still more serious."
"How much money, Gil?"
"The actual sum, thirty-seven cents, makes no difference to the law. Your offence is so serious ..."
"Looky here, Gil," H.M. interposed with a distressed air. "Why must you people keep bluff in' more than your hand is worth? I always think, 'God love you, do you want to make such a fuss about twenty dollars?' and I pay up. But this is different" "Ho! Is it?"
"You could stick me up in front of the beak, yes," said H.M., contemplating his cigar. "But in your law or mine, Gil, it’s still a misdemeanour and not a felony."
"Then you admit it!" Byles said quickly. "What really hurts me," he went on with an air of deep injury, "is the sheer ingratitude of your behaviour! Do you know who hushed the whole thing up? Do you know who returned your Gladstone bag? I’ll tell you: it was the police department"
H.M. looked meekly at his cigar.
Byles, now in full flood of eloquence, addressed Cy.
"You'd be surprised," he began, in the tone of a popular magazine article, "how many small things find their way to the desk of the Police Commissioner himself. This old reprobate's bag was opened. Aside from a number of articles modestly stamped ME, his name was all over the place."
"So you identified him?" asked Cy, with a wooden face.
"He's well-known. He's got a title. He's a friend of mine. That same afternoon, in the papers, he had achieved considerable notoriety by using the term 'bastard' in reference to the British Minister of Muddle."
"But that's what he is," H.M. complained querulously.
"So the Commissioner," said Byles, "thought we'd better forget the whole thing, and return the bag anonymously."
"How was it returned?" Cy asked quickly.
"It was just pushed inside the kitchen door here," retorted Byles, "when there was nobody in the kitchen. I didn't even know where H.M. was staying."
In his heart Cy thought the boys downtown had done a pretty decent job. H.M. appeared to think so too.
"I'm grateful about that, Gil. I sort of guessed
that's what it was "
"You guessed it?"
"Oh, son! This morning by the swimming pool, when that copper O'Casey had a fit and wanted me jugged, you soothed him down like a mother. Anybody but an imbecile would have seen you knew all about it; your voice showed it."
Cy’s memory moved back, and found this true. But H.M. was not interested in the matter.
"I wonder, Gil, if I could ask you a question about that bag?"
"Ask it!" Byles said menacingly.
"When you returned the bag, did you send a .38 revolver along with it?"
Byles closed his eyes. With powerful restraint he controlled himself.
"Well, no," he answered offhandedly. "We don't do that, as a general rule. Of course, if the suitcase belonged to some very important person, we might send a night stick or a tear-gas bomb." Then he exploded. "God damn it, did you expect a revolver?"
"Easy, Gil. E-e-asy! Keep your shirt on!"
"I've got my shirt on," returned the District Attorney, swiftly unbuttoning his waistcoat and dragging out about a third of the shirt as proof. "I've got my temper, too! But I'm not going to have it long!"
Then he pointed the Spanish Inquisition straight at H.M.
"You're crazy!" he said.
Still H.M. wore the look of a penitent dog.
"Sure, Gil," he agreed. "Can I ask one more question?"
"No! Wait a minute! What is it?"
"Your accountants," mused H.M., "finished their work on the books at the Manning Foundation about half-past eleven last night, didn't they?"
Byles, who was stuffing his shirt back into his trousers, looked up sharply. "How did you know that?"
'Well, I’ll tell you." H.M. savoured the cigar. "If you dare a Yank to do something in twenty-four hours, he won't stop at that He gets so mad he insists on doin' it in twelve hours, just to show you. I dunno why, but he does."
Byles started to speak, but closed his mouth again.
"When you didn't reach me by eleven-thirty last night—and you had the telephone number, 'cause I phoned your office—I guessed you'd finished that auditing. Eleven-thirty was the twelve-hour line from the time of our bet And I also guessed the news. Did you finish, Gil?"
"Yes!"
"Is Manning a crook? Did he pinch a hundred thousand? What's wrong with his books?"
With a short throat clearing. Howard Betterton arose from the tapestry chair and strolled towards the table as Manning's lawyer.
"That, I'm afraid," said Betterton, "is what's upsetting the District Attorney. There is nothing wrong with Mr. Manning's books."
"Not a penny missing?"
"Not a red cent."
"Cor, how you amaze me," breathed H.M., and put the stogy back in his mouth.
"In fact," Betterton continued, putting his fingertips on the table, "the Manning Foundation has never been in such excellent financial shape. Oh, one other thing! Sir Henry and Mr. Norton! I think you both heard about two young men, one from Michigan and the other from West Virginia?"
Cy nodded.
"They were given paid fellowships," he said. "One in verse and the other in music. Manning was supposed to have got 'em into taking the fellowships for nothing, and pocketed the money himself! That’s what stung the District Attorney into taking action!"
"Exactly. I have here"—Betterton produced, with something of a flourish, a flimsly typewritten sheet—"a copy of a letter sent by Mr. Manning to Mr. Digby Purcell three days before the former's disappearance. Mr. Purcell is the Michigan man. A letter to the other, just like it, is still in the files."
Betterton handed it to H.M., and Cy read over his shoulder.
Dear Mr. Purcelclass="underline"
I am appalled to discover, following my letter of June 10th, that a clerical error had led me into an unfortunate mistake. I shall be happy to explain this when we meet But I can assure you that our funds are, and have been, at all times satisfactory. By way of apology I enclose our cheque for $2,500 (two thousand five hundred dollars) in a lump sum, rather than pursue our usual system of...
"Thank you," said Betterton, receiving the letter back and putting it into his pocket.
And now Byles was really dangerous. He had regained his poise and his Mephistophelian calm.
His black hair and eyebrows stood out against his sallow face. Riffling the pages of the book. Byles let his dark eyes rove around the group.
"You knew all about this!" he said to Betterton.
"I knew the Manning Foundation was in good shape, yes."
"And that's why you didn't try to throw chairs in my way!"
"I begged you not to do it, sir. However, if you insisted..."
The twisted smile curved round Byles's lips.
"Not a bad conspiracy," he said, and looked at H.M. "What's more, you're in it too!"
"Easy, son! Stop the bus! All I did was challenge you to investigate Manning, because I knew smackin' well he wasn't a crook."
"You wilfully and deliberately," said Byles, "gave me false information. You told me Manning's girl friend was a fan dancer..."
"I didn't say that, Gil. Manning said it. To Crystal who spread the report."
"You deliberately gave us a wrong address and telephone number. The police were led astray for practically a whole day..."
"By this girl friend, hey?"
"She was your girl friend, you old ghoul!"
"Oh, son! That's a shockin' thing to say."
"Another little charge against you. Not only did you obstruct the police in carrying out their duty, but you aided and abetted a criminal in escaping from the law!"