"By the way, son. What crime has Manning committed?"
"That," reported Byles, and his eyes glittered, "is what we're going to figure out"
He retreated a few steps, still riffling the pages of the book.
"I claim," he said, as though to a jury, "that this whole hullabaloo to arrest Manning was started by Manning himself. Who wrote those fellowship letters with a catch in 'em? Manning! Who, I'll swear, sent 'em anonymous letters that sic'd 'em on to me? Manning! Who started the rumours that the Foundation was rocky? Manning! Who practically challenged arrest? Manning! Who disappeared, making us think the charge was true? Manning!"
At each repetition of the word, "Manning," H.M. would nod in confirmation.
"Bull's-eye," he nodded. "Not an outer in the lot"
"But why!" demanded Byles. "Why the hell did Manning do it? He's not off his head. He can't want himself to be branded as a thief, even if the charge is wrong? There's a conspiracy, and you and Betterton are in it Otherwise, I ask you, why!"
"I can explain that, Gil." "Oh?" said Byles, making even his nose look suspicious.
"But I've got a 'why’ for you. Why are you so steamed up, wantin' to shove somebody in the clink no matter who it is? Why?"
Abruptly the District Attorney lowered his defences.
"All right," he snapped. "I'll tell you straight"
And Byles began to pace up and down the room.
"I'm in a jam," he said. "Maybe I oughtn't to have butted in, because I don't like Manning. Maybe I should have let Westchester handle it But I did butt in. I spread it all over the place. I charged into Manning's office, with twice as many accountants as I needed. I found nothing. Tomorrow, when I have to report, I've made a fool of myself.
"What's more, the Police Commissioner will be raving. The New York police aren't concerned in this, but every damn-fool newspaper reader now thinks they are. They're supposed to have the swimming-pool mystery, and look at 'em failing! Denials are not good! When there's trouble between the D.A. and the Police Commissioner, look out for City Hall!" Byles stopped his pacing. "And I'm the goat!" he added.
H.M. studied him curiously past the smoke of the stogy.
"So!" he murmured. "Then what you want, hey, is somebody to throw to the wolves?" "I didn't say that!"
"Well, son, you can throw me. I'm not goin' to make any defense, though I could. But just tell me, honest-Injun: are you actually going to shove me or anybody else into the coop?"
Byles hesitated. He stalked to the table. Drawing a powerful breath, he extended his arm and pointed the forefinger within an inch of H.M.'s nose.
"I could..." he began, and stopped.
Byles's arm fell to his side. He again paced up and down, the whitening daylight touching his long-nosed, pointed-chinned, uneasy face. He looked round at the bookcase. He stared at the windows. He examined the fireplace.
"Oh, the hell with it," said Byles, and flung the Spanish Inquisition into the fireplace. "No, curse your hide, I won't do that. I was just sore. Forget it."
And he went back to the table, sat down, and put his head in his hands.
"Somehow, Gil," H.M. spoke drowsily, "that's what I knew you were goin' to say. The trouble is, hey, that they'll jump over you for what's not your fault?"
"Yes!"
"And the Police Commissioner is wild?" "I told you that."
"YTcnow," said H.M., shaking his head, "I honestly think you ought to take a look at this morning's papers. No, don't start cursin' and swearin'! Cy, put 'em on the table in front of him."
Cy did so.
"Just pick 'em up," continued H.M. soothingly. "Read 'em slowly and carefully. Don't speak a word, and for the love of Esau don't blow your top, till you've finished every line."
The deathly hush of not-quite-dawn, with shapes still emerging faintly, pressed round the house. Cy wondered what had happened to Crystal, who was supposed to be preparing coffee.
Then strange noises began to issue from the throat of the District Attorney. Cy wished a candid camera could have recorded each expression. The last occurred when Byles stood up helplessly, his eyes bulging.
"Now keep quiet, son!" H.M. rebuked .him gently.
Getting his feet down from the table, H.M. dropped his stogy into an ash tray.
"I can't give it to you in American journalese, but it'll run something like this."
Then H.M. began to speak in a strange, high-falutin tone.
"The innocence of Frederick Manning," he intoned, "has been proved by District Attorney Byles, who never believed the few insinuations against Manning's honesty. 'Ill show you,' declared the DA. In the fastest piece of work ever done by the D.A.'s office..."
Byles uttered a noise like a ghost really getting down to business. Cy Norton prodded H.M. in the side.
"Swimming-pool mystery," Cy prompted. "Oh, ah! That ought to come first?" "Absolutely!"
"Swim Riddle Cracked!" intoned Sir Henry Merrivale.
"Officer Aloysius J. O'Casey, a plain New York cop and an Irishman to boot, solved the mystery of the Manning swimming pool. In doing this, he triumphed over the British detective, an old souse named Merrivale, who was baffled and has conceded defeat."
"Oh, my God," said Byles.
"Much credit for O'Casey's triumph must go
to District Attorney Byles' continued H.M. "The D.A. took his quick-witted Irish-American with him when he went to see the pool. O'Casey's quick eye noted a water-polo ball..."
H.M. broke off in reading an imaginary newspaper.
"In the first of the story, you've noticed," he said, "if s explained how Manning stuck his head inside a water-polo ball. He just trod water, and sneaked away while everybody was lookin' at me. In gettin' away, Manning was injured because he couldn't see; and he's confined to bed by the accident."
Byles, with a wild stare, shook a copy of the Record in the air.
"But none of this is true, is it?" he demanded.
"Oh, Gil!" protested H.M., as one might address a child. "Of course it ain't true. But tell me: what’s the name of the Police Commissioner?"
"Finnegan."
"And what's the name of the Mayor?" "O'Donnell."
"Well," said H.M., "I can't exactly see 'em gnashing their teeth over the story. Can you?"
Byles swallowed. "But this water-polo ball thing..."
"What about it?"
"It's nuts," the District Attorney said briefly.
"It's not nuts, Gil," H.M. assured him. "I had my doubts when I heard it, but I've been sittin' and thinkin'. If you can get your head inside that ball, and I think I see a way to do it, you can work it. I think," mused H.M., with an evil gleam in his eye,
"I’ll flummox 'em with it when I get home. Another British disappearin' mystery..."
Byles regarded him coldly.
"As a matter of fact..." Byles hesitated. "It's happened before," he said. "And it's American. Did you ever read an old book called The New York Tombs, published in 1874?"
"No, son. Should I have?"
"It's here," declared Byles, hurrying to one shelf and returning with a big volume bound in faded green. "In the old days there used to be a river or something of the sort behind the Tombs prison. One prisoner escaped with his head inside a wooden duck."
Cy Norton smote his fist on the table.
"Mr. Byles," he said excitedly, "where's your newspaper sense?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"This is our follow-up!" said Cy. "This is it! Years ago, from the old Tombs, a prisoner escapes with his head in a rubber duck..."
"A wooden duck!"
"We'd better make it rubber. That sounds better. Officer O'Casey, a keen student of crim-onology, remembers this case which has happened before. Everybody will believe it then!"