“Who the hell wants to know?” he asked, his voice the patronizing drawl with which one addresses a child.
“I do!” shouted the man, and barged across the threshold.
“You would,” agreed Clint Kale, still keeping his posture of relaxed inattention. “And who, may I ask, are you?”
It was Boston Blackie who blurted an answer.
“For God’s sake, boss,” he warned, “can’t you spot ’em?”
The heavy set man turned a glowering glance in the direction of Boston Blackie, then swept his glittering eyes back to Clint Kale.
“I’m Ellery Hatcher, the chief of police in this here town.”
Clint Kale reached for a cigarette.
“Ah, yes, you would be. Pardon me, Mr. Hatcher. But I never work with the local police. I am only called into a community to solve that which has hitherto been unsolved. That means that I am seeking to cover the inefficiency of the local authorities.
“Under the circumstances, I prefer to have no business dealings with them whatever.”
The chief of police took a threatening step forward. Boston Blackie’s hand strayed toward the handle of a hammer which had been used in uncrating the machinery.
“Well, by heck, I got something to say about that!” bellowed the officer. “You can’t come bustin’ into my territory with all these fool contraptions and then try to ignore me. I won’t stand for it.”
Clint Kale slowly removed his slippered feet from the bed, dropped the four legs of the chair to the floor with a thump, and regarded his visitor quizzically.
“Chief,” he said, “are there any speakeasies in town, any places where illegal beverages are dispensed?”
The officer snorted.
“So, you’re a revenue agent, eh?”
“Not at all. I had a purpose in asking the question.”
“The answer is no!” growled Hatcher.
“Ah, yes,” said Kale. “Not being any speakeasies, of course, it follows as a necessary corollary, that you are not receiving any hush money, graft, percentage, rake-off or knock down from such nefarious enterprises.”
The chief sneered.
“So that’s it?”
“Not at all, chief. Not at all. I merely asked the question, because I am now about to demonstrate to you the facility with which my lie detector operates.”
And Clint Kale pressed a button.
The electric lights dimmed. There was a whir of a motor, the sputter of an arc. The ancient X-ray machine sent out a flickering light from the old bulb which had long since ceased to function properly. The radio took up the song and thundered the static from its loud speaker.
Clint Kale took a seat before the dictating machine, worked the treads with his feet, and spoke loudly into the mouthpiece.
“Operator, this is a test of the veracity of Ellery Hatcher, the chief of police of Middlevale. He has just testified that there are no speakeasies in town and that he collects no graft from them.”
Kale gestured with his hand.
“If you’ll just sit in that chair, facing the radio machine, and with your profile to the camera, chief, I shall demonstrate the unfailing accuracy of my equipment.”
But Chief Hatcher refused the proffered chair.
“What the hell’s the idea? I ain’t on no witness stand. I came up here to see what your doin’, an’ I want a report. You an’ me ain’t goin’ to have no fight unless you want to start one. But you gotta cut me in on this, particularly on the publicity.”
“Oh, yes,” observed Clint Kale, “the publicity. I’d forgotten that. Boston Blackie, please see if you can get that reporter chap on the telephone. Young Rosamond, Carl Rosamond. Call the Courier, and if you can’t get him there...”
Chief Hatcher interrupted.
“Don’t call that number. It’s six fifteen. He gets off work about five thirty and eats at the Green Star lunch counter. After that he drops in at the drug store. He’s a little sweet on Betty Gilvray. Tell you what, call Gilvray’s drug store. You don’t need the number, just tell central you want Gilvray’s drug store.”
Boston Blackie put through the call, asked for Carl Rosamond.
“Here he is.”
“Ah, yes, exactly,” remarked Clint Kale as he sauntered to the telephone, took the receiver and drawled a lazy “hello.”
“Good evening, Mr. Rosamond. That was a very nice write-up, ably handled. I have some more publicity for you. Yes, this is Mr. Kale, the detective. Yes. Got your pencil? Good. Get this.
“Chief Hatcher — er, what were the initials again, Mr. Hatcher? — Oh, yes, Chief Ellery Hatcher, of the local police force, denied emphatically that there were any speakeasies in the city, or that he received any graft from the operators of the same. When asked to take the chair in front of the lie detector and repeat that statement he refused...”
There was the sound of swift motion, the pad of heavy feet behind Kale, and that individual hastily slipped the receiver back on the hook, turned to face the irate, rage-distorted features of the chief of police.
“What the devil’s the idea? You poor sap! What do you think you’re trying to do? You try that stuff on me and I’ll break your damned neck. You’re trying to ruin me in my home town. All right, wait and see what happens to you.”
“You wanted publicity,” murmured Clint Kale. “This would make dandy publicity. The metropolitan newspapers would probably copy it...”
With an inarticulate roar, the chief flung past him out of the door.
“I’ll have to kill that copy,” he snorted, “and then I’ll be back! I’ll be back!”
The door banged.
Chapter III
Insult Intentional
“He’ll be back,” croaked Boston Blackie lugubriously.
“Think so, really?” asked Clint Kale.
“Think so. I know it. Ever know anything about a rubber hose, boss?”
“They use it to sprinkle gardens with, don’t they?”
“Yeah. And guys like him can work wonders with about a three-foot length of it. He’ll be back. You’ll learn somethin’ about police officers.”
“That’ll be fine. I wonder who our next visitor will be.”
“Maybe the local undertaker. He might get an inside tip, an’—”
He broke off as steps sounded in the hall once more.
These steps contained something of a swaggering strut to their rhythm. They paused before the door. A well-timed knock rat-a-tatted on the panels.
Boston Blackie, in response to a gesture from Kale, eased himself to one side and opened the door.
The man who stood on the threshold had carefully dressed for the part he was to play. There was about him an appreciation of the dramatic, a pose of haughty learning, of contained dignity. He was a man who had carefully planned each step as he went through life, devoting his attention to impressing his fellow men.
He was tall, thin, hatchet-faced. His gray hair had been swept back from the high forehead. The frock coat was an impressive black, emphasizing the high whiteness of the collar, the flowing black tie.
As he stood there at rigid attention he thrust one hand within his vest and spoke in a voice which reverberated through the room in studied eloquence.
“Mr. Clint Kale, the detective?”
Clint bowed.
“And I have the honor of addressing?”
“Thomas Jefferson Train, sir, the district attorney of this county.”
Clint sank back in his chair as though disappointed.
“Oh, shucks!” he exclaimed audibly. “Well, come on in.”