“She hasn’t got two or three days! If you don’t think she can do it, I’ve got an idea. It’s complicated, but it will only take an hour or maybe less, and it may work. First I’ll go in and tell him—”
Five minutes later Dillon left them there and returned alone to the inner room, where Clara sat gazing in hopeless exasperation at the criminal’s obstinate tear-stained face.
“Look here, Jimmie,” Dillon said sternly, “I’ll give you one more chance to tell me the name of your pal who has the rest of those cartridges. This is your last chance.”
The boy shook his head, sullenly and inflexibly.
“Tell me.” Dillon waited five seconds. “You won’t? All right, then it’s up to the law. We’ll see if you can beat the law. You’re in for it, Jimmie, I’m telling you straight. You can’t fight the law by sitting there shaking your head. You will have to get a lawyer, and a mighty good one, and you’d better get him quick. Have you got a good lawyer?”
“I don’t—” The boy’s lip quivered. “I never really had a lawyer.”
“Well, you’d better get one in a hurry. I’ve told your father what I’m going to do, and he’s pretty scared about it, and I suppose he’ll recommend a good lawyer to you if you care to consult him about it. That’s all I have to say. It’s up to the law now. I’ll send your father in. Come on, Clara.”
“But, Ty, we can’t—”
“Come on!”
They left him there alone. In the outer room Dillon said to Mr. Archer, “All right. Let it soak into him for five minutes and then go in and try it. For heaven’s sake be careful and do it right if you can. Don’t take him over there until you hear from me.”
He departed with Clara and drove as fast as the traffic would permit to Mountain Street, and in the new Sammis Building ascended to the offices of Escott, Brody & Dillon. There he had a stroke of luck. He had expected to have to haul his senior partner away from his lunch somewhere, but at the adjournment of court Escott had stopped in at his office and was there when the conspirators arrived. Dillon first telephoned the Pendleton School and then went to Escott’s room and opened up on him. The veteran lawyer was at first annoyed because it bordered on interference in another firm’s case; then he was amused and interested; and finally he agreed.
James Archer, Senior, must have encountered some resistance, for it was getting close to one o’clock when he entered with his son. There was no one in the anteroom but a young woman at a desk. Senior pushed Junior forward, and Junior looked at the young woman with glum eyes and mumbled at her, “I wanna see Mr. Escott.”
“Name, please?”
“Jimmie Archer. Junior.”
She went out. In a moment she came back, let him through the gate, led him down the hall and ushered him into a room. Old Phil Escott arose to shake hands with him, got him into a chair and, after the door had closed behind the young woman, addressed him man to man.
“Well, Jimmie Archer, what can I do for you? Something about the law?”
The boy sat with his shoulders hunched. “Yes, sir.”
“What’s the trouble? A lawsuit or something?”
“No, sir. They want me to squeal and I won’t do it. I’ll take the rap, but I won’t squeal!”
“That’s fine. I admire that. Shake!” Jimmie suspiciously and reluctantly stuck out his hand, and they shook again. “Who wants you to squeal?”
“Aw, it’s a whole gang after me. There’s my father, and Miss Henckel the principal, and a woman they call Clara that’s got a sister in a jam, and a guy named Dillon, he’s nothing but a big bully—”
“Ha! Dillon! I know that man Dillon. He’s no good. What do they want you to squeal about?”
“About my pal that helped me take the catriches from Miss Brand’s bag. I’m not a rat.”
“Of course you’re not. I can see that by looking at you. When did you take the cart — catriches?” As the boy was silent, Escott leaned back and pressed the tips of his fingers together. “Of course you realize, Jimmie, that if I am your lawyer I’ll have to have all the details. Do you know what it means for me to be your lawyer?”
“Sure I do. It means you’re my mouthpiece.”
“That’s right. That’s it exactly.” Escott’s lip twitched a little, but he mastered it. “When did you and your pal take the catriches?”
“Aw, it was day before yesterday. At Rhythmic Movement. Him and me sneaked in the cloakroom because it makes us sick, and Miss Brand’s bag was there, and we just thought we’d try and see if it would come open—”
“Wait a minute! And the catriches were in her bag!”
“Yes, sir.”
“And they were in a box, wrapped up, and you took the whole thing!”
“Yes, sir.”
Jimmie’s brows were drawing together with renewed suspicion, but Escott swept on: “Why, my goodness, I know all about that case! In fact, I’ve been engaged by the man who sold the catriches to get them back! I’m his mouthpiece too! I’ll be doggoned!” Escott opened a drawer of his desk and took out a cardboard box, and from it dumped onto the desk a pile of silver dollars. He stacked them, and fingered them like poker chips. “Look at that!”
“What’s that for?”
“Why, that’s the reward the man offered for whoever returned the catriches! Ten dollars! It’s a mighty lucky thing you happened to come to me, Jimmie! I know that man Dillon; he was trying to get all the catriches so he could claim the reward! He’s a slick one.”
The suspicion on Jimmie’s face disappeared to make room for another emotion which seemed likely to tap the tear ducts again. “But l-l-look here!” he faltered. “I ain’t got the catriches any more! My father took ’em and now that c-c-crook Dillon’s got ’em!”
“Oh, that’s all right. Don’t worry about that, Jimmie. You’ll get the reward all right, because I’ll pay it to you myself. Half will go to you and half to your pal. Of course the businesslike way to do it, to clean it all up at once, will be to get him here, and I’ll give you five dollars and him five dollars—”
“Hey!” Jimmie’s voice rang out and his face had changed again. “That ain’t fair!”
“What ain’t fair?”
“To give him half and me half! It ought to be the way we divvied up the catriches! I had thirty-five and he’s only got fifteen!”
Escott, for a second, was speechless. He regarded James Archer, Junior, this time without affection or reservation, as man to man. “Well,” he said finally, “that will have to be a matter for mutual agreement. He’ll have to be here with you and me, and we’ll have to settle it.”
Jimmie had slid off the chair to his feet. “I’ll settle it,” he said grimly. “I’ll go get him.”
“It will be better if we send someone after him and you stay here. It’ll be quicker that way. What’s his name?”
“His name’s Eric Snyder. He’s red-headed. He lives at 319 Humboldt Street. He’s in the fourth grade—”
Escott had pushed a button on his desk and the door opened to admit a young woman. He told her: “Tell Mr. Tyler to get Eric Snyder, 319 Humboldt Street. That’s right. He’s red-headed and in the fourth grade.”
When the young woman had gone Escott turned to his client again, “Well, we might as well figure this out and be ready for him. Let’s see. If it’s to be divided in the same proportion as the cartridges were, that will mean seven dollars for you and three for him. Right?”
“It don’t sound right.” Jimmie looked wary and suspicious again. “Three bucks for only fifteen catriches sounds like too much.” He frowned deeply. “Gimme a pencil and a piece of paper.”