"Oh, you're welcome to it," said Kernan, with a lordly air. "I'd be willing to call the debt off, but I know you wouldn't have it It was a lucky day for me when you borrowed it. And now, let's drop the subject. I'm off to the West on a morning train.
I know a place out there where I can negotiate the Norcross sparks. Drink up, Barney, and forget your troubles. We'll have a jolly time while the police are knocking their heads together over the case.
I've got one of my Sahara thirsts on to-night. But I'm in the bands -- the unofficial bands -- of my old friend Barney, and I won't even dream of a cop."
And then, as Kernan's ready finger kept the but- ton and the waiter working, his weak point -- a tre- mendous vanity and arrogant egotism, began to show itself. He recounted story after story of his suc- cessful plunderings, ingenious plots and infamous transgressions until Woods, with all his familiarity with evil-doers, felt growing within him a cold ab- horrence toward the utterly vicious man who had once been his benefactor.
"I'm disposed of, of course," said Woods, at length. "But I advise you to keep under cover for a spell. The newspapers may take up this Norcross affair. There has been an epidemic of burglaries and manslaughter in town this summer."
The word sent Kernan into a high glow of sullen and vindictive rage.
"To hell with the newspapers," he growled.
"What do they spell but brag and blow and boodle in box-car letters? Suppose they do take up a case what does it amount to? The police are easy enough to fool; but what do the newspapers do? They send a lot of pin-head reporters around to the scene; and they make for the nearest saloon and have beer while they take photos of the bartender's oldest daughter in evening dress, to print as the fiancee of the young man in the tenth story, who thought he heard a noise below on the night of the murder. That's about as near as the newspapers ever come to running down Mr. Burglar."
"Well, I don't know," said Woods, reflecting.
"Some of the papers have done good work in that line. There's the Morning Mars, for instance. It warmed up two or three trails, and got the man after the police had let 'em get cold."
"I'll show you," said Tiernan, rising, and expand- ing his chest. "I'll show you what I think of news- papers in general, and your Morning Mars in par- ticular."
Three feet from their table was the telephone booth. Kernan went inside and sat at the instrument, leaving the door open. He found a number in the book, took down the receiver and made his demand upon Central. Woods sat still, looking at the sneer- ing, cold, vigilant face waiting close to the trans- mitter, and listened to the words that came from the thin, truculent lips curved into a contemptuous smile.
"That the Morning Mars? . . . I want to speak to the managing editor . . . Why, tell him it's some one who wants to talk to him about the Norcross murder.
"You the editor? . . . All right. . . . I am the man who killed old Norcross . . . Wait!
Hold the wire; I'm not the usual crank . . . oh, there isn't the slightest danger. I've just been dis- cussing it with a detective friend of mine. I killed the old man at 2:30 A. M. two weeks ago to- morrow. . . . Have a drink with you? Now, hadn't you better leave that kind of talk to your funny man? Can't you tell whether a man's guying you or whether you're being offered the biggest scoop your dull dishrag of a paper ever had? . . .
Well, that's so; it's a bobtail scoop -- but you can hardly expect me to 'phone in my name and address.
. . . Why? Oh, because I beard you make a specialty of solving mysterious crimes that stump the police. . . . No, that's not all. I want to tell you that your rotten, lying, penny sheet is of no more use in tracking an intelligent murderer or highway- man than a blind poodle would be. . . . What?
