Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 51, No. 2, June 28, 1930

“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.”

The lawyer stalked with stately dignity into the room, his pale eyes sweeping over the miscellaneous assortment of equipment.

“I read of your advent in the paper, Mr. Kale, and you will appreciate my natural curiosity as to the particular matter which you may have under investigation. It is only natural that I should enjoy your confidence, your complete confidence, your utter confidence, your implicit confidence.”

And the district attorney stalked to a chair, executed a right turn, paused, flipped the tails of his frock coat to either side, and jackknifed himself into a sitting position.

Clint Kale leaned forward.

“You take the Middlevale Courier, may I ask?”

“Certainly, sir. As one in a public position, I deem it my duty to subscribe to each and every paper printed within the confines of my county. The Middlevale Courier is one of the most reliable of the sheets. It has always supported my candidacy for public office.”

“I see. Well, Mr. Thomas Jefferson Train, if you’ll read the columns of the Courier from time to time you’ll enjoy as much of my confidence as I care to make public.”

The lawyer flushed, then thrust a hand within the breast of his coat, assuming an oratorical posture.

“Your attitude, sir, is scarcely that of one who desires to enforce the existing laws and statutes upon our books. I may assure you that nothing more than such an arbitrary, rude and unusual statement is needed to arouse my suspicions. I am to believe, then, that you are in league with the criminal element, anxious to obstruct rather than to expedite, anxious to avoid rather than to enforce law and justice.

“I had even heard a rumor, sir, that you were employed at the behest of that foul murderess, that bloodthirsty Jezebel, Jane Thurmond. I understand that you were trying to upset a just conviction in a court of justice, a conviction that has been affirmed by the highest appellate tribunal in this State.”

Clint Kale put his head in his hands.

“Don’t make me appreciate the depths of my own infamy,” he begged. “Your accusation makes my activities seem illegal.”

Thomas Jefferson Train nodded gravely.

“They are.”

“But suppose the conviction was unjust?”

“She was tried by a jury of her peers.”

“But the two witnesses who swore they saw her at Sam Pixley’s house. Suppose they were lying? Couldn’t I place them upon that chair, in front of my lie detector? Couldn’t I subject them to a scientific test to determine their credibility?”

The district attorney’s long neck pivoted inside his high collar as he gravely shook his head in dignified negation.

“No. That would be reopening a case which I have pronounced closed. I came to advise you of that.”

“And this man, this Ezra Hickory. How of him?”