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Page 88
"You feel pretty sure about that?" the detective asked.
"Wait and see."
Bending forward, the little man examined the gilt clock on the
manager's desk. "Twenty minutes past four," he announced: "I give you
ten minutes to find some one to make a charge against me--Shaynon,
Mrs. What's-her-name, or either of yourselves, if you like the job. If
you fail to produce a complainant by half-past four precisely, out of
here I go--and I'm sorry for the man who tries to stop me."
The detective took a chair, crossed his legs, and produced a cigar
which he began to trim with tender care. The manager, anxiously pacing
the floor, after another moment or so paused at the door, fidgeted,
jerked it open, and with a muffled "Pardon!" disappeared--presumably
in search of Shaynon.
Striking a match, the detective puffed his cigar aglow. Over its tip
his small eyes twinkled at P. Sybarite.
"Maybe you're a gentleman crook, and maybe not," he returned with fine
impartiality. "But you're all there, son, with the tongue action. You
got me still goin' round in circles. Damn 'f I know yet what to
think."
"Well, if that's your trouble," P. Sybarite told him coolly, "this is
your cue to squat on your haunches, scratch your left ear with your
hind leg, and gaze up into my face with an intelligent expression in
your great brown eyes."
"I'll do better 'n that," chuckled the man. "Have a cigar."
"Thank you," said P. Sybarite politely, accepting the peace offering.
"All I need now is a match: I acknowledge the habit."
The match supplied, he smoked in silence.
Four minutes passed, by the clock: no sign of the manager, Shaynon, or
Mrs. Strone.
"Story?" the detective suggested at length.
"Plant," retorted P. Sybarite as tersely.
"You mean he salted you?"
"In the elevator, of course."
"It come to me, that was the way of it when he sprung that bunk stuff
about you coarsely loading said loot into your coat-tail," admitted
the detective. "That didn't sound sensible, even if you did have a
skirt to fuss into a cab. The ordinary vest-pocket of commerce
would've kept it just as close, besides being more natural--easy to
get at. Then the guy was too careful to tip me off not to pinch you
until the lady had went--didn't want her name dragged into it.... A
fellow in my job's gotta have a lot of imagination," he concluded
complacently. "That's why I'm letting you get away with it in this
unprofessional manner."
"More human than in line with the best literary precedent, eh?"
"That's me. I seen he was sore when the dame turned him down, too, and
started right off wondering if maybe it wasn't a jealousy plant. I
seen this sorta thing happen before. Not that I blame him for feeling
cut up: that was one swell piece of goods you bundled into numba
two-thirty."
P. Sybarite's cigar dropped unheeded from his lips.
"_What!_" he cried.
The detective started.
"Wasn't that the numba of the lady's cab--two-thirty?"
"Good God!" ejaculated P. Sybarite, jumping up.
"What's hit you?"
"I'm going!" the little man announced fiercely.
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