“Yes.”
“You might find out from him if you know him well enough. He’s around town. You can usually find him some time during the night at Tim Walker’s place on Smith Street.”
“Thanks, Jack, I’ll try that.”
“That’s all right,” Jack said. He hesitated. “I’m sorry as hell you and Madvig split. I wish you–” He broke off and turned towards the door. “You know what you’re doing.”
2
Ned Beaumont went down to the District Attorney’s office. This time there was no delay in ushering him into Farr’s presence.
Farr did not get up from his desk, did not offer to shake hands. He said: “How do you do, Beaumont? Sit down.” His voice was coldly polite. His pugnacious face was not so red as usual. His eyes were level and hard.
Ned Beaumont sat down, crossed his legs comfortably, and said: “I wanted to tell you about what happened when I went to see Paul after I left here yesterday.”
Farr’s “Yes?” was cold and polite.
“I told him how I’d found you–panicky.” Ned Beaumont, smiling his nicest smile, went on in the manner of one telling a fairly amusing but unimportant anecdote: “I told him I thought you were trying to get up enough nerve to hang the Taylor Henry murder on him. He believed me at first, but when I told him the only way to save himself was by turning up the real murderer, he said that was no good. He said he was the real murderer, though he called it an accident or self-defense or something.”
Farr’s face had become paler and was stiff around the mouth, but he did not speak.
Ned Beaumont raised his eyebrows. “I’m not boring you, am I?” he asked.
“Co on, continue,” the District Attorney said coldly.
Ned Beaumont tilted his chair back. His smile was mocking. “You think I’m kidding, don’t you? You think it’s a trick we’re playing on you.” He shook his head and murmured: “You’re a timid soul, Farr.”
Farr said: “I’m glad to listen to any information you can give me, but I’m very busy, so I’ll have to ask you–”
Ned Beaumont laughed then and replied: “Oke. I thought maybe you’d like to have this information in an affidavit or something.”
“Very well.” Farr pressed one of the pearl buttons on his desk.
A grey-haired woman in green came in.
“Mr. Beaumont wants to dictate a statement,” Farr told her.
She said, “Yes, sir,” sat at the other side of Farr’s desk, put her notebook on the desk, and, holding a silver pencil over the book, looked at Ned Beaumont with blank brown eyes.
He said: “Yesterday afternoon in his office in the Nebel Building, Paul Madvig told me that he had been to dinner at Senator Henry’s house the night Taylor Henry was killed; that he and Taylor Henry had some sort of trouble there; that after he left the house Taylor Henry ran after him and caught up with him and tried to hit him with a rough heavy brown walking-stick; that in trying to take the stick from Taylor Henry he accidentally struck him on the forehead with it, knocking him down; and that he carried the stick away with him and burned it. He said his only reason for concealing his part in Taylor Henry’s death was his desire to keep it from Janet Henry. That’s all of it.”
Farr addressed the stenographer: “Transcribe that right away.”
She left the office.
Ned Beaumont said: “I thought I was bringing you news that would get you all excited.” He sighed. “I thought you’d fairly tear your hair over it.”
The District Attorney looked steadily at him.
Ned Beaumont, unabashed, said: “I thought at least you’d have Paul dragged in and confronted with this”–he waved a hand–” ‘damaging disclosure’ is a good phrase.”
The District Attorney spoke in a restrained tone: “Please permit me to run my own office.”
Ned Beaumont laughed again and relapsed into silence until the grey-haired stenographer returned with a typed copy of his statement. Then he asked: “Do I swear to it?”
“No,” Farr said, “just sign it. That will be sufficient.”
Ned Beaumont signed the paper. “This isn’t nearly so much fun as I thought it was going to be,” he complained cheerfully.