“Oh,” I said. “I thought I heard Wynant’s name. You know how some telephone voices carry.”
He blushed, cleared his throat. “Maybe something sounded like it–why not, I guess. Uh-huh, that could sound like it–why not. I almost forgot: we hooked up that fellow Sparrow for you.”
“What’d you find out?”
“It looks like there’s nothing there for us. His name’s Jim Brophy. It figures out that he was making a play for that girl of Nunheim’s and she was sore at you and he was just drunk enough to think he could put himself in solid with her by taking a poke at you.”
“A nice idea,” I said. “I hope you didn’t make any trouble for Studsy.”
“A friend of yours? He’s an ex-con, you know, with a record as long as your arm.”
“Sure. I sent him over once.” I started to gather up my hat and overcoat. “You’re busy. I’ll run along and–”
“No, no,” he said. “Stick around if you got the time. I got a couple things coming in that’ll maybe interest you, and you can give me a hand with that Wynant kid, too, maybe.”
I sat down again.
“Maybe you’d like a drink,” he suggested, opening a drawer of his desk, but I had never had much luck with policemen’s liquor, so I said: “No, thanks.”
His telephone rang again and he said into it: “Yes. . . . Yes. . That’s all right. Come on in.” This time no words leaked out to me.
He rocked back in his chair and put his feet on his desk. “Listen, I’m on the level about that silver fox farming and I want to ask you what you think of California for a place.”
I was trying to decide whether to tell him about the lion and ostrich farms in the lower part of the state when the door opened and a fat redhaired man brought Gilbert Wynant in. One of Gilbert’s eyes was completely shut by swollen flesh around it and his left knee showed through a tear in his pants-leg.
28
I said to Guild: “When you say bring ’em in, they bring ’em in, don’t they?”
“Wait,” he told me. “This is more’n you think.” He addressed the fat red-haired man: “Go ahead, Flint, let’s have it.”
Flint wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. “He’s a wildcat for fair, the young fellow. He don’t hook tough, but, man, he didn’t want to ‘come along, I can tell you that. And can he run!”
Guild growled: “You’re a hero and I’ll see the Commissioner about your medal right away, but never mind that now. Talk turkey.”
“I wasn’t saying I did anything great,” Flint protested. “I was just–”
“I don’t give a damn what you did,” Guild said. “I want to know what he did.”
“Yes, sir, I was getting to that. I relieved Morgan at eight o’clock this morning and everything went along smooth and quiet as per usual, with not a creature was stirring, as the fellow says, till along about ten minutes after two, and then what do I hear but a key in the lock.” He sucked in his lips and gave us a chance to express our amazement.
“The Wolf dame’s apartment,” Guild explained to me. “I had a hunch.”
“And what a hunch!” Flint exclaimed, practically top-heavy with admiration. “Man, what a hunch!” Guild glared at him and he went on hastily: “Yes, sir, a key, and then the door opens and this young fellow comes in.” He grinned proudly, affectionately, at Gilbert. “Scared stiff, he looked, and when I went for him he was out and away like a streak and it wasn’t till the first floor that I caught him, and then, by golly, he put up a tussle and I had to bat him in the eye to tone him down. He don’t look tough, but–”
“What’d he do in the apartment?” Guild asked.
“He didn’t have a chance to do nothing. I–”
“You mean you jumped him without waiting to see what he was up to?” Guild’s neck bulged over the edge of his collar, and his face was as red as Flint’s hair.