III
Outside the building, Bob headed for the subway. He had no qualms at the thought of Jack Brenton and his drunken pugnacity. Bob was an old hand, a good leg man, a competent reporter. He had handled angry husbands many times. He could handle Brenton.
Yet he might have been forgiven for being afraid to encounter Jack Brenton. The man was a professional pugilist of some local note, and his record was bad. He had once, by ill luck, killed an opponent in the ring; he was known to possess a sulky temper that flamed to murderous heat, and it was said of him that when he was in his cups, he was better left alone.... He was in his cups this morning. Bob knew this as soon as he heard the other’s sulky shout that answered his knock at the apartment door. The prize-fighter yelled: “Come in!” And Bob went in.
Inside the door there was a little hallway, with a bathroom opening off one side, and a living-room at the end. Brenton came into this passage from the living-room as Bob entered from the hall, and they met face to face. Brenton looked down at the little man; and he asked suspiciously:
“What’re you after?”
“Dungan’s my name,” said Bob pleasantly. “I’m from the Chronicle.”
He saw the other’s scowl deepen. “I said what I’d do.... Next damn reporter came out here. What you want, anyway?”
“I want to ask you a few questions. About your wife....”
The pugilist dropped his hand on little Bob Dungan’s shoulder. His left hand. His right jerked into sight with a revolver; he thrust the muzzle of it into Bob’s face. “You smell that,” he cried, truculently. “I’ll blow your damn head off.”
Bob—laughed. “Why, that’s all right,” he replied. If he had squirmed, struggled, or even if he had been afraid, the other’s drunken anger might have given him strength to shoot. There was very real and deadly peril in the situation. But Bob, unafraid, laughed; and the prize-fighter could see that there was no fear in the little man’s eyes. “That’s all right,” said Bob. “Go ahead.”
Brenton did not shoot. He hesitated uncertainly, his slow wits wavering. And Bob asked sympathetically:
“Did she treat you pretty bad?”
“Bad?” Brenton echoed. “Why, the things she’s done to me—Why, say....”
“That’s tough,” the reporter murmured.
The fighter’s grip on his shoulder relaxed; the big man’s arm slid around Bob’s neck. He became maudlin and unhappy, weeping for sympathy. “Why, you jus’ lemme tell you....” he begged.
“Sure,” Bob agreed. “Tell me all about it. Let’s go in and sit down.”
They went into the living-room. “Y’see, it was this way....” the pugilist began.