“Now this is doubtless of interest to you,” I replied, putting some impression of distance into my tones, “but what have I to do with the matter?”
“Only this,” returned McCue. “I'd like to have you tell me flat, whether or no you want these parties pinched.”
“Inspector McCue,” said I, “if that be your name and title, it sticks in my head that you are making a mistake. You ask me a question which you might better put to your chief.”
“We won't dispute about it,” returned my caller; “and I'm not here to give offense. I am willing to do my duty; but, as I've tried to explain, I don't care to sacrifice myself if the game's been settled against me in advance. You speak of my going to the chief. If arrests are to be made, he's the last man I ought to get my orders from.”
“If you will be so good as to explain?” said I.
“Because, if I am to go on, I must begin by collaring the chief. He's the principal owner of that Barclay Street joint.”
This was indeed news, and I had no difficulty in looking grave.
“Captain Gothecore is in it, too; but his end is with the restaurant keeper. That check-cashing racket was a case of flam; there was a hold-out went with that play. The boy, Van Flange, was always drunk, and the best he ever got for, say a five-hundred-dollar check, was three hundred dollars. Gothecore was in on the difference. There's the lay-out. Not a pleasant outlook, certainly; and not worth attempting arrests about unless I know that the machine is at my back.”
“You keep using the term 'machine,'” said I coldly. “If by that you mean Tammany Hall, I may tell you, sir, that the 'machine' has no concern in the affair. You will do your duty as you see it.”
Inspector McCue sat biting his lips. After a moment, he got upon his feet to go.