It opened and Captain Larson’s voice said: “Come in,” out of the darkness. Kells went in.
The light on the porch snapped off, the light in the room snapped on. The door was closed.
It was a rather large living room which, with the smaller dining room, ran across all the front of the house. The furniture was mostly Mission, mostly built-in. The wall paper was bright, bad.
Larson stood with his back to the door in a nightshirt, big, fleece-lined slippers. He held a Colt .38 revolver steadily in his right hand. He said: “Take a chair.”
Kells sat down in the most comfortable-looking chair, leaned back. Larson pulled another chair around and sat down on its edge, facing Kells. He leaned forward, put his elbows on his knees — he held the revolver in his right hand hanging down between his legs, said: “What’s on your mind?”
Kells tipped his hat back a little and stared at Larson sleepily.
“You gave me a free bill this afternoon,” he said, “in exchange for some stuff that would have split your administration — your whole political outfit — wide open.” He paused, changed his position slightly. “Now you clamp down on me because somebody gets the dumb idea I had something to do with the Crotti chill. What’s the answer?”
“Crotti’s the answer.” Larson spat far and accurately into the fireplace, wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He leaned back and crossed his legs and held the revolver loosely in his lap. “There’s a lot of water been under the bridge since I seen you this afternoon,” he went on. “In the first place I didn’t give you no free bill, as you call it — I told you that you and your gal would probably be wanted for questioning in connection with a lot of things. An’ I hinted that if you wasn’t around when question time came we wouldn’t look too far for you.” He took a crumpled handkerchief from the pocket of his nightshirt, blew his nose gustily. “Crotti’s something else again.”
Kells smiled slowly. “Crotti was your Number One Gangster,” he said. “If I had something to do with his killing I ought to be getting a medal for it — not a rap.”
A woman’s cracked querulous voice came down the stairs: “What is it, Gus?”