The tall man unclasped his hands and leaned forward, put his arms on the desk. “Why don’t you help us get this thing right instead of being so damned fidgety?” He twisted his darkly florid face to a wry smile.
Shane said: “Rigas and I had an argument about money — I left his place at eight o’clock and I was in my hotel at a quarter after. I was there until I came here.” He went forward again to the desk. “I can get a half-dozen people at the hotel to swear to that.”
The tall man made a wide and elaborate gesture of deprecation. “Hell, Dick, we know you didn’t do it — and it’s almost a natural for McLean. Only we thought you might help us clean up the loose ends.”
Shane shook his head slowly, emphatically.
Sergeant Gill came in with an undersized blond youth in a shiny blue-serge suit.
The young man went to the desk, nodded at Shane, said: “H’ are you, Cap?” to the tall man.
The tall man was looking at Shane. He said: “This man” — he jerked his head at the youth — “works for Eastman. He was on an evidence job for Mrs. Rigas and went in with the patrolman when Rigas was shot...”
“Yes, sir,” the youth interrupted. “The telephone operator come running out screaming bloody murder an’ the copper come running down from the corner an’ we both went upstairs” — he paused, caught his breath — “an’ there was this guy Rigas, half in the bedroom and half out-, an’ dead as a doornail... The gun was on the floor, and this dame, McLean, was in pyjamas, yelling that she didn’t do it.”
The tall man said: “Yes — you told us all that before.”
“I know — only I’m telling him.” The youth smiled at Shane.