“Not this morning,” he objected.
The foreman, gone startlingly white from pain after the recent red of his chagrin, of necessity permitted his hand to be withdrawn empty. And he had no power to prevent Pape’s reaching into the pocket and confiscating a snub-nosed automatic. He did, however, risk some contentious comment.
“Nothing a real citizen loathes like you plain-clothes pests. I’ll show you up proper in court, you big bully. I got a permit from a judge to carry that gun, I’ll have you know.”
“But not to use it on me. I put quite a value, I’ll have you know, on my birthday suit-of-clothes.”
The “pest’s” chortle was pitched to carry reassurance to and over the park wall.
Removing and pocketing the cartridges, he returned the “permitted” weapon’s frame to its owner. In consideration of his utterly unofficial status, he probably would have found an attempt to enforce New York State’s anti-pistol law embarrassing. At that, the fellow probably did have a permit—he had been told that such were easy enough to get. He would, he felt, be satisfied if the “drain” excavation was postponed until Jane had that coveted hour for the finish of her own mysterious investigation.
Perhaps the small boss regained some of what would seem constitutional bravado from the fact that his license to carry concealed weapons had not been demanded. At any rate, he started fresh protest.
“Say, if you’d any idea who I was working for——”
“I know who I’m working for. That’s idea enough for me and for you.”
Pape sat down with his back against the trunk of the most aged and sturdy poplar. He looked as likely to stay there as the tree. The foreman, with a final sputter of indignation, stamped off down the hill, having made no secret of his objective—the nearest telephone. The Westerner saw him pause beside the motorcycle and make note of the number on its P. D. plate—a last amusing touch to a uniquely pleasurable experience. Small satisfaction would Welch get if he tried to trace and punish the particular “cop” who had ridden that particular police “firecracker” that particular afternoon. Kicko alone could give him away and Kicko was too much of a Belgian to tell on a friend.