“Jack Lanagan,” said Leslie, “I wish you were on my staff. You could have O’Rourke’s job to-night.”
“Thanks, Chief, I’ll be satisfied if you send O’Rourke to the fog belt,” replied Lanagan, sardonically. “Put a man like Royan in his place and you’ll have the kind of head the bureau needs.”
“Royan goes,” said the Chief. “You’re entitled to something on this night’s work.”
“We’ve got to hurry. Our man may have noticed that taxi incident.”
“I don’t think so. Harrigan came out of the house.” We walked up the street. “Take the rear, Brady,” said Leslie, and the detective stepped quietly down the cement path at the side of a fairly pretentious home. Leslie, Lanagan and I tiptoed up the front steps. We stood to one side, while Lanagan took the door. He rang twice. Footsteps came. It was evident Harrigan’s host had not yet retired.
“That you, Harrigan?” the voice came from inside before the door opened. Lanagan mumbled a yes. The door swung back and Donald Cutting, Esq., proprietor and general manager of the Phœnix Vacuum Cleaning Company stood staring at Lanagan from the brilliantly lighted hallway. For an instant he was speechless. Then he shouted:
“Well, what the devil do you want around here at this hour of the morning? What gets into you reporters, anyhow? Has a citizen got any rights in his own home at all?”
“There aren’t many that you have.” It was Leslie. He had swung to the door directly before Cutting.
His revolver was at Cutting’s waist.
“Just keep your hands a little higher, Cutting: you’re pretty nifty with those digits of yours. Now back in there, so we can all sit down and talk.”