“Enright,” said Lanagan, kneeling down beside the stricken man, “you know you are passing. Make a clean breast. Who killed Mrs. Stockslager?”
His eyes closed and he seemed to shrink as though trying to hug the floor he was lying upon. “Whisky!” came Lanagan’s sharp whisper. Unconsciously he was taking command of the situation, asserting his natural leadership as he always did in tense moments. Marshall passed him a pocket flask and he forced a sip to Enright’s lips, holding his head up with his left arm. The eyes opened.
“I did.”
“Oh, God, Billy! No, no! Not that, not that!” It was Marshall. He broke down and sobbed like a boy. Twenty-five years he had been in the federal blue with Billy Enright, one in the revenue, the other in the customs service.
“Yes—I did! Jim, get me a priest! Don’t let me die like this! For old time’s sake, Jim!”
The train was whistling on its return.
“We’re taking you right in,” said Lanagan, soothingly. “We’ll have a priest for you. Why did you kill her?”
Enright motioned for the flask with his free arm. Lanagan gave him a long pull. For a time at least his voice was stronger.
“She was threatening to tip off the gang. She used to work with us. She was well paid. She didn’t know I was in the service. She found it out some way. I came out one day to talk over with her about her threats. I’d been drinking, worrying over fear of exposure. She wouldn’t listen to reason. She was a wolf. She goaded me crazy, I guess. She taunted me about being a traitor to the country I served. Well, I lost my head. I grabbed the butcher knife and killed her. So help me God as I am about to die, that’s the truth.”
The eyes closed for a space, and then he continued: