“All right, then,” said Philo. “It’s a go. Now, who was murdered, and when was he murdered, and why was he murdered? Them’s the things I’ve got to know first.”
“You pay me a dollar five for the first day’s work, and I’ll tell you,” said old Gabe.
Philo dug into his pocket and drew out some money. “There,” he said. “There’s two dollars and ten cents. That pays for two days. Now, go ahead.”
He drew out his notebook and wet the end of a pencil and waited.
“The reason this is such a hard case,” said old Gabe slowly, and choosing his words with care, “is because the murder ain’t completed yet. It’s being did.”
“Right now?” exclaimed Philo excitedly. “Why, we oughtn’t to be sitting here like this. We ought—”
“Now, don’t be in such a hurry,” said old Gabe. “If you mean we ought to be where the victim of the murder is, we are. He’s right here now. I’m him. I’m the one that’s being murdered. I’m being murdered by slow murder. I’m liable to drop down dead any minute. But I don’t want to be murdered and not have the feller that murders me hang like he ought. I can’t be expected to. It ain’t human nature.”
“No, it ain’t,” agreed Philo. “A man can’t help feeling revengeful against the man that murders him. If anybody murdered me I’d feel the same way. How’s he killing you? Slow poison?”
“Gun-shot,” said old Gabe. “Shootin’ me to death with a gun.”