“Witzel,” said Mr. Witzel.
“Mr. Witzel is one of the celebratedest Chicago detectives,” said Mr. Gribble, “and he’s come over here to hunt up this man Master that’s disappeared. See? So when he strikes town he comes straight to me. That’s how it is, ain’t it?”
“Ex-act-ly!” said Mr. Witzel.
“Yes, sir,” said Billy Gribble. “So he comes to my laundry, and I’m in the washroom—”
“You ain’t!” said Mr. Witzel. “You’re out, and you know you’re out!”
“And I’m out,” said Billy Gribble. “Maybe I was in the washroom and went out the back way. Anyway, I’m out. Say,” he said, as Mr. Witzel squirmed, “if you don’t like the way I’m telling this, tell it yourself.”
“I entered Mr. Gribble’s laundry,” said Mr. Witzel. “You’ll understand, being a detective, Mr. Gubb. I entered the laundry. Here is the counter. I walked up to the counter. I leaned over and spoke to the girl there. ‘My dear young lady,’ I said, ‘is Mr. Gribble in?’ ‘Out,’ she says. Naturally, I looked down. A detective observes everything. My toe has hit a suitcase. On the end of the suitcase are the initials ‘C. M.’ and ‘Chicago.’ In other words, ‘Custer Master, Chicago,’—the man I’m looking for.”
“And did you get him?” asked Philo Gubb tensely.
“Gone! Gone like a bird!” said Mr. Witzel. “I waited for Gribble. I questioned Gribble. I asked him if Mr. Master had been there—”