“That’s right,” said Chi Foxy. “And all you’ve got to do is to explain them. You see, bo, I was a young feller when I murdered this old miser—”
“What did you say his name was?” asked P. Gubb.
“Smith,” said Chi Foxy promptly. “John J. Smith, and he lived right here in this town. And I murdered the old feller and got away. Nobody cared much whether the old feller was murdered or not, and nothin’ much might have been said of it except that the old feller had a nephew. His name was Smith—Peter P. Smith.”
“What did he do?” asked P. Gubb.
“He offered a reward of a thousand dollars,” said Chi Foxy. “It was one of them unsolved mystery cases—one of them cases that never get solved because no detective is smart enough to solve it. Nobody knew who killed old John J. Smith but me, and I wasn’t going around telling it.”
“I should think not,” said P. Gubb.
“No, sir!” said Chi Foxy. “So I was as safe as a babe unborn. I skipped up the river to Minneapolis, and nobody thought of lookin’ for me, because I wasn’t suspected. And then I did a fool thing.”
“Murderers ’most always does,” said P. Gubb.
“Sure!” said Chi Foxy. “I thought I’d go to New Orleans. It was all right—nice trip—until we got to Dubuque, and then what happened? The old steamboat blew up. I went sailin’ up in the air like one of these here skyrockets, I did, and when I come down I lit head first.”