“You understand,” said Wittaker, “I have nothing to do with putting you on this case. But I want to ask you to report to me every evening.”
“I could write out a docket,” said Philo Gubb. “That’s what them French deteckatives did always.”
“Good idea!” said Wittaker. “Write out a docket, and bring it in every night. Now, I’ll go over this Griscom case, so you’ll understand how to go at it. Here, for instance, is the house—”
The clock on the Marshal’s desk marked ten before they were aware. Billy had arisen from his chair, for he had a poker game waiting for him at the Kidders’ Club, when the telephone bell rang. The Marshal drew the ’phone toward him.
“Yes!” he said, into the telephone. “Yes, this is Marshal Wittaker. Mr. Millbrook? Yes, I know—765 Locust Avenue. Broken into? What? Oh, broken out of! While you were out at dinner. Yes. Opened the front door with a key. Yes. What kind of a key, Mr. Millbrook? Thin, nickel-silver key. Nothing taken? What’s that? Left a dozen solid silver spoons engraved with your wife’s initials? I see. And broke out through a cellar window. Yes, I understand. No, it doesn’t seem possible, but such things have happened. I’ll send—”
He looked around, but Philo Gubb, who had heard the name and address, was already gone.
“I’ll attend to it at once,” he concluded, and hung up the receiver. He turned to Billy Getz. “Billy,” he said severely, “is this another of your jokes?”
“Wittaker,” said Billy, “I give you my word I had nothing to do with this.”
“Well, I’ll believe you,” said Wittaker rather reluctantly. “I thought it was you. Who do you suppose is trying to take the honor of town cut-up from you?”
“I can’t imagine,” said Billy. “Are you going to leave the thing in Gubb’s hands?”