He opened the drawer of his desk, grinned, and said, “I just had it brought in after we got that wire from New Orleans. She describes the chap as being medium size, wearing a dark suit, an overcoat, a felt hat, and a mask. She says he was not wearing gloves, that when he first appeared on the scene, he limped noticeably, that when he ran away, he didn’t limp. Hell of a description.”
“Could you have done any better if you’d been there?”
He grinned. “Probably not. But if Rixmann didn’t pull that job, she did.”
“What makes you think so?”
“It’s a cinch. That’s the only petting-party job that isn’t accounted for. After Rixmann was arrested, they quit as though you’d sliced them off with a knife. If someone else had been muscling in on Rixmann’s racket, we’d have had more of the same.”
I pushed back my chair, said, “You’d better light that cigar before you chew it to death.”
I saw his eyebrows come together again. “You’re getting a hell of a lot of information without giving much.”
“Perhaps I haven’t much to give.”
“And then again, perhaps you have. Listen, Donald, I’m going to tell you something.”
“What?”