“You work here?” he asked. He had taken his measure in a glance and was ready to use him.
“No, I work in John Cleary's express office,” grunted the tramp. “Mr. O'Day wanted me to come over and help for New Year's.”
“What's he got to do with you?”
“He got me my job.”
“He's an Englishman, ain't he?”
“Yes, and the best ever.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” sneered the detective. “Been working here a year and knows the ropes. So you saw the man come in and O'Day, the clerk, saw him go out, did he? And O'Day sent for you to stay around in case any questions were asked? Is that it?”
The tramp's lip was lifted, showing his teeth. “No, that ain't it by a damned sight! I know who pinched the goods—knowed him for months. Know his name, just as well as I know yours. I got on to you soon as you come in.”
The detective shot a quick glance at the speaker. “Me?” he returned quietly.
“Yes—YOU. Your name is Pickert—ONE of your names—you've got half a dozen. And the guy's name is Stanton. He hangs out at the Bowdoin House, and when he ain't there he's playin' pool at Steve Lipton's where I used to work. Are you on?”