Millman shook his head.
“Better hear the whole story, Dave. You can size it up then for yourself.”
Dave Henderson nodded.
“Go on, then!” he said.
“I told you,” said Millman, “that I thought I could get inside information—the way the police looked at it. Well, I have. And I have got it from a source that is absolutely dependable. Understand, Dave?”
Dave Henderson nodded again.
“The police start with that telephone message,” said Millman. “They believe that it was authentic, and that it was Dago George who sent it. In fact, without it they wouldn't have known where to turn; while with it the whole affair appears to be simplicity itself.” He smiled a little whimsically. “They used it as the key to unlock the door. It's no discredit to their astuteness. With nothing to refute it, it is not only the obvious, but the logical solution. Bookie budded a great deal better than he knew—for Dave Henderson—when he used that telephone for his own dirty ends. It wouldn't have been so easy for the police to account for the death of three men in The Iron——”
“Three!” Dave Henderson strained suddenly forward. Three! There were—two; only two—Dago George and Bookie Skarvan. Only two dead—and a red-headed thing huddled at the foot of the stairs. Was that it? Was that the third one—Cunny the Scorpion? Had it ended with that? Had he killed a man? Last night he would have torn the fellow limb from limb—yes, and under the same circumstances, he would do it again—Teresa upstairs, who had been so close to death, justified that a thousand times over.
But——— “You mean Cunny the Scorpion—Cunny Smeeks?” he demanded tensely.
“Yes,” said Millman. And then, with a quick, comprehensive glance at Dave Henderson's face: “But you didn't do it, Dave.”