“I don’t know,” said English Dick. “That’s God’s truth—I never knew—there’s a big gang—none of us know.”.
“But you know who worked with you in this.” Jimmie Dale was speaking through clenched teeth. “You know who killed Forrester.”
“Yes.” The man’s whisper was scarcely audible.
“Who?”
“Reddy—Reddy Mull.”
“Yes,” said Jimmie Dale in his grim monotone, “I thought so.”
He reached into the satchel where a small package of securities were wrapped up in a sheet of the bank’s stationery, removed the sheet of paper, and spread it out before English Dick. “Write it down!” he commanded—and the muzzle of his automatic jerked forward to touch the fountain pen in the other’s vest pocket. “Write it—all of it—your own share—Reddy Mull’s—the whole story!”
The man’s lips seemed to have gone dry again, and again and again his tongue circled them.
“I can’t!” he said hoarsely. “I daren’t—they’d kill me. And—and if they didn’t, it would send me up, and perhaps—perhaps to the chair.”
“You take your chances on that”—Jimmie Dale’s voice was low and even—“but you take no chances here—for there are none.” The automatic in Jimmie Dale’s hand edged ominously forward. “It’s Forrester’s exoneration—or you. Do you understand? And you make your choice—now.”