Mr. Sikes, who had shuffled around the corner, overheard the remark. He fairly barked:
“It don’t make a particle of difference what they believe provided nobody is able to find the corpus delicti. I don’t want to hear you say another word about murder, young man—not another damned word. They’ve got to dig up your father’s corpus delicti before—What in thunder are you laughing at, sir?”
Malone, to whom this question was addressed in Mr. Sikes’s most aggressive manner, put his hand to his mouth and, after a brief struggle, succeeded in replying with as straight a face as possible:
“I’ve been reading an awfully funny book, Mr. Sikes. It’s about detectives.”
Now, for the past two weeks Mr. Sikes and other overripe citizens of Rumley had made frequent and profound allusions to the corpus delicti. They didn’t know what it was at first but Mr. Link soon found out. He said it was French for “body.” Corpus delicti sounded so well—after considerable practice—that most people preferred to use it instead of “remains”; besides, it wasn’t quite so personal.
There is no telling what Mr. Sikes would have said to Mr. Malone about detectives in general if the delegation from Republican headquarters had arrived a minute or two later. He could have said a great deal in a minute or two.
The automobile came swinging up the drive on the tail of Mr. Malone’s defensive explanation. Oliver hurried off to greet the occupants of the car, Mr. Sikes hobbling along in his wake. Malone refilled his pipe as he strode across the stable yard. In the lee of the barn he scorched his fingers. His gaze was fixed on the swamp. Far out in the “danger zone” a number of men were compactly grouped. A solitary figure was running toward the Baxter house, while from the main highway to the right of the slough a dozen or more scattered people were picking their way gingerly across the intervening space. The detective dropped the charred match and started briskly down to meet the runner. He was no longer bored. He was an alert, vital, keen-sensed hunter of men.
Mrs. Grimes appeared on the front porch as the three committee-men stepped out of the car. She knew one of them, James Parsons, a lawyer.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Grimes,” said he, coming up the steps. “Baxter here?”
“He’s around back. I’ll call—”