“This isn’t Clarendon’s business,” retorted Higgins. “He’s a prosecutor. That’s all.”
“Speaking of Clarendon,” said Kirklyn suddenly, “what’s the real dope on that story that some torpedoes tried to get him one night?”
Barney Higgins snapped his fingers nervously.
“There’s nothing in it, Jerry,” he said.
“Clarendon seemed to think there was,” persisted the reporter. “He was all set for an interview. Then he shut up like a clam. What did he do? Talk to Weaver?”
“Look here, Jerry,” said Higgins. “If you want to work with me, you’ve got to play the game. When anything actually happens, I’ll tell you all there is to know. But rumors are out.
“We have enough trouble getting these gangsters when they really pull something. We can’t make arrests on the strength of things that never happen.”
“All right, Barney,” laughed Kirklyn. “I thought you might tell me something about it, at least.”
THE detective commissioner looked about him to make sure that no one was within hearing distance. They were standing outside of headquarters. The street was deserted.
“Here’s the dope, Jerry,” said Higgins. “You can’t use a word I say. If you do, I’ll deny it.