“Come with me,” suggested Cruikshank in a low voice.
Yates entered the car, and the two were driven to the mayor’s residence. Here they entered a small office. Cruikshank invited the chief to sit down, and offered him a cigar.
“Yates,” said Rufus Cruikshank sternly, “there is something on your mind. Tell me about it.”
“You’re right, your honor,” declared Yates, in a relieved tone. “I’m glad to get alone with you. I’m tired of these committee meetings.”
“You may come to me any time that you need advice.”
“I’ll do it in the future. I didn’t want to show lack of confidence in the committee, but—”
“But what?”
“They’ve got the strings on me,” responded Yates. “That’s what’s the matter. I saw it tonight. When I talked about suicides, Hurley squawked. Worried about his hotel. When I knocked the Club Catalina, Coates put up a holler. That’s because he owns the place, and leases it to Big Tom Bagshawe.”
“I understand all that,” said Cruikshank. “We must make allowance for enterprise in Seaview City. These men are only human, you know.”
“Yes” — Yates spoke in a slow and reluctant tone — “but that’s just where the trouble may be. They’re human — perhaps they’re too human!”