“You let the murderer get away. Your statement shows that Middleton was dangerous. We’ve printed the letter he sent to Blefken. The time element is bad, too. One minute you said he was gone. Yet he managed to choke Blefken and make a clean get-away while you were finding the body and raising a holler—”
The speaker stopped short. Cardona’s eyes were blazing with suppressed rage. The reporter knew it was not wise to go on. The others shifted uneasily. They did not know what to expect.
“My statement still stands,” declared Cardona firmly. “That’s all I care to say. My statement stands!”
“All right.” The talkative reporter shrugged his shoulders and left the room. The others waited.
“See Inspector Klein, if you want more,” bawled out Cardona furiously. “See him. See if he thinks I’m incompetent—”
He caught himself, realizing that this scene would do him no good in print. He smiled sourly; then sat down at his desk and began to study some reports.
Men left the room, and when their footsteps died away, a wan smile came over Cardona’s rigid features. He fumbled among the pile of papers and produced a photograph.
It showed a reproduction of a thumb print. Next, Cardona brought out an envelope. He stopped before opening it. He looked around, conscious that he was being watched. He saw Clyde Burke standing near.
“What are you doing here?” demanded the detective. “I thought you’d gone out with the rest of those news hounds.”
“I’ve stayed to talk with you, Joe.”