“There’s the fellow who bumped off Jarnow,” he said. “He planted the job on Henry.”
“Why did you kill Jarnow?” Blair asked Crull.
“He snooped a bit, too,” explained Birdie. “He found out too much at the old farmhouse. He stole the paper” — Crull laughed as Blair Windsor gasped — “and he was showing it to Henry when I got there. So I gave it to him, and left the hot rod on Henry.”
“I didn’t realize that,” said Blair soberly. “I thought Henry did it, all along.”
“We didn’t tell you,” interposed Isaac Coffran. “We decided you would handle matters better if you knew nothing about it. You thought that Henry actually killed Frank Jarnow. So you didn’t have to play a game.”
“That was best,” admitted Blair, nodding. “It helped me keep a clean slate, all right.”
“Since Birdie killed Jarnow,” remarked the old man, in a cold voice, “I can’t see why he should object to finishing this man, here. You must agree with me on that point, Windsor.”
Blair nodded thoughtfully.
“But I shall deny him the pleasure,” continued Isaac Coffran. “A quick shot is all right, when a man is talking to the wrong party, as Jarnow was.
“But in this instance, Vincent, when he talks” — the old man’s voice carried biting emphasis — “will talk to the proper persons. He will talk to us. So his death will be a slow one. He will linger on the verge until he tells his story.”