Curtis took it from him and examined it carefully.
“It isn’t a meat can; top edges are turned over a wire—here’s a bit sticking out—and it’s had a handle. There’s a hinge in another place. The thing has been a box—a cash-box, I guess—one of the rubbishy kind they sell for about a dollar.”
“But what would make a man smash up his cash-box?”
“I don’t know; guess it doesn’t apply. I could understand his wanting to get rid of one that belonged to somebody else, after he’d cleaned it out. Aren’t you beginning to understand?”
“Sure,” said Stanton eagerly. “The box was Jernyngham’s—we’ll find out when he bought it at the hardware store. Then we’ll get after Wandle.”
“You hustle too much!” Curtis rebuked him, and then sat down with knitted brows. “Now see here—in a general way, it’s convictions we’re out for; you want to count on your verdict before you arrest a man. It comes to this: he’s tried first by us, and if he’s to be let off, it saves trouble if we decide the thing, instead of leaving it to the jury. They won’t tell you that at Regina, but, in practise, you’ll find that a police trooper is expected to use some judgment. Still, there are exceptions to what I’ve said about holding back. In the interests of justice, one might have to corral an innocent man.”
“How’s that going to serve the interests of justice?”
The corporal’s eyes twinkled with dry amusement.
“For one thing, it might lead the fellow we were really after to think we hadn’t struck his trail. But that’s not the point. How much ash would you figure Wandle takes out of his stove each time he lights it?”
“About a bucketful, burning wood.”