Once he stretched out his arm and touched the window sill.
“My God,” he moaned, “this is it! It couldn’t be anythin’ else. It was this time of the night—the noise of the engine to kill the sound of the shot, a stick to lift the man’s gun, a toss of the arm to throw it back into the room after the killin’—it’s right as day! Why, of course—Traynor’s hat was damp. It was rainin’ that night. When whoever pulled it out to rip the band off, the rain got at it. And the wool—I picked up a piece of fleece from the floor. Teixarra was shippin’ wool that day. His cars stood right here. Mister, you’ve got the answer!”
Johnny mopped his face with his hands.
“Bumped him off with his own gun, too,” he muttered. “Right clever, that. Yes, sir, this was one of the most clever murders this State can boast of. I got to talk to somebody or bust. I’m goin’ to find Madeiras.”
The car was moving away as Johnny swung to the ground. Half running, he burst into the Palace barroom. Scanlon dropped his cards as he caught sight of him.
Vinnie shouted: “My God, you dead, Johnny?”
“Dead, hell!” Johnny roared. “Do I look like a dead one? Where’s Madeiras?”
“He ain’t been here,” Scanlon answered.
“He was in town last night,” the boy exclaimed. “He ain’t far off right now. If you see him tell him I’m lookin’ for him—to come on the run!”
Turning on his heel, Johnny flung himself through the door, deaf to the questions in Scanlon’s eyes.