“It is from a fairy story for the children,” Monsieur Girard explained. “The witch builds a castle of gingerbread in the woods to attract the little ones and when they touch it they are destroyed.—But tell me! You are again of the police, is it not so? You have found the murderer of my countrywoman?”
“Not yet, Girard. I just stopped by to pass the time of day, and ask you if you should see that red-headed limb of Satan, Jimmie Ballard, hanging around, tell him I’ve left town; he’s too free with his pen entirely!” McCarty returned with some heat. Then his manner changed. “You didn’t happen to notice a man who came to see me night before last, just around dark? I missed him by only a few minutes.”
“But no, my friend.” Girard shook his head. “It rains with such fury that one cannot see before the door and I close the shop while yet it is light.—You do not come in a long time to spend an evening with the old man!”
His tone was wistful and McCarty responded heartily:
“Sure I’ll come, just as soon as this case is over! Don’t forget about Jimmie!”
Leaving the shop he mounted the stairs to his apartment above, and settled himself to read the papers; but they held little of interest, and, as the inspector still delayed in coming, he got out his books once more and was deeply engrossed when Dennis reappeared, freshly shaven and well-brushed, with a new collar an inch too small embracing his gaunt neck.
“What are you dolled up for?” his host demanded. “That collar’s so tight the eyes are bulging out of your head!”
“Leave be!” retorted Dennis with dignity. “A man has a right to spruce up of a Saturday! So you’re at them books again! Where’s the inspector?”
“That’s his ring now.” McCarty rose. “Denny, mind you listen to what I tell him about Parsons, but don’t add anything to it. What he don’t know will save a waste of time.”
“What are you—?” Dennis began, but there was no opportunity for him to finish his query; the inspector had taken the stairs two steps at a time and entered without ceremony.