“Well, a little,” replied the detective. “And here all I pounded after you guys for was because I got kinda used to Texas fellas in the Spanish War, and most of ’em that I run into was good sports.” He added, ingeniously: “And because this Moore—you don’t need to go repeating it, either of you, though it ain’t any secret to him I think so—is a bonehead, right.”
“He didn’t seem to consult the rest of you much,” Pres remarked tactfully.
“He never does; he knows it all himself,” said Graney. “It ain’t like he was the chief, you know. It just happens, the chief being out of town and the cap’n off duty tonight, that he’s sitting in at the top.”
Graney concluded bitterly:
“He’s a wise guy—I don’t think.”
The ex-ranger wasted no time seeking to learn what ancient departmental feud between Graney and Moore might be at the bottom of this bitterness, but asked practically:
“What can we do, friend?”
“What,” inquired the detective, “do you want to do—short of getting your man out?”
“I want to talk with him—and I want to see the man that was killed.”
“Fair enough,” Graney commented. “We’ll do the second thing first—over at the morgue. After that we’ll come back and you can see Bratton in his cell.” He explained this order of procedure by saying: “Moore goes off duty at two o’clock. The fella that takes charge then don’t like him much more’n I do.”