"Drop the palaver, Faircloth!" snapped the Inspector. "I take that for granted."
"A murder was——"
"Hold on, hold on! Hold the line a minute!"
The Inspector dropped the receiver, scrawled an illegible but well-known "Barker, Inspector," at the bottom of the sheet before him, jammed it into an envelope and sealed it. At least he would have a week of freedom for the task implied by Corporal Faircloth's interrupted disclosure.
"Now!" he shouted into the telephone, one hand instinctively buttoning his tunic to more official formality.
Faircloth restarted:
"Last night, shortly after midnight, at the T-Inverted R——"
"Bite it off, for Heaven's sake!" broke in the Inspector. "Who, and how, and by whom?"
"Billy Windover—shot—cattle-thieves!" the Corporal chipped off.
For just the fraction of a second Inspector Barker waited. Then: