“We didn’t have to wait very long either. MacGregor gets himself killed in a scrap with the police. And lo and behold!—the ‘Rat’s’ wife won’t talk. She wouldn’t tell you a thing and she knew everything. You can bet MacGregor told his wife all about us. But why didn’t she squeal? She could have got revenge on us good and proper. She had us right where she wanted us. When she wouldn’t give evidence, we knew what was in that lady’s mind then and there: She was planning to get back that poke!”
“Have you any more to say for yourself?” asked the inspector, following a long interval of silence.
“No, sir, not a thing.”
“If you don’t mind,” said Rand, addressing his superior, “I’d like to ask him a question.”
“Very well, corporal.”
“What was in the poke the evening Emery and Burnnel came to your cabin?”
Creel’s laugh sounded like the cackle of a madman.
“A rusty nail and a piece of broken string, taken from an old alarm clock. That’s what I call a clever piece of work. It was my idea. Frischette didn’t know a thing about it. It fooled everybody. I buried Dewberry’s keys in a hole I dug in the cellar. When I got the chance, I came back and dug them up. It was the same day that you went over to investigate about Frischette. You thought he had committed suicide.”
“Well, wasn’t I right?”
“No.”