“Hell!”
CHAPTER XXIII. THE CONFESSION.
Burke was a persistent man, and he had set himself to getting the murderer of Griggs. Foiled in his efforts thus far by the opposition of Mary, he now gave himself over to careful thought as to a means of procedure that might offer the best possibilities of success. His beetling brows were drawn in a frown of perplexity for a full quarter of an hour, while he rested motionless in his chair, an unlighted cigar between his lips. Then, at last, his face cleared; a grin of satisfaction twisted his heavy mouth, and he smote the desk joyously.
“It's a cinch it'll get 'im!” he rumbled, in glee.
He pressed the button-call, and ordered the doorman to send in Cassidy. When the detective appeared a minute later, he went directly to his subject with a straightforward energy usual to him in his work.
“Does Garson know we've arrested the Turner girl and young Gilder?” And, when he had been answered in the negative: “Or that we've got Chicago Red and Dacey here?”
“No,” Cassidy replied. “He hasn't been spoken to since we made the collar.... He seems worried,” the detective volunteered.
Burke's broad jowls shook from the force with which he snapped his jaws together.
“He'll be more worried before I get through with him!” he growled. He regarded Cassidy speculatively. “Do you remember the Third Degree Inspector Burns worked on McGloin? Well,” he went on, as the detective nodded assent, “that's what I'm going to do to Garson. He's got imagination, that crook! The things he don't know about are the things he's afraid of. After he gets in here, I want you to take his pals one after the other, and lock them up in the cells there in the corridor. The shades on the corridor windows here will be up, and Garson will see them taken in. The fact of their being there will set his imagination to working overtime, all right.”