Dalrymple's Equation

by Paul W. Fairman

In the interrogation room we went at him with all the fixings. A strong light in his eyes—cigarette smoke in his face.

Donovan, with a snarl on his puss said, "All right, buster. Let's cut out the jokes. What were you doing in that tavern?"

"Reading the gas meter."

"I said cut out the jokes."

"You've got my identification. What makes you think I had any other reason for going there?"

"I'll ask the questions. Maybe you don't realize what a spot you're in."

"This is idiotic. This whole procedure emanates from your personal dislike of me. All you have to do is call the company."

"What do you know about the Davis killing?"

"Only what I heard in the neighborhood. Intriguing little equation, isn't it?"

I think we'd realized from the beginning that we had nothing on Dalrymple and that we wouldn't be able to involve him. He'd hit it on the nose when he said our motivation was personal dislike. Finally I went out and called the gas company, realizing we'd delayed doing this because we knew it would lose Dalrymple for us.