There came the strained silence that sometimes follows when an honest compliment is passed between two men who have scarcely met. I broke it by pointing at the plaque on the front of my desk and giving him a broad grin. "Or maybe it's just the kind of blood that flows in my veins."
He looked at the little plaque that said Inspector Royal C. Royall and laughed pleasantly. "I like to think that it's a little bit of both."
The intercom on my desk flashed, and the sergeant's voice said: "Inspector, a couple of the boys just brought in a man named Manewiscz. A stolen car was run into a fire plug over on Fifth Avenue near 99th Street. A witness has positively identified Manewiscz as the driver who ran away before the squad car arrived."
"Sidney Manewiscz?" I asked. "Manny the Moog?"
"That's the one. He's got a record of stealing cars for joyrides. He insists on talking to you."
"Bring him in," I said. "I'll talk to him. And get hold of Dr. Brownlee."
"Excuse me," I said to the Duke. "Business." He started to get up, but I said, "That's all right, Your Grace; you might as well sit in on it." He relaxed back into the chair.
Two cops brought in Manewiscz, a short, nervous man with a big nose and frightened brown eyes.
"What's the trouble, Manny?" I asked.