Fyles passed the matches and waited. The Wolf took them hastily and struck one. Then he watched his companion as he lit his cigarette.
“You’re going to need counsel in a while,” Fyles said presently.
The Wolf inhaled deeply. He breathed the tobacco smoke with intense enjoyment. He repeated the operation before replying. Then he shook his head.
“Guess I don’t need any attorney,” he said, with simple decision.
Fyles bestirred. His brows drew across his forehead. A spasm of irritation sounded in his voice.
“But you got to have one. If you haven’t got counsel the Court will appoint one for you.”
The Wolf seemed absorbed in the consumption of his cigarette. His eyes were smiling down at it in the friendliest manner. But he saw the policeman’s change of expression. He was alive to his tone.
“It don’t cut any ice, Sergeant,” he said, with a shake of the head.
Fyles glanced at his desk. He looked up at the window above it. He sat thinking for some silent moments while the Wolf smoked furiously. Then he turned to his prisoner again as the latter took a fresh cigarette from the packet and lit it from the stump of his first.
“Do you get it all?” he asked quietly, but significantly. “It’s murder, boy. It’s a straight case. I’ve never had a straighter. There’s a rope lying around at the finish.”