“You’re a swell feller, and I haven’t a thing on you, Sergeant,” the Wolf went on amiably. “Not a thing. I can’t forget these smokes you handed me. You’re white, anyway, which I wouldn’t say of all the police. You see right here, I’m not a fool, though maybe you reckon me crazy. I got things clear in my head. An’ the way I see things is the way I mean ’em to go. Your hangin’ don’t worry me a thing. I could buy all the defence I needed if I felt like it. But I’m not buyin’. If the Court sets a boy to defend me it’s up to them. But he won’t get a thing, nor a cent from me. You got a straight case. You never had a straighter. Then push it thro’. An’, when the time comes I’ll be glad fer that boy with the rope. I’ll thank him. When they hang me it’ll be good an’ fixed who killed Sinclair.”
“Not necessarily.”
“Eh?”
The Wolf’s startled gaze leaped at the policeman’s face.
They sat eye to eye. It was a wordless duel. The sergeant’s smile was grimly taunting. The Wolf’s study of him was a search capable of reading desperately. Suddenly the latter’s head went back and his laugh was cheerfully derisive.
“It’s all right, Sergeant,” he cried. “We ken just leave it that way. But you ken hand your folks my last noise. It’s no use fer an attorney boy to get around me. I haven’t use fer attorneys, anyway. An’ he’ll just be breathing up what little air they leave a feller to use in a prison cell.”
Superintendent Croisette was sitting back in his chair in the Orderly Room. Sergeant Fyles was facing him, standing just beyond his superior’s desk. They were alone for a confidential word which would never be permitted to escape beyond the four walls surrounding them.
“It’s no use, sir, I’ve done my best,” Fyles jerked out in a disgruntled tone. “The man won’t talk. He won’t plead. He means to go straight to the rope, and—he’s innocent!”
“Innocent? You’re feeling sure as a result of your interview? Then he must have talked—unconsciously?”