“That’s a matter for the police. You can’t hope to hide it for more than a day or two longer. Your firm is bankrupt through the rascality of a partner. He’s gone with all the money he could scrape together. He converted everything into cash; he lied, swindled, stole, and skipped. And what he didn’t take must remain to satisfy the firm’s creditors. You can’t conceal conditions, slyly pocket what Puma has left and then call in an attorney. That’s criminal. You have your contracts to fulfil; you have a studio full of people whose salaries are nearly due; you have running expenses; you have notes to meet; you have obligations to face 349 when a dozen or so contractors for your new theatre come to you on Saturday–––”
“You mean that’s all up to me?” shrieked Skidder, squinting horribly at a framed photograph of Puma. And suddenly he ran at it and hurled it to the floor and began to kick it about with strange, provincial maledictions:
“Dern yeh, yeh poor blimgasted thing! I’ll skin yeh, yeh dumb-faced, ring-boned, two-edged son-of-a-skunk!–––”
The telephone’s clamour silenced him. Jim answered:
“Who? Oh, long-distance. All right.” And he waited. Then, again: “Who wants him?... Yes, he’s here in the office, now.... Yes, he’ll come to the ’phone.”
And to Skidder: “Shadow Hill wants to speak to you.”
“I won’t go. By God, if this thing is out!––Who the hell is it wants to speak to me? Wait! Maybe it’s Alonzo D. Pawling!–––”
“Shall I inquire?” And he asked for further information over the wire. Then, presently, and turning again to Skidder:
“You’d better come to the wire. It seems to be the Chief of Police who wants you.”
Skidder’s unhealthy skin became ghastly. He came over and took the instrument: