“The owner of that gun, Sergeant, was Major Benson.”
The detective whistled softly, and his eyes opened slightly with astonishment. But gradually his face assumed its habitual stolidity of expression.
“Well, it don’t surprise me any,” he said.
Markham rang for Swacker.
“Get Major Benson on the wire, and tell him—tell him I’m about to make an arrest, and would appreciate his coming here immediately.” His deputizing of the telephone call to Swacker was understood by all of us, I think.
Markham then summarized, for Heath’s benefit, the case against the Major. When he had finished, he rose and rearranged the chairs at the table in front of his desk.
“When Major Benson comes, Sergeant,” he said, “I am going to seat him here.” He indicated a chair directly facing his own. “I want you to sit at his right; and you’d better get Phelps—or one of the other men, if he isn’t in—to sit at his left. But you’re not to make any move until I give the signal. Then you can arrest him.”
When Heath had returned with Phelps and they had taken their seats at the table, Vance said:
“I’d advise you, Sergeant, to be on your guard. The minute the Major knows he’s in for it, he’ll go bald-headed for you.”
Heath smiled with heavy contempt.