“Whose is it, then?”
“That’s part of it.” Tommy Burt leaned against Mallory’s desk and appeared to be revolving some delectable thought in his mind.
“Tommy,” said Mallory, “they didn’t open that committee meeting you’ve been attending with a corkscrew, did they?”
“I’m intoxicated with the chaste beauties of my story, which isn’t mine,” returned the dreamily smiling Mr. Burt. “Here it is, boiled down. Guest on an anchored yacht returning late, sober, through the mist. Wharf-gang shooting craps in a pier-shed. They size him up and go to it; six of ’em. Knives and one gun: maybe more. The old game: one asks for the time. Another sneaks up behind and gives the victim the elbow-garrote. The rest rush him. Well, they got as far as the garrote. Everything lovely and easy. Then Mr. Victim introduces a few specialties. Picks a gun from somewhere around his shirt-front, shoots the garroter over his shoulder; kills the man in front, who is at him with a stiletto, ducks a couple of shots from the gang, and lays out two more of ’em. The rest take to the briny. Tally: two dead, one dying, one wounded, Mr. Guest walks to the shore end, meets two patrolmen, and turns in his gun. ‘I’ve done a job for you,’ says he. So they pinch him. He’s in the police station, incomunicado.”
Throughout the narrative, Mr. Greenough had thrown in little, purring interjections of “Good! Good!”—“Yes.”—“Ah! good!” At the conclusion Mallory exclaimed!
“Moses! That is a story! You say it isn’t yours? Why not?”
“Because it’s Banneker’s.”
“Why?”
“He’s the guest with the gun.”
Mallory jumped in his chair. “Banneker!” he exclaimed. “Oh, hell!” he added disconsolately.