“Shut up,” Eston told him. “It’s a moral question.”
Kinney’s fist was still propping Durkin’s chin. “I think,” he said, “the boys ought to have a look at you. They won’t be sleeping anyhow, not tonight. Con, get on the phone and find them. You too, Lew — the one in the clubroom. Get ’em here, and get all of ’em you can. They’ll come all right. Tell them not to spill it; we don’t want any cops around until we get—”
“No!” Durkin squawked.
“No what, Beaky?” Kinney removed his fist.
“I didn’t mean to kill Nick.” He was slobbering. “I swear I didn’t, Art. He suspected — he asked me — he found out I bet a grand against us, and he threw it at me, and I brought him in here to explain, but he wouldn’t believe me and he was going to tell you, and he got sore and came at me, and I grabbed the bat just to stop him, and when I saw he was dead — my God, Art, I didn’t want to kill Nick!”
“You got more than a grand for doping the drinks. How much did you get?”
“I’m coming clean, Art. You can check me, and I’m coming clean. I got five grand, and I’ve got five more coming. I had to have it, Art, because the bookies had me down and I was sunk. I was listed good if I didn’t come through. I had it on me, but with the cops coming I knew we’d be frisked, so I ditched it. You can see I’m coming clean, Art. I ditched it there in the radio.”
“What radio?”
“There in the corner. I stuffed it in through a slot.”
There was a scramble and a race. Prentiss tangled with a chair and went down with it, sprawling. Nat Neill won. He jerked the radio around and started clawing at the back, but the panel was screwed on.