“N-no,” said Peter. “Nobody said anything about it.”
“Good God!” said the detective. “D’you expect them to bring you things on a silver tray?” He began turning over Peter’s notes again, and finally threw them on the bed in disgust. He began questioning Peter, and Peter’s dismay turned to despair. He had not got a single thing that McGivney wanted. His whole week of “sleuthing” had been wasted!
The detective did not mince words. “It’s plain that you’re a boob,” he said. “But such as you are, we’ve got to do the best we can with you. Now, put your mind on it and get it straight: we know who these Reds are, and we know what they’re teaching; we can’t send ‘em to jail for that. What we want you to find out is the name of their spy, and who are their witnesses in the Goober case, and what they’re going to say.”
“But how can I find out things like that?” cried Peter.
“You’ve got to use your wits,” said McGivney. “But I’ll give you one tip; get yourself a girl.”
“A girl?” cried Peter, in wonder.
“Sure thing,” said the other. “That’s the way we always work. Guffey says there’s just three times when people tell their secrets: The first is when they’re drunk, and the second is when they’re in love—”
Then McGivney stopped. Peter, who wanted to complete his education, inquired, “And the third?”
“The third is when they’re both drunk and in love,” was the reply. And Peter was silent, smitten with admiration. This business of sleuthing was revealing itself as more complicated and more fascinating all the time.
“Ain’t you seen any girl you fancy in that crowd?” demanded the other.