“Not so fast, Pennold. I have a warrant here for your arrest!”
“Don’t you believe him, Wally!” shrilled Mame. “It’s a fake! Don’t you talk to him! Put him out.”
“The warrant was issued this morning, and I am empowered to arrest you. You can look at it for yourselves; you’ve both seen them before.” He opened the paper and spread it out for them to read. “Walter Pennold, alias William Perry, alias Wally the Scribbler, number 09203 in the Rogues’ Gallery. First term at Joliet, for forgery; second at Sing Sing for shoving the queer. This warrant only holds you as a suspicious character, Pennold, but we can dig up plenty of other things, if it’s necessary; there’s a forger named Griswold in the Tombs now awaiting trial, who will snitch about that Rochester check, for one thing.”
“Don’t let him bluff you, Wally.” Mame faced Morrow from her husband’s side. “They can’t rake up a thing that ain’t outlawed by time. You’ve lived clean more’n seven years, an’ you’re free from the bulls. They can’t hold you.”
“I haven’t any warrant yet for you, Mrs. Pennold,” observed Morrow, imperturbably. “I admit that it’s more than seven years since every department-store detective was on the look-out for Left-handed Mame. I believe you specialized in furs and laces, didn’t you?”
“What’s it to you? You can’t lay a finger on me now!” the woman stormed, defiantly.
“Not for shop-lifting or forgery––but how about receiving stolen goods?”
The shot found an instant target. Walter Pennold slumped and crumpled down into his chair, his arms outspread upon the table. He laid his head upon them, and a single dry, shuddering sob tore its way from his throat. The woman backed slowly away, and for the first time a shadow as of approaching terror crossed her hard, challenging face.
“Stolen goods!” she repeated. “What are you 176 tryin’ to put over? Do you think we’re so green at the game that you can plant the goods here an’ get us put away on the strength of a past record? You’re a––”