"He claims to have a witness," Hull managed to get out from a dry throat.
"A witness of what?" snapped the woman.
"That—that I—was in Cunningham's rooms."
For an instant the woman quailed. A spasm of fear flashed over her face and was gone.
"He'll claim anything to get outa the hole he's in," she said dryly. Then, swiftly, her anger pounced on the Wyoming man. "You get outa my house. We don't have to stand yore impudence—an' what's more, we won't. Do you hear? Get out, or I'll send for the police. I ain't scared any of you."
The amateur detective got out. He had had the worst of the bout. But he had discovered one or two things. If he could get Olson to talk, and could separate the fat, flabby man from his flinty wife, it would not be hard to frighten a confession from Hull of all he knew. Moreover, in his fear Hull had let slip one admission. Shibo, the little janitor, had some evidence against him. Hull knew it. Why was Shibo holding it back? The fat man had practically said that Shibo had seen him come out of Cunningham's rooms, or at least that he was a witness he had been in the apartment. Yet he had withheld the fact when he had been questioned by the police. Had Hull bribed him to keep quiet?
The cattleman found Shibo watering the lawn of the parking in front of the Paradox. According to his custom, he plunged abruptly into what he wanted to say. He had discovered that if a man is not given time to frame a defense, he is likely to give away something he had intended to conceal.
"Shibo, why did you hide from the police that Mr. Hull was in my uncle's rooms the night he was killed?"
The janitor shot one slant, startled glance at Kirby before the mask of impassivity wiped out expression from his eyes.
"You know heap lot about everything. You busy busy all like honey-bee.
Me, I just janitor—mind own business."