The writer was plainly angry but the gods had not blessed him with a ready tongue and he was prepared to sit silent under McWalsh’s scorn. Some mischievous devil prompted Anthony Trent to rise to his aid. It was a bold thing to do, to draw the attention of the man who had been in charge of the detectives sent to run him to earth, but of late excitement had been lacking.
“Inspector McWalsh,” he commenced, “possesses precisely that type of mind one would expect to find in a successful policeman. He has that absolute absence of imagination without which one cannot attain his rank in the force. All he has done in his speech is to pour his scorn of a certain type of crime story on its author. As writers we are sorry if Inspector McWalsh never heard of the Einthoven string galvanometer upon which the solution of the story he ridicules rests, yet we know it to exist. Were I a criminal instead of a writer I should enjoy to cross swords with men who think as the Inspector does. I could outguess them every time.”
“Who is this guy?” Inspector McWalsh demanded loudly.
“Anthony Trent,” Mr. Crosbeigh whispered. “He wrote some wonderful crook stories a few years ago dealing with a crook called Conway Parker.”
“What one would expect to hear from a man with McWalsh’s opportunities to deal with crime is some of the difficulty he experiences in his work. There must be difficulty. We know by statistics what crimes are committed and what criminals brought to justice. What happens to the crooks who remain safe from arrest by reason of superior skill? I’ll tell you, gentlemen. They live well and snap their fingers at men like the last speaker. There is such a thing as fatty degeneration of the brain——”
Inspector McWalsh rose to his feet with a roar. “I didn’t come here to be insulted.”
“I am not insulting a guest,” Trent went on equably, “I am asking him to tell us interesting things of his professional work instead of giving his opinion on modern science. I met McWalsh years ago when I covered Mulberry Street for the Morning Leader. He was captain then. Let him entertain us with some of the reasons why the Ashy Bennet murderer was never caught. You remember, gentlemen, that Bennet was shot down on Park Row at midday. Then the thoroughbred racer Foxkeen was poisoned in his stall at Sheepshead Bay. Why was that crime never punished? I remember a dozen others where the police have been beaten. Coming down to the present time, there is the robbery of the house of the genial sportsman Inspector McWalsh tells us he is proud to call his friend, Conington Warren. How was it the burglar or burglars were allowed to escape?” Trent was enjoying himself hugely. “I have a right to demand protection of the New York police. In my own humble home I have valuables bequeathed me by an uncle in Australia which are never safe while such men as snap their fingers at the police are at large. Let Inspector McWalsh tell us why his men fail. It will help us, perhaps, to understand the difficulties under which they labor. It may help us to appreciate the silent unadvertised work of the police. The Inspector is a good sport who loves a race horse and a good glove fight as much as I do myself. I assure him he will make us grateful if he will take the hint of a humble scribbler.”
The applause which followed gratified the Inspector enormously. He thought it was evidence of his popularity, a tribute to his known fondness for the race tracks. His anger melted.
“Boys,” he shouted, rising to his feet and waving a Larranaga to the applauders, “I guess he’s right and I hope the fellow who writes that scientific dope will accept my word that it wasn’t personal. Of course we do have difficulties. I admit it. I had charge of that Ashy Bennet murder and I’d give a thousand dollars to be able to put my hand on the man who done it. As to Foxkeen I had a thousand on him to win at eight-to-one and when he was poisoned the odds were shortening every minute so you can guess I was sore on the skunk who poisoned him. The police of all countries fail and they fail the most in countries where people have most sympathy with crime. Boys, you know you all like a clever crook to get away with it. It’s human nature. We ain’t helped all we could be and you know it. We, ‘gentlemen of the police,’” he quoted Austin’s words glibly, “we make mistakes sometimes. We get the ordinary crook easy enough. If you don’t believe me get a permit to look over Sing Sing. The crimes the last speaker mentioned were committed by clever men. They get away with it. The clever ones do get away with things for a bit. But if the guy who croaked Bennet tried murder again the odds are we’d gather him in. Same with the man or men who put strychnine in Foxkeen’s oats. The clever ones get careless. That’s our opportunity.”
The Inspector lighted a new cigar, sipped his highball and came back to his speech.