the words, or at least as many of the words as the singer wished to sing. Slowly he came closer.
“I’ll get him,” the Sergeant promised.
“Wait,” Miss Withers put in. “He’s coming this way.” She looked at the Sergeant. “Are you sure that was a fine-tooth comb you combed the cellar with?”
The voice was very near now, rough and bawdy and boisterous. It was, of a certainty, coming up the basement stair … up from the basement that had been fine-combed so thoroughly and so often by the Sergeant and his men!
“Oh, there was an old soldier …”
The voice stopped, and an apparition in gray stared at the little group from the doorway at the end of the hall.
He was a man of medium size, with a thick head of colorless hair and a face that was seamed and wrinkled as a potato left too long in a damp, dark place. He wore a decent blue serge coat above denim overalls, and there was straw in his eyebrows and blood in his eye.
He swayed gently back and forth, like a wheat field in the breeze.
“Anderson!” gasped Hildegarde Withers breathlessly. “Anderson the janitor!”
Slowly Anderson came forward, putting each foot down carefully in front of the other, with his body as intense and rigid as if he were walking a tightrope.
He made a valiant and not too successful effort to stare them all in the face as he came to an abrupt halt against the wall.
“Whass comin’ off here?” he questioned. “Mgoing close upaplace.”
The Sergeant’s mouth widened a little. He looked toward Mulholland. “Take him.”
The big cop seized Anderson’s arm, and the janitor immediately slumped, head down. “Gong home,” he muttered. “Gong turnou’ lights….”
With a smile of satisfaction, the Sergeant pressed forward. He shook the man roughly by the shoulder. “Say, what do you know about this killing, huh? Come clean!”
Anderson blinked. “Abou’ wha’?”
“Answer me, or I’ll break your back! Where you been hiding out? Come on, or we’ll help your memory with a night-stick.”
“You can’t do this to me,” Anderson retorted, brightening a little. “’M a rich man. ’M a millionaire, if had m’rights.” Tears suddenly burst from his bleary eyes. “I been cheated, I tell you. Cheated! Thirteen’s m’lucky number, I tol’ her so. I tol’ her….”
Slowly his body collapsed, like a deflated balloon. Mulholland lifted his grip and grunted with the weight.
The Sergeant looked at Miss Withers, but he got no help from her. “Frisk him and take him away,” he ordered the precinct detectives, who stood ready. “Take him over to the station and give him the water-cure. He won’t talk now.”
“How we going to book him, Sergeant?”
“Book him?” The Sergeant was more than a little excited. “Book him for the murder of Anise Halloran … no, play safe. Book him for disorderly conduct, resisting an officer, parking in front of a fire hydrant. What do I care how you book him as long as he’s safe behind the bars?”
“He appeared out of nowhere in the cellar,” Miss Withers suggested wickedly. “Maybe he’ll disappear in the cell the same way.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, put the cuffs on him, Allen. Now let’s see you vanish, Mister Janitor.”
Anderson gave no evidence of vanishing. He dangled in Mulholland’s grasp like a limp rag.
The precinct detectives patted his pockets professionally. Suddenly Burns cried out.
“What you got?” The Sergeant was all ears. “Find the murder weapon, or a gun?”
“Naw.” The detective extracted something from his prisoner’s hip pocket. “But it bulged like a gun.”
He tossed over to his superior a pair of white cotton gloves with blue wrists. The Sergeant surveyed them eagerly. Then he looked at Miss Withers.
When the wagon arrived, Anderson was still in what appeared to be an utter state of alcoholism. He was carried out, his face wreathed in a sodden smile. The Sergeant approached Miss Withers.
“You won’t be needed after
“I’ll get him,” the Sergeant promised.
“Wait,” Miss Withers put in. “He’s coming this way.” She looked at the Sergeant. “Are you sure that was a fine-tooth comb you combed the cellar with?”
The voice was very near now, rough and bawdy and boisterous. It was, of a certainty, coming up the basement stair … up from the basement that had been fine-combed so thoroughly and so often by the Sergeant and his men!
“Oh, there was an old soldier …”
The voice stopped, and an apparition in gray stared at the little group from the doorway at the end of the hall.
He was a man of medium size, with a thick head of colorless hair and a face that was seamed and wrinkled as a potato left too long in a damp, dark place. He wore a decent blue serge coat above denim overalls, and there was straw in his eyebrows and blood in his eye.
He swayed gently back and forth, like a wheat field in the breeze.
“Anderson!” gasped Hildegarde Withers breathlessly. “Anderson the janitor!”
Slowly Anderson came forward, putting each foot down carefully in front of the other, with his body as intense and rigid as if he were walking a tightrope.
He made a valiant and not too successful effort to stare them all in the face as he came to an abrupt halt against the wall.
“Whass comin’ off here?” he questioned. “Mgoing close upaplace.”
The Sergeant’s mouth widened a little. He looked toward Mulholland. “Take him.”
The big cop seized Anderson’s arm, and the janitor immediately slumped, head down. “Gong home,” he muttered. “Gong turnou’ lights….”
With a smile of satisfaction, the Sergeant pressed forward. He shook the man roughly by the shoulder. “Say, what do you know about this killing, huh? Come clean!”
Anderson blinked. “Abou’ wha’?”
“Answer me, or I’ll break your back! Where you been hiding out? Come on, or we’ll help your memory with a night-stick.”
“You can’t do this to me,” Anderson retorted, brightening a little. “’M a rich man. ’M a millionaire, if had m’rights.” Tears suddenly burst from his bleary eyes. “I been cheated, I tell you. Cheated! Thirteen’s m’lucky number, I tol’ her so. I tol’ her….”
Slowly his body collapsed, like a deflated balloon. Mulholland lifted his grip and grunted with the weight.
The Sergeant looked at Miss Withers, but he got no help from her. “Frisk him and take him away,” he ordered the precinct detectives, who stood ready. “Take him over to the station and give him the water-cure. He won’t talk now.”
“How we going to book him, Sergeant?”
“Book him?” The Sergeant was more than a little excited. “Book him for the murder of Anise Halloran … no, play safe. Book him for disorderly conduct, resisting an officer, parking in front of a fire hydrant. What do I care how you book him as long as he’s safe behind the bars?”
“He appeared out of nowhere in the cellar,” Miss Withers suggested wickedly. “Maybe he’ll disappear in the cell the same way.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, put the cuffs on him, Allen. Now let’s see you vanish, Mister Janitor.”
Anderson gave no evidence of vanishing. He dangled in Mulholland’s grasp like a limp rag.
The precinct detectives patted his pockets professionally. Suddenly Burns cried out.
“What you got?” The Sergeant was all ears. “Find the murder weapon, or a gun?”
“Naw.” The detective extracted something from his prisoner’s hip pocket. “But it bulged like a gun.”
He tossed over to his superior a pair of white cotton gloves with blue wrists. The Sergeant surveyed them eagerly. Then he looked at Miss Withers.
When the wagon arrived, Anderson was still in what appeared to be an utter state of alcoholism. He was carried out, his face wreathed in a sodden smile. The Sergeant approached Miss Withers.
“You won’t be needed after
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