chalk.
“So yo’ gits out of town. So yo’ han’s yo’ job ovah to me,” said Josh venomously. “Ah ain’t got wuhk at the moment. I’ll take yo’s. Unless—” The razor lightly nicked skin.
“Wait! Wait! Gimme papuh and pencil.”
The terrified Tosephus wrote a note.
This interduces my cousin from Cairo, Illinois. I got to go home fast on account my mother is sick. My cousin, Jim Rill, is a good houseman. He can take care things till I get back.
Tosephus Rill.
He handed the note to Josh with a shaking hand.
“Give this to Judge Broadbough, jus’ down the street. Tha’s where Ah work.”
“All right,” nodded Josh, still looking murderously at Rill’s throat. “So yo’ forgits to come back an’ I keeps de job f’um now on. See?”
“Y-yes, suh,” said Tosephus. “I see.”
He legged out of the room, and down the street. Josh stared after him, looking sleepy and amiable.
“To catch flies, use neither vinegar nor honey. Shock ’em to death!”
Tosephus Rill was the kind of person who noticed only himself. Wrapped in self-admiration, he had worked for Judge Broadbough for over a year and had noticed nothing particularly wrong.
Josh had been in Broadbough’s house—frowningly and reluctantly taken on after the judge read the note—for less than five hours, when he had things to report to Benson.
For one thing, the judge was scared of something and couldn’t quite conceal it.
Broadbough was a venerable-looking man of sixty, with a paunch and a monkish bald spot on the top of his head. He made it a business to look venerable—the kind of man nice old ladies would ask to help them across streets.
But his eyes squinted too much and were set too close together.
In those eyes was an abiding fear, though it didn’t show in any of the man’s assured actions. Josh got a chance to listen to snatches of several phone calls, through the judge’s closed library door, and gathered that men no judge should know were telephoning bad news. Once he heard Broadbough say:
“The devil’s horns? What could that mean? And why was it so important that he traced it out while he was dying?”
Then, in a moment: “But who killed him? Haven’t you had any lead at all, Harrigo?”
Judge Broadbough’s colored maid had come down the hall, then, so Josh had to get away from the door. The maid, who looked at Josh in a way that would have made Josh’s wife, Rosabel, claw her eyes out if she could have seen, went toward the kitchen. And Josh had to go with her, laughing and talking, to avoid all look of suspicion.
It was at a little after nine that evening that the bell rang, and Josh opened the door to a man of fifty or so who looked younger and had a neat Vandyke and glittering spectacles.
“Is Judge Broadbough in?” the man asked.
“Yas, suh,” said Josh, showing the ivory of his teeth.
“Will you tell him that Norman Vautry is calling?”
Josh took up his station outside the library door. He could hear quite well.
“Norman!” said the judge, with an inquiring inflection in his voice. “Glad to see you any time, but what’s the visit for tonight?”
There was flat silence for a moment. Then Vautry’s voice:
“You asked me to come, didn’t you? Well, here I am.”
“Look here!” The judge’s tone was shaky. “I didn’t send for you.”
“My secretary said you’d phoned and left word for me to come tonight.”
“Something is wrong!” bleated the judge. You could fairly see the perspiration coming out on his forehead. “Believe me, Norman, I haven’t been in touch with your office for days! Oh, something is very wrong!”
“It begins to look like it,” said Vautry, grim-voiced.
“Groman?” said Broadbough. “Could—”
“Hadn’t you heard? Groman’s out of it—paralyzed. Had a second stroke when Hawley was killed. No, it couldn’t be Groman. But I’ve heard a whisper of somebody new in town. Somebody brought in by the old swindler. I’d better get out of
“So yo’ gits out of town. So yo’ han’s yo’ job ovah to me,” said Josh venomously. “Ah ain’t got wuhk at the moment. I’ll take yo’s. Unless—” The razor lightly nicked skin.
“Wait! Wait! Gimme papuh and pencil.”
The terrified Tosephus wrote a note.
This interduces my cousin from Cairo, Illinois. I got to go home fast on account my mother is sick. My cousin, Jim Rill, is a good houseman. He can take care things till I get back.
Tosephus Rill.
He handed the note to Josh with a shaking hand.
“Give this to Judge Broadbough, jus’ down the street. Tha’s where Ah work.”
“All right,” nodded Josh, still looking murderously at Rill’s throat. “So yo’ forgits to come back an’ I keeps de job f’um now on. See?”
“Y-yes, suh,” said Tosephus. “I see.”
He legged out of the room, and down the street. Josh stared after him, looking sleepy and amiable.
“To catch flies, use neither vinegar nor honey. Shock ’em to death!”
Tosephus Rill was the kind of person who noticed only himself. Wrapped in self-admiration, he had worked for Judge Broadbough for over a year and had noticed nothing particularly wrong.
Josh had been in Broadbough’s house—frowningly and reluctantly taken on after the judge read the note—for less than five hours, when he had things to report to Benson.
For one thing, the judge was scared of something and couldn’t quite conceal it.
Broadbough was a venerable-looking man of sixty, with a paunch and a monkish bald spot on the top of his head. He made it a business to look venerable—the kind of man nice old ladies would ask to help them across streets.
But his eyes squinted too much and were set too close together.
In those eyes was an abiding fear, though it didn’t show in any of the man’s assured actions. Josh got a chance to listen to snatches of several phone calls, through the judge’s closed library door, and gathered that men no judge should know were telephoning bad news. Once he heard Broadbough say:
“The devil’s horns? What could that mean? And why was it so important that he traced it out while he was dying?”
Then, in a moment: “But who killed him? Haven’t you had any lead at all, Harrigo?”
Judge Broadbough’s colored maid had come down the hall, then, so Josh had to get away from the door. The maid, who looked at Josh in a way that would have made Josh’s wife, Rosabel, claw her eyes out if she could have seen, went toward the kitchen. And Josh had to go with her, laughing and talking, to avoid all look of suspicion.
It was at a little after nine that evening that the bell rang, and Josh opened the door to a man of fifty or so who looked younger and had a neat Vandyke and glittering spectacles.
“Is Judge Broadbough in?” the man asked.
“Yas, suh,” said Josh, showing the ivory of his teeth.
“Will you tell him that Norman Vautry is calling?”
Josh took up his station outside the library door. He could hear quite well.
“Norman!” said the judge, with an inquiring inflection in his voice. “Glad to see you any time, but what’s the visit for tonight?”
There was flat silence for a moment. Then Vautry’s voice:
“You asked me to come, didn’t you? Well, here I am.”
“Look here!” The judge’s tone was shaky. “I didn’t send for you.”
“My secretary said you’d phoned and left word for me to come tonight.”
“Something is wrong!” bleated the judge. You could fairly see the perspiration coming out on his forehead. “Believe me, Norman, I haven’t been in touch with your office for days! Oh, something is very wrong!”
“It begins to look like it,” said Vautry, grim-voiced.
“Groman?” said Broadbough. “Could—”
“Hadn’t you heard? Groman’s out of it—paralyzed. Had a second stroke when Hawley was killed. No, it couldn’t be Groman. But I’ve heard a whisper of somebody new in town. Somebody brought in by the old swindler. I’d better get out of
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