along.”
“You damned fool!” The man grimaced, worked his jaw, and grimaced again. “You know me! I’m Quinby Pellett!”
“Yeah? Where’d you get the lip grass?”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” The man took hold of his mustache and gave it a jerk, and it was gone. “Which way did he go, damn it? I have to find him!”
“He’s out in the sagebrush by now.” The cop had released the elbow, but he looked neither sympathetic nor amused. “What’s the idea of the handmade tassel?—Hey, wait a minute, where you going?”
“None of your business! Turn loose of me! I’m going to see Frank Phelan.”
“Okay. Come on, folks, let us by, open up there! I think I’d better go along, Mr. Pellett. If you happened to run across any more friends of yours on the way, you might not make it.”
Quinby Pellett offered no objection as the policeman climbed in beside him on the seat of his dilapidated coupé, parked around the corner on Garfield Street. He got into the channel of the traffic stream and drove with the apparent assumption that he was an ambulance.
“You know, I could give you a ticket anyway, sitting right here,” the cop observed.
Pellett stopped working his jaw long enough to grunt.
They went to the police station, and were informed that the chief was out and might be at the courthouse. Upon Pellett’s refusal to converse with the lieutenant in charge, a phone call to the courthouse got the information that Phelan was there in the sheriff’s office, sothey returned to the coupé and drove to the courthouse, missing fenders by inches on the way. They tramped down the dim basement corridor. The man in the anteroom told them the chief and the sheriff were busy and they would have to wait; then, obviously impressed by Pellett’s violent reaction, used the phone, nodded toward the rear, and told them to go on in.
Bill Tuttle was seated at his desk. Two men who looked like detectives, which was what they were, stood at the opposite side of the desk. Phelan, in a chair not far from Tuttle, frowning at the newcomers as they entered, spoke:
“Hello, Quin. What’s on your mind?”
The cop put in, “First I think I ought to tell you, Chief. He’s been standing all day in front of The Haven, wearing a phony mustache, looking for a friend, he said—”
“Go on and chew the rag while he digs himself a hole,” Pellett said bitterly.
“Spill it, Quin, we’re busy. Who’s digging a hole?”
“A man I tried to collar. By this time he’s to hell and gone for the hills.”
“Not him,” said the cop scornfully. “That bum wouldn’t get more than a mile from a pavement—”
“What bum?”
“The one that socked you. Al Rowley, his name is.”
Pellett gaped. “Do you mean to say you know him?”
“Sure I know him. He’s one of those—”
“Then find him! Get him!”
“That wouldn’t be—”
“Get him, damn it!”
“Keep your shirt on, Quin.” Phelan sounded impatient. “If the boys know him they can get him. Then what do they do with him?”
Pellett went to a chair and sat. “Listen, Frank. I’lltell you about it. But first tell them to get that man. Have you ever known me to take a fool hen for a grouse? Tell them to get him.”
Phelan turned. “Who is he, Tom?”
“His name’s Al Rowley,” said the cop. “He came in with that carnival last year, the one that busted, and he’s been hanging around ever since, mostly at one of the joints on Bucket Street. Every once in a while he gets ahold of a buck, I don’t know how, and makes a deposit at The Haven.”
“Do the boys all know him by sight?”
“Sure, he’s one of our most prominent citizens.”
Phelan requested Tuttle’s phone, got it, called the station and asked for the lieutenant in charge. After a few concise but thorough instructions, he hung up and shoved the phone back and turned to Pellett.
“All right, Quin, they’ll get him. Now spill it. What’s he done besides sock you?”
“He stole my
“You damned fool!” The man grimaced, worked his jaw, and grimaced again. “You know me! I’m Quinby Pellett!”
“Yeah? Where’d you get the lip grass?”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” The man took hold of his mustache and gave it a jerk, and it was gone. “Which way did he go, damn it? I have to find him!”
“He’s out in the sagebrush by now.” The cop had released the elbow, but he looked neither sympathetic nor amused. “What’s the idea of the handmade tassel?—Hey, wait a minute, where you going?”
“None of your business! Turn loose of me! I’m going to see Frank Phelan.”
“Okay. Come on, folks, let us by, open up there! I think I’d better go along, Mr. Pellett. If you happened to run across any more friends of yours on the way, you might not make it.”
Quinby Pellett offered no objection as the policeman climbed in beside him on the seat of his dilapidated coupé, parked around the corner on Garfield Street. He got into the channel of the traffic stream and drove with the apparent assumption that he was an ambulance.
“You know, I could give you a ticket anyway, sitting right here,” the cop observed.
Pellett stopped working his jaw long enough to grunt.
They went to the police station, and were informed that the chief was out and might be at the courthouse. Upon Pellett’s refusal to converse with the lieutenant in charge, a phone call to the courthouse got the information that Phelan was there in the sheriff’s office, sothey returned to the coupé and drove to the courthouse, missing fenders by inches on the way. They tramped down the dim basement corridor. The man in the anteroom told them the chief and the sheriff were busy and they would have to wait; then, obviously impressed by Pellett’s violent reaction, used the phone, nodded toward the rear, and told them to go on in.
Bill Tuttle was seated at his desk. Two men who looked like detectives, which was what they were, stood at the opposite side of the desk. Phelan, in a chair not far from Tuttle, frowning at the newcomers as they entered, spoke:
“Hello, Quin. What’s on your mind?”
The cop put in, “First I think I ought to tell you, Chief. He’s been standing all day in front of The Haven, wearing a phony mustache, looking for a friend, he said—”
“Go on and chew the rag while he digs himself a hole,” Pellett said bitterly.
“Spill it, Quin, we’re busy. Who’s digging a hole?”
“A man I tried to collar. By this time he’s to hell and gone for the hills.”
“Not him,” said the cop scornfully. “That bum wouldn’t get more than a mile from a pavement—”
“What bum?”
“The one that socked you. Al Rowley, his name is.”
Pellett gaped. “Do you mean to say you know him?”
“Sure I know him. He’s one of those—”
“Then find him! Get him!”
“That wouldn’t be—”
“Get him, damn it!”
“Keep your shirt on, Quin.” Phelan sounded impatient. “If the boys know him they can get him. Then what do they do with him?”
Pellett went to a chair and sat. “Listen, Frank. I’lltell you about it. But first tell them to get that man. Have you ever known me to take a fool hen for a grouse? Tell them to get him.”
Phelan turned. “Who is he, Tom?”
“His name’s Al Rowley,” said the cop. “He came in with that carnival last year, the one that busted, and he’s been hanging around ever since, mostly at one of the joints on Bucket Street. Every once in a while he gets ahold of a buck, I don’t know how, and makes a deposit at The Haven.”
“Do the boys all know him by sight?”
“Sure, he’s one of our most prominent citizens.”
Phelan requested Tuttle’s phone, got it, called the station and asked for the lieutenant in charge. After a few concise but thorough instructions, he hung up and shoved the phone back and turned to Pellett.
“All right, Quin, they’ll get him. Now spill it. What’s he done besides sock you?”
“He stole my
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