The Adventures of Jimmie Dale [21]
the phone. Carruthers would be at home now--he called Carruthers there. After a moment or two he got the connection. "This is Jimmie, Carruthers," he said. "Yes, I got it. Thanks. . . . Yes. . . . Listen. I want you to get Inspector Clayton, and bring him up here at once. . . . What? No, no--no! . . . How? . . . Why--er--tell him you're going to run a full page of him in the Sunday edition, and you want him to sit for a sketch. He'd go anywhere for that. . . . Yes. . . . Half an hour. . . . YES. . . . Good-bye." Jimmie Dale hung up the receiver; and, hastily now, began to write upon a pad that lay before him on the desk. The minutes passed. As he wrote, he scored out words and lines here and there, substituting others. At the end he had covered three large pages with, to any one but himself, an indecipherable scrawl. These he shoved aside now, and, very carefully, very legibly, made a copy on fresh sheets. As he finished, he heard a car draw up in front of the house. Jimmie Dale folded the copied sheets neatly, tucked them in his pocket, lighted a cigarette, and was lolling lazily in his chair as Jason announced: "Mr. Carruthers, sir, and another gentleman to see you." "Show them up, Jason," instructed Jimmie Dale. Jimmie Dale rose from his chair as they came in. Jason, well- trained servant, closed the door behind them. "Hello, Carruthers; hello, inspector," said Jimmie Dale pleasantly, and waved them to seats. "Take this chair, Carruthers." He motioned to one at his elbow. "Glad to see you, inspector--try that one in front of the desk, you'll find it comfortable." Carruthers, trying to catch Jimmie Dale's eye for some sort of a cue, and, failing, sat down. Inspector Clayton stared at Jimmie Dale. "Oh, it's YOU, eh?" His eyes roved around the room, fastened for an instant on some of Jimmie Dale's work on an easel, came back finally to Jimmie Dale--and he plumped himself down in the chair indicated. "Thought you was more'n a cub reporter," he remarked, with a grin. "You were too slick with your pencil. Pretty fine studio you got here. Carruthers says you're going to draw me." Jimmie Dale smiled--not pleasantly--and leaned suddenly over the desk. "Yes," he said slowly, a grim intonation in his voice, "going to draw you--TRUE TO LIFE." With an exclamation, Clayton slued around in his chair, half rose, and his shifty eyes, small and cunning, bored into Jimmie Dale's face. "What d'ye mean by that?" he snapped out "Just exactly what I say," replied Jimmie Dale curtly. "No more, no less. But first, not to be too abrupt, I want to join with the newspapers in congratulating you on the remarkable--shall I call it celerity, or acumen?--with which you solved the mystery of Metzer's death, and placed the murderer behind the bars. It is really remarkable, inspector, so remarkable, in fact, that it's almost-- SUSPICIOUS. Don't you think so? No? Well, that's what Mr. Carruthers was good enough to bring you up here to talk over--in an intimate and confidential way, you know." Inspector Clayton surged up from his chair to his feet, his fists clenched, the red sweeping over his face--and then he shook one fist at Carruthers. "So that's your game, is it!" he stormed. "Trying to crawl out of that twenty-five thousand reward, eh? And as for you"--he turned on Jimmie Dale--"you've rigged up a nice little plant between you, eh? Well, it won't work--and I'll make you squirm for this, both of you, damn you, before I'm through!" He glared from one to the other for a moment--then swung on his heel. "Good-afternoon, gentlemen," he sneered, as he started for the door. He was halfway across the room before Jimmie Dale spoke. "Clayton!" Clayton turned. Jimmie Dale was still leaning over the desk, but now one elbow was propped upon it, and in the most casual way a revolver covered Inspector Clayton. "If you attempt to leave this room," said Jimmie Dale, without raising his voice, "I assure you that I shall fire with as little compunction as though I were aiming at a mad dog--and I apologise to all mad dogs for coupling