If he didn't, Durand was prepared to shift the
murder upon his shoulders.
The minute-hand of the watch passed down from the quarter to the half
and from the half to the three quarters. Still the telephone bell did
not ring. The gang leader began to sweat blood. Had some one bungled
after all the care with which he had laid his plans?
A door slammed below. Hurried footsteps sounded on the stair treads.
Into the room burst a man.
"'Slim' 's been croaked," he blurted.
"What!" Durand's eyes dilated.
"At Maddock's."
"Who did it?"
"De guy he was to gun."
"Lindsay."
"Dat's de fellow."
"Did the bulls get Lindsay?"
"Pinched him right on de spot."
"Gun 'Slim,' did he?"
"Nope. Knocked him cold wit' a chair. Cracked his skull."
"Is he dead?"
"He'll never be deader. Dave grabbed this sucker Lindsay and yelled
that he done it. The bulls pinched him like I said right there."
"Did it happen in the dark?"
"Sure as you're a foot high. My job was dousin' the glims, and I done
it right."
"What about 'Slim'? Was he shooting when he got it?"
The other man shook his head. "This Lindsay man claims he was. I
talked wit' a bull afterward. Dey didn't find no gun on 'Slim.' The
bull says there was no gun-play."
"What became of 'Slim's' gun?"
"Search me."
Durand slammed a big fist exultantly down on the desk. "Better than
the way I planned it. If the gun's gone, I'll frame Lindsay for the
chair.
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