He protested feebly, but finally gave me his doctor’s name.
The telephone rang as I was going towards it. The call was for me, from Callahan.
“We’ve pegged the fingerprints,” he said triumphantly. “They’re Dick Moley’s. Know him?”
“Sure,” I said, “as well as you do.”
Moley was a gambler, gunman, and grifter-in-general with a police record as long as his arm.
Callahan was saying cheerfully: “That’s going to mean a fight when we find him, because you know how tough that ⸻ is. And he’ll laugh while he’s being tough.”
“I know,” I said.
I told Chappell what Callahan had told me. Rage came into his face and voice when he heard the name of the man accused of killing his wife.
“Ever hear of him?” I asked.
He shook his head and went on cursing Moley in a choked, husky voice.
I said: “Stop that. That’s no good. I know where to find Moley.”
His eyes opened wide. “Where?” he gasped.
“Want to go with me?”
“Do I?” he shouted. Weariness and sickness had dropped from him.
“Get your hat,” I said, “and we’ll go.”
He ran upstairs for his hat and down with it.