“I’ll do that.” The words were casual. “So much for the arrest. Now for the conviction part. If you get him, are you sure you can nail him to the cross?”
“I ought to be, but he’ll have to go up against a jury—and that means anything can happen.”
The muscular brown hand holding the brown cigarette made a careless gesture.
“Then maybe I’d better get a confession out of him before I drag him in,” he said offhand.
“It would be safer that way,” I agreed. “You ought to let that holster down an inch or two. It brings the gun butt too high. The bulge shows when you sit down.”
“Uh-huh. You mean the one on the left shoulder. I took it away from a fellow after I lost mine. Strap’s too short. I’ll get another one this afternoon.”
Tommy came in with a folder labeled, “Carey, Tom-Tom, 1361-C.” It held some newspaper clippings, the oldest dated ten years back, the youngest eight months. I read them through, passing each one to the swarthy man as I finished it. Tom-Tom Carey was written down in them as soldier of fortune, gunrunner, seal poacher, smuggler and pirate. But it was all alleged, supposed and suspected. He had been captured variously but never convicted of anything.
“They don’t treat me right,” he complained placidly when we were through reading. “For instance, stealing that Chinese gunboat wasn’t my fault. I was forced to do it—I was the one that was double-crossed. After they’d got the stuff aboard they wouldn’t pay for it. I couldn’t unload it. I couldn’t do anything but take gunboat and all. The insurance