“You were congratulating yourself on getting action,” he murmured.
I turned my scowl to a grin, mumbled, “Well, maybe,” went back to my office and telephoned Franklin Ellert. The lisping attorney said he would be glad to see me, so I went over to his office.
“And now, what progreth have you made?” he asked eagerly when I was seated beside his desk.
“Some. A man named Barrows was also in Nogales when Newhall was killed, and also came to San Francisco right after. Carey followed Barrows up here. Did you read about the man found walking the streets naked, all cut up?”
“Yeth.”
“That was Barrows. Then another man comes into the game—a barber named Arlie. He was spying on Carey. Last night, in a lonely road south of here, Arlie shot at Carey. Carey killed him.”
The old lawyer’s eyes came out another inch.
“What road?” he gasped.
“You want the exact location?”
“Yeth!”
I pulled his phone over, called the agency, had Dick’s report read to me, gave the attorney the information he wanted.
It had an effect on him. He hopped out of his chair. Sweat was shiny along the ridges wrinkles made in his face.
“Mith Newhall ith down there alone! That plath ith only half a mile from her houth!”