had been shot in the head and in the chest, four times in all. The county officials’ opinion was that he had been killed resisting a stickup, and that the bandits had fled without robbing him.
At five o’clock Tommy Howd came to my door.
“That guy Carey wants to see you again,” the freckle-faced boy said.
“Shoot him in.”
The swarthy man sauntered in, said “Howdy,” sat down, and made a brown cigarette.
“Got anything special on for tonight?” he asked when he was smoking.
“Nothing I can’t put aside for something better. Giving a party?”
“Uh-huh. I had thought of it. A kind of surprise party for Papadoodle. Want to go along?”
It was my turn to say, “Uh-huh.”
“I’ll pick you up at eleven—Van Ness and Geary,” he drawled. “But this has got to be a kind of tight party—just you and me—and him.”
“No. There’s one more who’ll have to be in on it. I’ll bring him along.”
“I don’t like that.” Tom-Tom Carey shook his head slowly, frowning amiably over his cigarette. “You sleuths oughtn’t outnumber me. It ought to be one and one.”
“You won’t be outnumbered,” I explained. “This jobbie I’m bringing won’t be on my side more than yours. And it’ll pay you to keep as sharp an eye on him as I do—and to see he don’t get behind either of us if we can help it.”
“Then what do you want to lug him along for?”