“Well, what is it, Hansen?”
“I understood you all right didn’t I, sir,” Hansen said uncomfortably, “when you told me that maid wasn’t to be put under arrest?”
“Yes. I don’t want to do anything about her as yet. Later on we may book her on a violation of the Sullivan Law and again we may not.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lieutenant Valcour took the gun and went back into the room with it, closing the door. He carefully unfolded enough of the handkerchief so that the barrel was exposed. He sniffed this and decided that the gun had neither been recently fired nor cleaned. There was just the definite odourlessness which one finds with guns that have not been used or taken care of for a very long time. So far, then, he was inclined to believe that Roberts’s story was correct.
“Is that the rod that done the trick, Lieutenant?” said Cassidy, who had been keenly interested in the sniffings.
“No, it isn’t, Cassidy. This gun hasn’t been fired for years, maybe.”
“Well, I wish it was. I’d like to get out of this joint.”
“Still nervous, Cassidy?”
“No, I ain’t nervous, Lieutenant. I’m just uncomfortable. It’s like there was something in this case that hasn’t broken yet. You know what I mean? Something we ain’t so much as put a finger on.”
Lieutenant Valcour knew very well just exactly what Cassidy meant. He, too, felt that same indefinable effect of impending “somethings” that were connected with obscure danger. It was an emotion, however, which required official scowlings. After all, psychic patrolmen were not