A khaki-dressed copper was tumbling off a motorcycle at the gate. He yelled at us:
“The First National’s been stuck up.”
Noonan cursed savagely, bawled:
“He’s foxed us, damn him! Back to town, everybody.”
Everybody except us who had ridden with the chief beat it for the machines. Two of them took the dead detective with them.
Noonan looked at me out of his eye-corners and said:
“This is a tough one, no fooling.”
I said, “Well,” shrugged, and sauntered over to his car, where the driver was sitting at the wheel. I stood with my back to the house, talking to Pat. I don’t remember what we talked about. Presently Noonan and the other sleuths joined us.
Only a little flame showed through the open roadhouse door before we passed out of sight around the bend in the road.