The boy looked calmly at me and said nothing. He had himself under control again. That wouldn’t do. I had to be nasty. I said:
“You were cuckoo over the girl. You confessed to me that it was only because she wouldn’t stand for it that you didn’t—”
“Don’t—please don’t,” he gasped. His face was red again.
I made myself sneer at him until his eyes went down. Then I said:
“You talked too much, son. You were too damned anxious to make your life an open book for me. That’s a way you amateur criminals have. You’ve always got to overdo the frank and open business.”
He was watching his hands. I let him have the other barrel:
“You know you killed him. You know if you used a bank gun, and if you put it back. If you did you’re nailed now, without an out. The gun-sharks will take care of that. If you didn’t, I’m going to nail you anyhow. All right. I don’t have to tell you whether you’ve got a chance or not. You know.
“Noonan is framing Whisper Thaler for the job. He can’t convict him, but the frame-up is tight enough that if Thaler’s killed resisting arrest, the chief will be in the clear. That’s what he means to do—kill Thaler. Thaler stood off the police all night in his King Street joint. He’s still standing them off—unless they’ve got to him. The first copper that gets to him—exit Thaler.
“If you figure you’ve got a chance to beat your rap, and you want to let another man be killed on your account, that’s your business. But if you know you haven’t got a chance—and you haven’t if the gun can be found—for God’s sake give Thaler one by clearing him.”
“I’d like,” Albury’s voice was an old man’s. He looked up from his hands, saw Dritton, said, “I’d like,” again and stopped.