A MURDER
"Now, Crawley, there 's no sense in coming to me; I can do nothing for you."
The sergeant put his helmet on the table, walked to a sideboard where a tray and decanter stood, and poured himself out a stiff dose of whisky without invitation. John Minute watched him without any great resentment. This was not civilized Eastbourne they were in. They were back in the old free-and-easy days of Gwelo, where men did not expect invitations to drink.
Smith—or Crawley, to give him his real name—tossed down half a tumbler of neat whisky and turned, wiping his heavy mustache with the back of his hand.
"So you can't do anything, can't you?" he mimicked. "Well, I 'm going to show you that you can, and that you will!"
He put up his hand to check the words on John Minute's lips.
"There 's no sense in your putting that rough stuff over me about your being able to send me to jail, because you would n't do it. It does n't
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