swaggering, self-confident, seated himself opposite the little detective, with his pale, sandy mustache, squinting eyes and ready-made cheviot suit.
“What business are you in now?” asked Woods. “You know you left Saint Jo a year before I did.”
“I’m selling shares in a copper mine,” said Kernan. “I may establish an office here. Well, well! and so old Barney is a New York detective. You always had a turn that way. You were on the police in Saint Jo after I left there, weren’t you?”
“Six months,” said Woods. “And now there’s one more question, Johnny. I’ve followed your record pretty close ever since you did that hotel job in Saratoga, and I never knew you to use your gun before. Why did you kill Norcross?”
Kernan stared for a few moments with concentrated attention at the slice of lemon in his highball; and then he looked at the detective with a sudden, crooked, brilliant smile.
“How did you guess it, Barney?” he asked, admiringly. “I swear I thought the job was as clean and as smooth as a peeled onion. Did I leave a string hanging out anywhere?”
Woods laid upon the table a small gold pencil intended for a watch-charm.
“It’s the one I gave you the last Christmas we were in Saint Jo. I’ve got your shaving mug yet. I found this under a corner of the rug in Norcross’s
[188]
