Short Fiction by O. Henry (librera reader txt) 📕

fastenings in my business. Now, keep quiet while I ring for the waiter. I’ve had a thirst for a year or two that worries me a little. If I’m ever caught the lucky sleuth will have to divide honors with old boy Booze. But I never drink during business hours. After a job I can crook elbows with my old friend Barney with a clear conscience. What are you taking?”

The waiter came with the little decanters and the siphon and left them alone again.

“You’ve called the turn,” said Woods, as he rolled the little gold pencil about with a thoughtful forefinger. “I’ve got to pass you up. I can’t lay a hand on you. If I’d a-paid that money back⁠—but I didn’t, and that settles it. It’s a bad break I’m making, Johnny, but I can’t dodge it. You helped me once, and it calls for the same.”

“I knew it,” said Kernan, raising his glass, with a flushed smile of self-appreciation. “I can judge men. Here’s to Barney, for⁠—‘he’s a jolly good fellow.’ ”

“I don’t believe,” went on Woods quietly, as if he were thinking aloud, “that if accounts had been square between you and me, all the money in all the banks in New York could have bought you out of my hands tonight.”

“I know it couldn’t,” said Kernan. “That’s why I knew I was safe with you.”

“Most people,” continued the detective, “look sideways at my business. They don’t class it among the fine arts and the professions. But I’ve always taken a kind of fool pride in it. And here is where I go ‘busted.’ I guess I’m a man first and a detective afterward. I’ve got to let you go, and then I’ve got to resign from the force. I guess I can drive an express wagon. Your thousand dollars is further off than ever, Johnny.”

“Oh, you’re welcome to it,” said Kernan, with a lordly air. “I’d be willing to call the debt off, but I know you wouldn’t have it. It was a lucky day for me when you borrowed it. And now, let’s drop the subject. I’m off to the West on a morning train. I know a place out there where I can negotiate the Norcross sparks. Drink up, Barney, and forget your troubles. We’ll have a jolly time while the police are knocking their heads together over the case. I’ve got one of my Sahara thirsts on tonight. But I’m in the hands⁠—the unofficial hands⁠—of my old friend Barney, and I won’t even dream of a cop.”

And then, as Kernan’s ready finger kept the button and the waiter working, his weak point⁠—a tremendous vanity and arrogant egotism, began to show itself. He recounted story after story of his successful plunderings, ingenious plots and infamous transgressions until Woods, with all his familiarity with evildoers, felt growing within him a cold abhorrence toward the utterly vicious man who had once been his benefactor.

“I’m disposed of, of course,” said Woods, at length. “But I advise you to keep under cover for a spell. The newspapers may take up this Norcross affair. There has been an epidemic of burglaries and manslaughter in town this summer.”

The word sent Kernan into a high glow of sullen and vindictive rage.

“To h⁠⸺⁠l with the newspapers,” he growled. “What do they spell but brag and blow and boodle in boxcar letters? Suppose they do take up a case⁠—what does it amount to? The police are easy enough to fool; but what do the newspapers do? They send a lot of pinhead reporters around to the scene; and they make for the nearest saloon and have beer while they take photos of the bartender’s oldest daughter in evening dress, to print as the fiancée of the young man in the tenth story, who thought he heard a noise below on the night of the murder. That’s about as near as the newspapers ever come to running down Mr. Burglar.”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Woods, reflecting. “Some of the papers have done good work in that line. There’s the Morning Mars, for instance. It warmed up two or three trails, and got the man after the police had let ’em get cold.”

“I’ll show you,” said Kernan, rising, and expanding his chest. “I’ll show you what I think of newspapers in general, and your Morning Mars in particular.”

Three feet from their table was the telephone booth. Kernan went inside and sat at the instrument, leaving the door open. He found a number in the book, took down the receiver and made his demand upon Central. Woods sat still, looking at the sneering, cold, vigilant face waiting close to the transmitter, and listened to the words that came from the thin, truculent lips curved into a contemptuous smile.

“That the Morning Mars?⁠ ⁠… I want to speak to the managing editor⁠ ⁠… Why, tell him it’s someone who wants to talk to him about the Norcross murder.

“You the editor?⁠ ⁠… All right⁠ ⁠… I am the man who killed old Norcross⁠ ⁠… Wait! Hold the wire; I’m not the usual crank⁠ ⁠… Oh, there isn’t the slightest danger. I’ve just been discussing it with a detective friend of mine. I killed the old man at 2:30 a.m. two weeks ago tomorrow⁠ ⁠… Have a drink with you? Now, hadn’t you better leave that kind of talk to your funny man? Can’t you tell whether a man’s guying you or whether you’re being offered the biggest scoop your dull dishrag of a paper ever had?⁠ ⁠… Well, that’s so; it’s a bobtail scoop⁠—but you can hardly expect me to phone in my name and address⁠ ⁠… Why? Oh, because I heard you make a specialty of solving mysterious crimes that stump the police⁠ ⁠… No, that’s not all. I want to tell you that your rotten, lying, penny sheet is of no more use in tracking an intelligent murderer or highwayman than a blind poodle would be⁠ ⁠… What?⁠ ⁠… Oh, no, this isn’t a rival newspaper office; you’re getting it straight. I did the Norcross job, and I’ve got