Free Two Flights Up by Mary Roberts Rinehart Page B

see?”
    The detective knew men, and so he realized the belligerent honesty of James’s attitude. It put him at a disadvantage, in a way; you can trap a scoundrel, but there is no trap for the straightforward. However, he tried it.
    “What’s the use, Mr. Cox? We’ve got the stuff!”
    “What stuff?” roared Mr. Cox. “If you’re accusing me of having bootleg stuff in my place, it’s a lie. That bottle of brandy was given me ten years ago, and I can prove it.”
    “We’ve got the suitcase.”
    James stared at him, and the detective stared back.
    “What suitcase? What about a suitcase?” James demanded, a bit warily. He did not like the look in the other man’s face; it was too complacent.
    “The one your wife received this morning from the Bayne house, and hid away in your closet.”
    Mr. Cox was suddenly thinking hard. A suitcase from the Bayne house! Now what on earth—A suitcase from the Bayne house. Trust that woman to make trouble if she could. A suitcase from the—
    “I don’t know anything about any suitcase,” he said, surly now. “As for my wife hiding anything, she’s got nothing to hide, and I’m damn well ready to tell you that. And what business is it of yours, anyhow?”
    Amazingly, he was looking at a badge the officer uncovered. James’s hands began to sweat. They were cold and clammy. He got out his handkerchief and wiped them.
    “I’m telling you. If you don’t know about this suitcase, then your wife does, all right.”
    He considered that warily. They weren’t going to catch James Cox napping, not they. And Margaret wasn’t going to be in this, not by a darned sight.
    “All right,” he said. “If there’s a suitcase there and you’re interested in it, we’ll say it’s mine and let it go at that. Now, what about it?”
    “That’s right,” said the detective more affably. “No need of dragging a woman in if we can help it. You admit it’s your suitcase?”
    “Wait a minute! I’ll admit that the only suitcase I know about in the flat is mine, and that’s as far as I’ll go.”
    He was rather pleased with this masterpiece of strategy; they hadn’t caught him napping. No, sir. You had to go some to catch James Cox asleep on his feet. However, the detective, as Mr. Cox now knew him to be, only yawned slightly and looked at his watch.
    “If you’ll get your hat,” he said, “we’ll wander over to the City Hall. District Attorney wants to talk to you.”
    “I’m not free here until twelve-thirty.”
    “Oh, you’re free enough,” said the detective amiably. “That’s all fixed. You just get your things and come along.”
    There was an authority in that “come along” that froze Mr. Cox to the marrow of his insignificant bones. But it would never do to show it.
    “You seem damned certain I’m coming,” he snapped.
    “I am damned certain,” said the detective.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
    H AVING FAILED IN HIS first plan at the bank, Warrington found himself rather at a loose end. He had no idea what further steps to take. He felt that a legal opinion would help him out, but also that he had no right to take an attorney into his confidence without consulting Holly first.
    His own opinion was that, although he had planted what amounted to a bomb in the Cox household, there was no reason to believe that anybody was waiting to touch off the fuse.
    Nevertheless, he had sold a stolen bond, and it was with mixed feelings that he went somewhat belatedly to the office. Everything there was the same as usual, apparently. Hawkins, with a green shade over his eyes, was working at the board, and half a dozen men sat or stood watching it. The ticker rattled on, like a distant machine gun; when he had first gone into the office, it often took him back to the war; and Miss Sharp, the stenographer, would catch the far-away look in his eyes.
    “Well,” she said once pertly, “you must have enjoyed it, whatever it was. Been to a party?”
    “You might call it a party,” he told