"BURNIN' A HOLE IN MY POCKET"
Cole Sanborn passed through the Welcome Arch at the station carrying an
imitation-leather suitcase. He did not take a car, but walked up
Seventeenth Avenue as far as the Markham Hotel. Here he registered,
left his luggage, and made some inquiries over the telephone.
Thirty minutes later he was shaking hands with Kirby Lane.
"You dawg-goned old hellamile, what you mean comin' down here an'
gettin' throwed in the calaboose?" he demanded, thumping his friend on
the shoulder with a heavy brown fist.
"I'm sure enough glad to see you, Mr. Champeen-of-the-World," Kirby
answered, falling into the easy vernacular of the outdoor country.
"Come to the big town to spend that thousand dollars you won the other
day?"
"Y'betcha; it's burnin' a hole in my pocket. Say, you blamed ol'
horntoad, howcome you not to stay for the finals? Folks was plumb
disappointed we didn't ride it off."
"Tell you about that later. How long you figurin' to stay in Denver,
Cole?"
"I dunno. A week, mebbe. Fellow at the Empress wants me to go on that
circuit an' do stunts, but I don't reckon I will. Claims he's got a
trained bronc I can show on."
"Me, I'm gonna be busy as a dog with fleas," said Kirby. "I got to
find out who killed my uncle. Suspicion rests on me, on a man named
Hull, on the Jap servant, an' on Wild Rose."
"On Wild Rose!" exclaimed Cole, in surprise. "Have they gone crazy?"
"The police haven't got to her yet, old-timer. But their suspicions
will be headed that way right soon if I don't get busy. She thinks her
evidence will clear me. It won't. It'll add a motive for me to have
killed him. The detectives will figure out we did it together, Rose
an' me."
"Hell's bells! Ain't they got no sense a-tall?"
Kirby looked at his watch. "I'm headed right now for the apartment
where my uncle was killed. Gonna look the ground over. Wanta come
along?"
"Surest thing you know. I'm in this to a fare-you-well. Go ahead.
I'll take yore dust."
The lithe, long-bodied man from Basin, Wyoming, clumped along in his
high-heeled boots beside his friend. Both of them were splendid
examples of physical manhood. The sun tan was on their faces, the
ripple of health in their blood. But there was this difference between
them, that while it was written on every inch of Sanborn that he lived
astride a cow-pony, Kirby might have been an irrigation engineer or a
mining man from the hills. He had neither the bow legs nor the
ungraceful roll of the man who rides most of his waking hours. His
clothes were well made and he knew how to carry them.
As they walked across to Fourteenth Street, Kirby told as much of the
story as he could without betraying Esther McLean's part in it. He
trusted Sanborn implicitly, but the girl's secret was not his to tell.
From James Cunningham Kirby had got the key of his uncle's apartment.
His cousin had given it to him a little reluctantly.
"The police don't want things moved about," he had explained. "They
would probably call me down if they knew I'd let you in."
"All I want to do is to look the ground over a bit. What the police
don't know won't worry 'em any," the cattleman had suggested.
"All right." James had shrugged his shoulders and turned over the key.
"If you think you can find out anything I don't see any objection to
your going in."
Sanborn applied his shrewd common sense to the problem as he listened
to Kirby.
"Looks to me like you're overlookin' a bet, son," he said. "What about
this Jap fellow? Why did he light out so _pronto_ if he ain't in this
thing?"
"He might 'a' gone because he's a foreigner an' guessed they'd throw it
on him. They would, too, if they could."
"Shucks! He had a better reason than that for cuttin' his stick. Sure
had. He's in this somehow."
"Well, the police are after him. They'll likely run him down one o'
these days. Far as I'm concerned I've got to let his trail go for the
present. There are possibilities right here on the ground that haven't
been run down yet. For instance, Rose met a man an' a woman comin'
down the stairs while she was goin' up. Who were they?"
"Might 'a' been any o' the tenants here."
"Yes, but she smelt a violet perfume that both she an' I noticed in the
apartment. My hunch is that the man an' the woman were comin' from my
uncle's rooms."
"Would she recognize them? Rose, I mean?" asked Sanborn.
"No: it was on the dark stairs."
"Hmp! Queer they didn't come forward an' tell they had met a woman
goin' up. That is, if they hadn't anything to do with the crime."
"Yes. Of course there might be other reasons why they must keep quiet.
Some love affair, for instance."
"Sure. That might be, an' that would explain why they went down the
dark stairs an' didn't take the elevator."
"Just the same I'd like to find out who that man an' woman are," Kirby
said. He lifted his hand in a small gesture. "This is the Paradox
Apartments."
A fat man rolled out of the building just as they reached the steps.
He pulled up and stared down at Kirby.
"What--what--?" His question hung poised.
"What am I doin' out o' jail, Mr. Hull? I'm lookin' for the man that
killed my uncle," Kirby answered quietly, looking straight at him.
"But--"
"Why did you lie about the time when you saw me that night?"
Hull got excited at once. His eyes began to dodge. "I ain't got a
word to say to you--not a word--not a word!" He came puffing down the
steps and went waddling on his way.
"What do you think of that prize package, Cole?" asked Lane, his eyes
following the man.
"Guilty as hell," said the bronco buster crisply.
"I'd say so too," agreed Kirby. "I don't know as we need to look much
farther. My vote is for Mr. Cass Hull--with reservations."