“Who got him?” I snapped.
Prop dropped into a chair beside mine. We were alone on the club porch.
“Listen, Mac, and don’t shoot off what I tell you. Maybe you can help.”
His voice was low, steady.
“I ran into Bert up at Clarke’s and told him that Bride was in town.
There was something else I wanted to tell him, too, but he just got up
and shoved me out of the way. He caught a Filipino go-cart right outside
of Clarke’s, and I didn’t have that much luck. But I knew where he was
going. When I got near the Anderson place—didn’t know whose it was then,
of course—I heard two native cops shrilling and jabbering the way they
do. I had my man pull his pony up and I went over to them. Bride was
lying on the cobbles, bleeding like a stuck pig. He was unconscious,
looked bad. I did some first aid work and called an ambulance from the
General Hospital.”
Prop stopped talking. His gray eyes were narrowed on mine.
“Just one thing, Mac. They’ll raise the devil about this, of course.
Your job—” he hesitated and then went on grimly—“is to forget I was
looking for Bert Allen at Clark’s. I’ve come through with you. Am I
clear?”