"
"Haven't I handled every case for you in confidence. I'm not a
fly-cop, Captain Cronin. I'm a consulting specialist, and
there's no shingle hung out. Perhaps you had better take it to
some one else."
Shirley pushed away his empty glass impatiently.
"There, Monty, I didn't mean to offend you. But there's such
swells in this and such a foxey bunch of blacklegs, that I'm as
nervous as a rookie cop on his first arrest. Don't hold a grudge
against me."
Shirley lit a cigarette and resumed his good nature: "Go on,
Captain. I'm so stale with dolce far niente, after the Black
Pearl affair last month, that I act like an amateur myself. Make
it short, though, for I'm going to the opera."
The Captain leaned over the table, his face tense with suppressed
emotion. He was a grizzled veteran of the New York police force:
a man who sought his quarry with the ferocity of a bull-dog, when
the line of search was definitely assured. Lacking imagination
and the subtler senses of criminology, Captain Cronin had built
up a reputation for success and honesty in every assignment by
bravery, persistence, and as in this case, the ability to cover
his own deductive weakness by employing the brains of others.
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