Part 24 (2/2)
”What I say. Since December 4. I reckon everything from that murder, now, as they reckon longitude from Greenwich.”
”Oh,” said Denzil Cantercot.
”Let me see. Nearly a fortnight. What a long time to keep away from Drink--and Me.”
”I don't know which is worse,” said Denzil, irritated. ”You both steal away my brains.”
”Indeed?” said Grodman, with an amused smile. ”Well, it's only petty pilfering, after all. What's put salt on your wounds?”
”The twenty-fourth edition of my book.”
”_Whose_ book?”
”Well, _your_ book. You must be making piles of money out of _Criminals I have Caught_.”
”'Criminals _I_ have Caught,'” corrected Grodman. ”My dear Denzil, how often am I to point out that _I_ went through the experiences that make the backbone of my book, not _you_? In each case _I_ cooked the criminal's goose. Any journalist could have supplied the dressing.”
”The contrary. The journeymen of journalism would have left the truth naked. You yourself could have done that--for there is no man to beat you at cold, lucid, scientific statement. But I idealised the bare facts and lifted them into the realm of poetry and literature. The twenty-fourth edition of the book attests my success.”
”Rot! The twenty-fourth edition was all owing to the murder. Did you do that?”
”You take one up so sharply, Mr. Grodman,” said Denzil, changing his tone.
”No--I've retired,” laughed Grodman.
Denzil did not reprove the ex-detective's flippancy. He even laughed a little.
”Well, give me another fiver, and I'll cry 'quits.' I'm in debt.”
”Not a penny. Why haven't you been to see me since the murder? I had to write that letter to the _Pell Mell Press_ myself. You might have earned a crown.”
”I've had writer's cramp, and couldn't do your last job. I was coming to tell you so on the morning of the--”
”Murder. So you said at the inquest.”
”It's true.”
”Of course. Weren't you on your oath? It was very zealous of you to get up so early to tell me. In which hand did you have this cramp?”
”Why, in the right of course.”
”And you couldn't write with your left?”
”I don't think I could even hold a pen.”
”Or any other instrument, mayhap. What had you been doing to bring it on?”
”Writing too much. That is the only possible cause.”
<script>