The cop with me suddenly spotted the gun lying on the telephone table. He charged at it violently, like a downfield blocker. “This the death gun?” he almost shouted. “I should imagine so. It’s been fired.” “Ha!” He leaned over the gun, baring his teeth at me, and put his hand to his holster. His finger tickled the flap off the stud and he grasped the butt of the black revolver. “You should what?” he barked. “I should imagine so.” “That’s very good,” he sneered. “That’s very good indeed.” “It’s not that good,” I said.
