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There was a way, a very sure way as far as old Kronische being "talkative" was concerned, but a very dangerous way from every other point of view. Suppose he went to old Kronische as Larry the Bat! The car tore on through the night; towns and villages flashed by; the long, deserted stretches of road began to give way to the city's outskirts and Jimmie Dale began to drive more cautiously.
It seemed simple enough, old Kronische was perfectly accessible but it was, nevertheless, far from simple. He could not go to old Kronische as Jimmie Dale, there was an ugly turn that had been taken in that room of Forrester's now.
He would see soon enough old Kronische, the wizened, crafty, little chemist, who burrowed like a fox in its hole deep in the heart of the Bad Lands, would answer that question. Old Kronische had a record that was known to police and underworld alike and was trusted by neither one, and feared by both. But he was clever clever with a devilish cleverness.
That was the question that old Kronische, the chemist, was to have answered, a question that was very much in the cunning old fox's line did the condition of the ink show that the note had been written within the hour? It was a very simple question for old Kronische, the man would have answered it instantly, for even to him, Jimmie Dale, the writing had not looked fresh.
He lighted a cigarette and smoked it through. Could it be that in her letter! Intuition again? Well, why not if old Kronische should answer the question as the chances were one in ten that old Kronische might answer it! Yes why not! It would not be strange.
Still, he had done it once before, and it could be done again. He could reach old Kronische's without much fear of discovery after all, he would take good care to secure the few minutes necessary to make a "getaway" from the old chemist's, and afterwards old Kronische could talk as much as he liked about Larry the Bat! Yes, that was the way! Old Kronische and Larry the Bat.
God alone knew what he was up to in the long hours of day and night amongst his retorts and test tubes in his abominable smelling little hole; but every one knew that from old Kronische anything of a chemical nature could be obtained if the price, not a small one, was forthcoming, and if old Kronische was satisfied with the credentials of his prospective client. Yes old Kronische!
But apart from that, to the last detail, in all its hideous, relentless craft, the whole plot was clear. There was no need to go to old Kronische now, no need to assume the role of Larry the Bat. The question was answered the confession was a forgery the evidence, not of suicide, but of murder, that he, Jimmie Dale, had left behind him in that room, was the evidence of fact.
Old Kronische was the man, the one than; there was no possible hesitancy or question there the question was how to reach old Kronische. Jimmie Dale shook his head in a quick, impatient gesture, as though in irritation because his brain would not instantly respond to his demand to formulate a plan.
But there was no need of old Kronische now! And he, Jimmie Dale, understood now, too, the reason for Forrester's appeal over the telephone.
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