"Why," says Myers, scrapin' his foot nervous, "I--I just know, that's all. I've seen his writin', plenty times." "Hear that, sergeant," says I. "Just jot that down, will you?" "Night court," says the sergeant. "Never mind, Barry," says I. "Line of duty. And I'll be on hand by the time your case is called." "Right-o!" says Barry cheerful. Myers, he was ambitious to lug us both along, but the sergeant couldn't see it that way. So while Barry's bein' walked off to police court, I jumps into a taxi and heads for McCrea's hotel. If he'd been in bed I meant to rout him out. But he wasn't. I finds him in his room havin' a confab with two other plain clothes gents. He seems surprised to see me so quick. "Well?" says he. "Giving up so soon?" "Me?" says I. "Hardly! I've got the crooked cop." McCrea gives a gasp. "You--you have?" says he. "Yep!" says I. "But he's got my assistant. Can you pull a badge or anything on the judge at the night court?" Mr. McCrea thought he could. And he sure worked the charm, for after whisperin' a few words across the bench it's all fixed up. Barry gets the nod that he's free to go. "May I take my little barber pole?" demands Barry. "No, no!" speaks up Myers. "Don't let him have it, Judge." "Silence!" roars the Justice. Then, turnin' to a court officer he says: "Take this policeman to Headquarters for investigation. Yes, Mr. Wales, you may have your pole, but I should advise you to carry it home in a cab." "Thank you kindly, sir," says Barry. But after he gets outside he asks pleadin': "Don't I get arrested any more?" I shakes my head. "It's all over for tonight, Barry," says I. "Objective attained, and if you don't mind I'll take charge of this war loot. Drop you at your club, shall we?" So I still had the striped pole when we rolled up at McCrea's hotel. I was shiftin' it around in the taxi, wonderin' where I'd better dump it, when I made the big discovery. "Say," I whispers husky to McCrea, "there's something funny about this." "The pole?" says he. "Uh-huh!" says I. "It's hollow. There's a little trap door in one side." "Hah!" says McCrea. "Bring it up." And you'd think by the way him and his friends proceeded to hog the thing, that it was their find. After I'd shown 'em where to press the secret spring they crowded around and blocked off my view. All I got was a glimpse of some papers that they dug out of the inside somewhere. And some excited they are as they paws 'em over. "In the same old code," says McCrea. But finally he leads me to one side. "Myers is the man, all right," says he. "Course he is," says I. "If he wasn't why would he be so wise as to whose pole it was, or about Otto's handwritin'?" "Ah!" says McCrea, noddin' enthusiastic. "So that was your system in having your friend arrested? You tried out the officers. Very clever! But how you came to suspect that the barber's pole was being used as a mail box I don't understand."