Gun told himself that the old bastard was a fool. But stupidity was no consolation when it had rank.

``I was out in the district, sir.''

``Oh, yes. So I have heard.'' He stretched a pale hand out to the scattered papers on his desk. ``I might point out that your inability to report to my office this morning when you were instructed to do so has not, ah, limited my knowledge of your activities as you may have hoped.'' He took up a white sheet of paper, dark with single-spaced data.

A car pulled into the driveway outside the window. Gun knew it was Car 12, the wagon, returned from delivering Ingleside's drunk-and-disorderlies to the City Jail. But for some fool reason he couldn't remember which men he'd put on the transfer detail. He stared at the report in Killpath's hand, sure it was written by Accacia -- just as sure as if he'd submitted it in his scrawled longhand. He sucked in his breath and kept quiet while Killpath laid down the sheet again, wound the gold wire stems of his glasses around his ears and then, eying the report as it lay before him on the desk, intoned, ``Acting Lieutenant Gunnar Matson one failed to see that the station keeper was properly relieved two absented himself throughout the entire watch without checking on the station's activities or the whereabouts of his section sergeants three permitted members of the Homicide Detail of the Inspector's Bureau to arrogate for their own convenience a patrolman who was thereby prevented from carrying on his proper assignment four failed to notify the station commander Acting Captain O. T. Killpath of a homicide occurring in the district five frequented extralegal establishments known as after-hours spots for purposes of an unofficial and purportedly social nature and six'' -- he leaned back and peeled off his glasses ``-- failed to co-operate with the Acting Captain by returning promptly when so ordered. What have you to say to that, Sergeant?'' Killpath sailed the paper across the desk, but Matson didn't pick it up or even glance at it.