. The idea is not to guess "who did it" because it's the author "who's done it" in this story. The problem is to figure out exactly what he has done.
Around midnight, a sly-looking man slips into a luxury city building. A woman occupant, watching his actions from a fourth-floor window, grows suspicious and dials 911 for a patrol car. This lady complains, "A man in a brown suit, with shaggy hair, a slight build, and a criminal air is prowling through my lobby."
Fairly soon two young cops, Smith and Jarvis, pull up. Looking for an unknown vagrant, Smith spots Jim Oats walking out a front door. Oats, a minor burglar, is bold as brass, arrogant, and calm. Smith grabs him by his collar.
"O.K., Oats," snarls Smith, "what brings you to this location?"
Fixing his captor with a chilly look and frosty indignation, Oats quips, "I can go on a short stroll. Lift your filthy hands off my shirt. I'm not guilty of anything."
Smith drops his hands limply. This haughty air is too much for him to swallow. Angrily Smith says, "What a story. I'm nobody's fool, you punk. I just wish I could put you back in jail, but I can't obtain any proof against you. You know all about why I'm at this building - a station log full of burglary, arson, and muggings."
"Now, now," Oats laughs, "think of my rights. How can you talk this way?"
Smith's probing hands start to frisk Oats for guns, narcotics, anything unlawful or contraband. Nothing shows up - only a small bound book. "What's this?" Smith asks.
Oats, tidying up his clothing, pluckishly says, "That's my political study of voting habits in this district. Why don't you look at my lists? I work for important politicians now - guys with lots of clout." An ominous implication lurks in this last thrust.
"Don't talk down to us," Smith snaps. But studying Oat's book, Jarvis finds nothing unusual. Smith finally hands him back his lists. Our cops can't hold him. Jarvis admits Oats can go. Just as a formality, Jarvis asks him, "Did you commit any criminal act in this building? Anything at all of which a courtroom jury could find you guilty?"
"No," Oats says flatly, "no way," and jauntily skips off. Halting six blocks away, Oats digs a tiny picklock from his sock and a diamond ring from his shaggy hair.
A SIN OF OMISSION
Around midnight, a sly-looking man slips into a luxury city building. A woman occupant, watching his actions from a fourth-floor window, grows suspicious and dials 911 for a patrol car. This lady complains, "A man in a brown suit, with shaggy hair, a slight build, and a criminal air is prowling through my lobby."
Fairly soon two young cops, Smith and Jarvis, pull up. Looking for an unknown vagrant, Smith spots Jim Oats walking out a front door. Oats, a minor burglar, is bold as brass, arrogant, and calm. Smith grabs him by his collar.
"O.K., Oats," snarls Smith, "what brings you to this location?"
Fixing his captor with a chilly look and frosty indignation, Oats quips, "I can go on a short stroll. Lift your filthy hands off my shirt. I'm not guilty of anything."
Smith drops his hands limply. This haughty air is too much for him to swallow. Angrily Smith says, "What a story. I'm nobody's fool, you punk. I just wish I could put you back in jail, but I can't obtain any proof against you. You know all about why I'm at this building - a station log full of burglary, arson, and muggings."
"Now, now," Oats laughs, "think of my rights. How can you talk this way?"
Smith's probing hands start to frisk Oats for guns, narcotics, anything unlawful or contraband. Nothing shows up - only a small bound book. "What's this?" Smith asks.
Oats, tidying up his clothing, pluckishly says, "That's my political study of voting habits in this district. Why don't you look at my lists? I work for important politicians now - guys with lots of clout." An ominous implication lurks in this last thrust.
"Don't talk down to us," Smith snaps. But studying Oat's book, Jarvis finds nothing unusual. Smith finally hands him back his lists. Our cops can't hold him. Jarvis admits Oats can go. Just as a formality, Jarvis asks him, "Did you commit any criminal act in this building? Anything at all of which a courtroom jury could find you guilty?"
"No," Oats says flatly, "no way," and jauntily skips off. Halting six blocks away, Oats digs a tiny picklock from his sock and a diamond ring from his shaggy hair.
