I asked if either of them recognized the man. They said they did not.
Rothman wanted to know
“Only Eleanor,” I replied. “And it’s a cinch she kept her mouth shut.”
“Agreed. It wouldn’t be healthy to admit she talked to you.” Rothman had picked his hat up from the floor and set it on his head. He speared me with a frown. “Home:
I repeated, no one but Eleanor. And Ashley, of course, had never seen me before, so he didn’t count.
Rothman shook his head, dissatisfied. “Think again. Who did you tell you were coming over here? Who, in Boone?”
“Nobody. That is... nobody...”
“Go on,” he urged curiously. “Except who?”
“The... lady doctor I mentioned. Dr. Saari. You don’t think—? Aw, that’s a crazy notion.”
“How long have you known her?”
He certainly had me there. I said, “Two or three days.” And their silence was eloquent.
Liebscher asked, “Do you know anything about her, chum? Anything that doesn’t jibe?”
Did I know anything about Elizabeth Saari that didn’t jibe? Well, yes. She was waiting for me at the train when it pulled in from Chicago; she knew I had been to Chicago. She had shown more interest in
And Elizabeth Saari had been rather pointed in her suggestion that I stay away from Croyden. And she had had ample opportunity to frisk my office; practically admitted as much. The looked-for “mother” from Chicago hadn’t appeared.
I told them those things. To boost my crumbling defenses, I said, “Maybe the shadow came from Eleanor after all.”
Liebscher said no. “We weren’t followed, chum.” And remembering his eye habit when driving, I had to agree.
“Are you sure Ashley doesn’t know you?”
“We never set eyes on each other before in our lives. And it’s difficult to recognize a voice you’ve heard only over a long distance telephone wire.”
Rothman turned to me. “Horne, if I were you, I’d watch my step. You’re in something and you don’t know who your friends are. I’d be particularly careful about this doctor. I’d watch for any funny moves on her part.”
“She’s turned up once where I hadn’t expected her.”
“I’d see to it that she doesn’t do it again. If she does... well, I’d ask for explanations if I were you. Check up on her, anyway. She new in town?”
“Yeah. Just moved in from Chicago. Took an office across the hall from mine.”
The two detectives stared at each other across my shoulders. They were beginning to feel sorry for my lack of brightness and weren’t too careful in concealing it. Rothman jotted down her name and address on a scratch pad.
“We’ll check on her. All the way back to her school days, if necessary. And you keep your eyes open!”
“She’s a doctor,” Liebscher said idly, “and Leonore was going to have a baby.” He picked up the Croyden telephone book and leafed through it. Finally he said, “No, not here.”
“It occurs to me,” Rothman put in, “that pitting a man against his mistress, lover against lover, over a delicate thing like an unborn baby is a woman’s trick. It’s not something a gambling man would think of.”
“What’s her line of attack?” Liebscher inquired.
I could feel the burn beginning down inside my collar. It must have been higher than my collar. They saw it.
“Don’t answer that one, chum. You don’t have to.”
Rothman asked me, “Does she know about Louise?”
I said yes. Liebscher said, who’s Louise? I told him. Then he said, oh, one of those experiments, huh? Rothman suggested he shut up.
I changed the subject. “Ashley keeps bothering me. I can’t fit him into the picture.”
“Silent partner. Another one.” Rothman finally lit the chewed cigar. “You said he was scared one day and sitting pretty the next. He was scared because he suspected something like that might happen. He was sitting pretty the next day because the gambler assured him everything was taken care of. Say... just who the hell is this gambler, this mutual friend? Don’t you know his name?”
“Yeah; Eleanor told me. Didn’t I mention it? She said he is a Mr. Swisher.”
Liebscher had seated himself in a swivel chair. The chair suddenly went over backwards.
Rothman walked over to me, the cigar working furiously. He put up a brawny hand, index finger outstretched, and jammed it into my chest.
“Look, Horne, get out of this mess while the getting’s good. You’ve got your retainer fee. Now forget the business!”
“Why?” I asked in sweet innocence. “Who’s Swisher?”
Rothman pulled the cigar from his mouth and threw it on the floor. “I’m not kidding, Chuck.
“But who is he?”
“Tell the dope,” Liebscher advised. “Maybe it’ll scare some sense into his skull.” He turned worriedly to the window to watch the shadow across the street.
Rothman did. Swisher was the man who “owned” Croyden. The upstairs poker rooms, the dice games, the bootleg liquor trade, the numbers and lottery rackets, the pony bookies, certain night clubs, the telegraph tickers direct from all race tracks, and the red light district.
