“Girl. Female. Woman. The so-called weaker sex. You have one there in the office. It ties in, you see. Men often run away from accidents. Women, seldom if ever. They haven’t got the guts to run away from
He said slowly, “And that indicates—?”
“—that it was premeditated,” I finished for him. “It’s a murder, if the driver can be found and a confession obtained or satisfactory proof constructed. The inquest is tomorrow afternoon.”
Suddenly he was all businessman. “Attend that inquest. Notify me of further developments. I can advance more money should you need it.”
“I have enough to keep me,” I said aloud, and under my breath added, “for a while.”
“Call me back late tomorrow afternoon.”
“I can tell you now what the results will be, just in case you want to make a little bet. Death was caused by an automobile driven by a person or persons unknown—”
He cut me off, “Call me tomorrow.” And hung up.
I waited until the operator plugged into the line and gave her another Croyden number.
Pretty soon a voice said, “Hello, chum. It’s your nickel.”
“Hello, Liebscher. I was hoping to talk to Rothman. And it’s not my nickel, it’s my forty cents if I can complete this in three minutes. Where’s the boss?”
“Ah — it’s Charlie. How are you, chum?”
“Dammit, I’m wasting forty cents. I want Rothman. Look, Liebscher, give me a quick line on Harry W. Evans.”
“Evans? He was in here looking for a Daniel Boone. Get it? Boone. Good, huh? We gave him your name.”
“I know you did, and he dropped in on me. But give me a line on him.”
“Ain’t much to give, chum. He’s married but she’s fat, they tell me. You know how that is — guys don’t take fat wives out to have fun except to the opera and that ain’t fun and anyway Croyden ain’t got no opera. No children. You ain’t after the fat wife, are you chum?”
“To hell with you, Liebscher. Listen, Evans is dead. What? No, I said dead. Yeah — that’s right. Hit-and-run. Less than an hour ago. But meanwhile he hired me for a little job. I want everything you might have on him.”
“Seriously, Charlie, there isn’t a thing on him that I know of. He’s got an office here; stocks and bonds and that sort of stuff. I’ve never seen him actually work. And he never jilted a widow in his life, that I know of. He’s the slightly sentimental kind. If she’s pretty, he’ll give her her last five dollars back rather than keep it all.”
“How about a private love life?”
“Could be. Fat wife, you know. Want me to check into it?”
“Yes. If you find anything on him, wire it over. Now — what do you know about... about...” I had already forgotten the name of the attorney, and quickly searched my pockets for the card.
“About who, chum?” Liebscher prompted.
I found the card. “Ashley. An attorney named August Ashley.”
Liebscher didn’t answer but I heard him rapidly thumbing the pages of a book. Finally he offered, “He’s located in the same building as Evans.”
“That’s convenient. What else?”
“Nothing, chum. Don’t know him.”
“Liebscher, you’re slipping. Tell Rothman I called. I want to talk to him next time; he’s intelligent. If either of you pick up anything on Evans, wire it. Same goes for Ashley if it’s tied to Evans. So long, now.”
“So long, chum.” Liebscher rang off.
And that, Louise, is how I happen to have five hundred dollars in my desk drawer at the moment. Can you guess what I’d like to do with it? I’d like to take you to Florida or someplace and court you all over again. I wish you weren’t so stubborn. We’re over the hump — three of the five years have passed and I’ve demonstrated often that I can make a first-class husband
You’ll get the brief facts of the hit-and-run over the wires in your city room, but I couldn’t resist adding what I know. Besides, the news story won’t mention my name. This town has maybe 35,000 inhabitants. And probably two thousand of them own automobiles. I wonder how many of those two thousand drive a Studebaker sedan with a supercharger attachment?
I intend to find out.
Boone, Ill.
Wednesday, very A.M.
Dear Louise:
Last night, at dusk: it was a fairly new Studebaker and it carried a supercharger attachment on the hood. But it wasn’t a sedan. It was a coupe — I looked twice for assurance.
The young woman driving it pulled up to the traffic light on the corner where I was standing, threw open the door nearest me, and motioned with her hand in an unmistakable gesture.
I suppose I gaped at her like a damned fool, Louise, but I couldn’t help it. The spectacle caught me completely off guard.
It was just dusk. I had gone into Milkshake Mike’s for my supper and to pass a few words with Mike. You’ve never met him. Mike is a rotund, jovial Greek and his real name is Thaddeus something-or-other.
