Even though the gun taken from the suspect at the time of his arrest had not been used in the killing, we didn’t argue with them. If a Los Angeles policeman had been killed, we would have wanted to hold onto every possible bit of evidence. However, the lab did furnish us with a couple of bullets fired from the gun, so that we could take them back to Los Angeles for comparison with the bullets that had wounded Nancy Meere and killed Viola Carr.
When we had collected all the information available from the police department, Frank and I left the building to look for a place to spend the night. The nearest hotel was the Jefferson, which was only a couple of blocks north on Twelfth from Police Headquarters. As all we had to carry was a small overnight bag apiece plus the package containing the suspect’s two pairs of shoes, we walked to the hotel.
By the time we had settled ourselves in our hotel room and had had some dinner, it was 7:00 p.m. As we left the dining room, Frank said, “Not much we can do except catch a plane back in the morning, I guess.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“At least we accomplished a little,” Frank said. “If either of those shoes match the plaster casts, or the bullets match the ones that killed Viola Carr and wounded the Meere girl, we’ve got that much more evidence against him.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Captain told us to get that stuff.”
“Yeah,” I said. “But we muffed his most important instruction.”
“Huh?”
“He told us to hang onto the suspect.”
Frank’s mention of evidence reminded me that there was one item we hadn’t checked. The watch with the inscription on its back reading, To Gig from Min — 1944. We had brought along the watch in the hope that by questioning the suspect we might learn the location of the woman who had bought it in North Hollywood.
On a hunch I led Frank to the small room off the lobby where there were twin banks of phone booths. I riffled the pages of a phone book.
“You know somebody in this town?” Frank asked.
I ran an index finger down a page in the “W” section, and stopped near the bottom of the page. “Not yet,” I said. “But I plan to.”
“Huh?”
“There’s a Minerva Warden listed in South St. Louis. Just might be the same Minerva Warden who bought that watch.”
We returned to Police Headquarters and had another conference with the same officers we had talked to before. We explained about the watch and that there was a possibility the local Minerva Warden was the same one who bought it in 1944. We suggested that a St. Louis police officer go with us to interview the woman.
A Homicide sergeant named James Slade was assigned to accompany us.
We decided against phoning Minerva Warden in advance. If she was the woman we were looking for, and was still on intimate terms with the suspect, it was possible he had been in contact with her since his escape. It was even remotely possible that he had doubled back to St. Louis and was hiding at her place.
If he was, we didn’t want to give any advance notice that police officers were on their way.
The address listed in the phone book was 5322 South Thirty-seventh Street, which was down in the Carondolet section. We arrived shortly after 8:00 p.m.
Fifty-three-twenty-two South Thirty-seventh was a four-family flat with a separate outside entrance to each flat. Minerva Warden’s nameplate was on the mailbox of the right-hand downstairs one. There was a light on in the front room.
When Sergeant Slade pushed the bell button, a plump, brisk-mannered woman in her early forties opened the door. Her graying hair was drawn straight back in a tight pompadour, and she wore light-gray horned-rimmed glasses. Her severely tailored suit was gray in color, too. She wore no make-up aside from a touch of nearly pink lipstick.
I glanced at Slade, who indicated with a gesture that he wanted us to handle the matter.
“Miss Warden?” I asked.
“Yes?”
I showed her my I.D. “We’re police officers from Los Angeles, Miss Warden. My name’s Friday. This is my partner, Frank Smith, and this is Sergeant Slade of the St. Louis police. We’re in St. Louis on a case both Los Angeles and St. Louis have an interest in.”
“I see.” The words were brisk and uncommitting, neither friendly nor unfriendly. Her tone was that of a teacher who over the years has been required to deal authoritatively with so many children that a sort of impersonal patience has become second nature. She waited for me to go on.
“We’d like to talk to you,” I said.
“What about?”
“Could we come in?”
She thought this over a moment before saying, “Let me see that badge again.”
I took out my wallet a second time and opened it. She examined the badge carefully. “You really are policemen?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
“You could be robbers using a badge to get into houses. Sometimes they use fake badges, you know.”
I looked at Frank, and he said seriously, “No, ma’am. We’re Los Angeles police officers. And Sergeant Slade here is a local officer.”
Sergeant Slade silently exhibited his badge, too.
“I haven’t anything you could steal, anyway,” she decided. “I’m a schoolteacher, and you know how they pay teachers. I’ll tell you in advance that the only money in the house is a dollar seventy-eight cents in a cookie jar in the kitchen cabinet. So if you are robbers, you needn’t ransack the place and mess everything up.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Frank said. “We have no intention of ransacking the place. We just want to talk to you.”
She stepped back to let us into a small, square living room, neatly but inexpensively furnished with mid-Victorian furniture. Through a center hallway off the living room, we could see the open door to a kitchen and bedroom. Two other closed doors, I guessed, led to a bath and to basement stairs. Unless he was in the bathroom, it didn’t seem likely the suspect was hiding in the apartment.
Minerva Warden asked us to have seats, and Frank and I sat side by side on a hard mohair sofa, facing the center hall. She seated herself in an easy chair across the room. Sergeant Slade took a chair that also faced the hall.
“Were you in Los Angeles in 1944, ma’am?” I asked.
Her eyes widened. “My goodness! Don’t tell me you came for me after all these years for a little thing like that?”
“What?” I said.
“That jay-walking ticket. I told the policeman I was catching a train home that night, and couldn’t possibly appear.”
I smiled. “No, ma’am, it isn’t that. We didn’t even know about it. You were in Los Angeles during the summer of 1944, then?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Are you the Minerva Warden who purchased this watch?” Taking the watch from my pocket, I rose, crossed the room, and held it so that she could see the inscription.
She let out a gasp. “Where in the world did you find that?” She reached for the watch, but I drew it back. “You recognize it, ma’am?”
“That’s Gig’s watch,” she said in an indignant tone. “What are you doing with it?” Then understanding showed in her face. “That’s why you’re up here all the way from Los Angeles, isn’t it? Because of all this nonsense about Gig Whiteman.”
“Ma’am?” I said.
“It’s all in the evening’s Post-Dispatch. About Gig’s being wanted for murder in California, and killing a policeman when he escaped this morning. I never heard anything so ridiculous in my life.”