He said carefully, watching her, “Miss Bridges, a man named Channy was killed yesterday. Walter Alfred Channy, the Third. He was insured by my company for forty-five thousand dollars. He left it to you.”
“Young man, you’re joshing.”
“Miss Bridges, I am not joshing. I represent an insurance company that would have paid ninety thousand dollars — double the face value — if that man had met with an accidental death. The company doesn’t josh about things like that!”
“But,” she protested skeptically, “why should a stranger leave me all that money? My lands!”
“That, lady, is what I am here to find out.”
“I simply don’t understand it — I simply don’t. Young man, step to the door. Ask Dr. Lainey to come in here a moment and bring the card file with him.”
Horne opened the door and did her bidding. Lainey came in with the file box in his hand, questioningly.
“Dr. Lainey,” she directed, “please look in the files for a... a... what was that full name again?” She turned to Horne.
“Walter Alfred Channy, the Third.”
The veterinarian spun through the cards filed behind the C tab and plucked one from the box.
“Here it is,” he read. “Fox terrier, distemper, one inj.” There followed the in and out dates, showing the dog had been left with the hospital two days.
Deebie Bridges blinked and supplied, “The record means that the Channy gentleman brought us his fox terrier, which was suffering from distemper. We are usually able to cure that with but one injection, nowadays. It doesn’t make the little thing sick, either.”
Horne stared at the file card. “There’s something written on the back of it,” he pointed out.
The vet turned it over. “Oh, yes: Owner went out of his way to express appreciation.”
“I’ll say he did. Did you write that?”
“Me?” The vet was startled. “No. It must have been Ackerley, my predecessor. I’ve been here only some months.”
Deebie Bridges offered again, “Dr. Ackerley died a short while ago, poor soul. He’d been with me for years and years. But Mr. Lainey is very capable.” She smiled sweetly at the veterinarian. He blushed.
“I’m still here,” Home reminded them. He sighed and massaged the back of his neck. “That’s a mighty nice way to express appreciation.”
The old lady smiled at the doctor. “Thank you, Dr. Lainey. That will be all.” Her face in soft smiles, she held the door open for him. He thanked her with a low nod.
Horne said, “Hey! Leave that card, will you?”
Lainey gave it to him and left the room, closing the door behind him. Horne reflected the old woman must have been quite a charmer in her day. She hadn’t lost the art.
Horne thumbed the card. The shriveled old lady sat down in a well-padded rocking chair and regarded him.
“I can hardly believe it,” she exclaimed.
“You and me both,” was his rejoinder. “Especially me. Why should a man leave you forty-five thousand simply because your hospital cured his dog?”
“Young men often do unpredictable things,” she pointed out.
“So do young women,” he snapped. “Redheaded ones.”
“I don’t believe I understand that.”
“Haven’t you read the morning paper?”
“Oh lands, no! That trashy thing. Young man, I only read the evening paper. It’s Republican!”
He almost choked. “Last night, as I said, this Channy was killed. In his car. By a young, redheaded girl. She blew him up with a stick of dynamite or something.”
Miss Bridges jumped. “It’s those radicals!” she hissed. “I read all about those radicals in the Tribune!”
Horne stood up and took a turn about the room. “No, Miss Bridges, this wasn’t the work of radicals. Not your radicals, at least. This was murder. And don’t you see: the murdered man left his money to you. That’s what I’m getting at.”
“Aha!” She peered up at him sharply. “Aha, young man, at last I do understand. You think I was the redheaded girl!”
He walked to the window and stared into the street. A man loitered across the way, eating a sack of popcorn.
“No, Miss Bridges,” he said wearily, “I don’t think you are the redheaded girl.”
“But how do you know I’m not?” she insisted. “I may not have an... an alibi for last evening.”
He turned slowly to face her. “Did I say evening?”
There was no hesitation. “No, I don’t believe you did, come to think of it. You mentioned ‘yesterday’ and ‘last night.’ You also mentioned an explosion. I heard it.”
“All right. Let it pass. I know you’re not the redheaded girl because your heels don’t clack, and your hair wouldn’t glint with copper beneath the lights on a dance floor, and—” He stopped suddenly, aware that he had walked into it.
Miss Bridges beamed at him in inner satisfaction.
“You must be well acquainted with this young radical?”
He returned to the window. The man across the street was feeding his popcorn to the birds. Something about his face reminded Horne of the City Hall. He addressed the old lady behind him.
“I’d like to ask you some questions. Personal questions.”
“Go right ahead young man.”
“Are you insured? What company?”
“Oh, my yes. I have two thousand dollars. Half of that is my burial fund; it states that in the policy. The remainder goes to the man... or woman... who assumes the responsibility of the hospital.”
“What company?” he reminded her.
“Why... yours, I do declare! Yes, the workingman’s company.”
He kept his eyes on the man feeding the birds but his thoughts were on Deebie Bridges. One thousand dollars — for Dr. Lainey, probably. The old lady couldn’t live for too many years more. A thousand bucks is a trifling sum to kill for; trifling, that is, for a man in Lainey’s position. Lainey wouldn’t risk it for a thousand bucks. But he might for forty-five more added to it. Yes, indeed.
“Have you a will, Miss Bridges?”
“Certainly, young man. Everything I have — the hospital, that is — is left to the veterinarian in charge at the time of my death, if he will carry on. If not, the hospital may go to any individual or organization that will carry on the work.”
“And your executor?”
“The Boone National Bank.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. It was all so simple and beautiful. Absolutely legal and expected. Save that when the will was made there had been no forty-five thousand dollars or its doubled equivalent. Unless Deebie Bridges was somehow connected with the dangerous redhead and would share in the money, Deebie Bridges was the next slated for the axe as sure as hell. Unless there was a reasonable expectancy that she would die of old age in jig time.
“Will Lainey want to stay on with the hospital?”
“I’m sure I don’t know. I imagine so.”
“Miss Bridges—” he hesitated briefly and plunged on — “you realize this new development puts you in a new light? You’re worth a lot of money — now.”
She chuckled. “I wondered when you would mention that, young man. Yes, I think I understand what is involved. But I shan’t worry over it. Young man, do you know how old I am? No, of course you don’t. I’m sixty-one. I’ve lived a full life, and the hospital provides enough income to keep me comfortable for as long as I shall live. I’m not too worried at your fears.”