And what had brought his disappointed would-be client back to Wilsey Street? What caused him to park his car almost beneath the windows? He hadn’t been wearing the white suit on his early morning call so it was a return trip. He had returned and the redhead knew it; had known his car would be empty when she reached it. He might have told her of his plans — depending upon who she was.
If she were his wife, the chances were he hadn’t confided in her. Not if he’d been on the level about the divorce. It was much more likely she had lured him back to Wilsey Street; such an explanation would account for her knowing his movement, knowing of the car.
So unless he had other business along the block the only thing to bring him back was Charles Horne. Had the redhead roped Charles Horne into the deal? Suppose she had told him the detective was willing to reconsider his offer? No — it wouldn’t work. She would hardly be in a position to know her husband had been refused in the first instance. Not if she were his wife.
If she weren’t his wife she simply didn’t fit into the picture at all. Still, the worm had come crawling back to Wilsey Street for some reason, and he was the only reasonable reason, and the redhead had known all about it.
But above all the act was incredibly ruthless. The fat man would die in the trap, and so could other people, innocent bystanders.
The fat man could have been accompanied by another man, a woman, or perhaps children. There had been children playing in the block earlier. And there had been other men present — witness the unmoving stretcher case and that fellow sitting cross-legged in front of the drugstore. Oh yes... and there had been Charles Horne poking his long nose out the window.
Had Charles Horne been an intended victim? Not likely.
Not unless the redhead was familiar with his habits and had known he would still be in his office. Besides that, the parked car was a trifle too far away to do him any real damage. Ummm... there was something else... now what the hell was it? Somewhere in his rocking, numbed skull there was one little thing asking to be remembered.
The redhead hadn’t cared a damn about all those others who might have died with her victim. She had been interested only in the worm, had succeeded in killing him, and if any other unfortunates wandered along to be caught with him — how sad.
Red hair. A redheaded girl shouldn’t be so hard to find, not in Boone. Of all the colors of hair in the world, the various shades of red were undoubtedly in the minority. Even gray- and white-haired oldsters outnumbered them. A redheaded girl would be easy to find... too damned easy.
She didn’t have red hair. Horne jumped with the impact of the thought.
She didn’t have red hair, not if she was smart. And everything else about the crime advertised her smartness, everything except the amazing risk. There would be a good explanation for that, too, he felt, if she were ever found.
The careful planning, the precise timing, the cold logic and ruthlessness said she wasn’t a redhead. The wig was red but underneath was some ordinary shade of brown, or black, or blonde.
A startling fact occurred to him. In different dress and a longer stride, Elizabeth Saari could have walked beneath him in an auburn wig and he wouldn’t have known the difference. He could have misjudged the height by a few inches, the weight by a few pounds. And the trick change from medium heels to high, spiked heels. No, the deadly practical joker wasn’t a redhead.
What else? There must be something else.
She had come to Wilsey Street on the 7:20 car. She had arrived from the east and afterwards returned to the east. That presented alternate possibilities. Either she had boarded the car at some far eastern point of the line and had traveled direct to Wilsey, or she had come from the north or south and had transferred to the westbound car. Transferred and ridden just a few blocks, because the Main and Lincoln intersection where the carlines crossed was a short distance away.
The streetcar people had built a safety island in the center of the intersection, for transfer fares. Was it logical to assume she had come from the north and changed cars at the island?
No... not for a two-block ride. The conductor would have noticed that, would mentally label her lazy, and would remember the label in connection with an explosion on the same night when the police began to ask questions. To transfer would be dangerous.
The return trip was less logical, more dangerous.
In the time wasted standing on the Wilsey corner waiting for the incoming car, she could have walked to the safety island and caught a northbound car. But she hadn’t. So the only line of thought left open was that she had deliberately made the transfers to confuse the police, at the same time running the risk of being recognized later by the conductor, with or without the auburn wig.
All right, so he had narrowed her back trail to the eastern end of the line. The police could do as well. Providing she also hadn’t taken that into consideration and had walked from the northern section of town to the east-side carline and then boarded the car. Oh hell, one argument was as silly as the other. She could have walked or driven to Wilsey Street from any section of town and escaped the same way. Why bother with the streetcars?
Why hadn’t she walked? Too great a distance. A taxi was out of consideration. Why hadn’t she driven her own car? Either she had none or she had just blown it up. Or what? Or nothing. It ended right there.
Now where was he?
He was sitting on the comfortable examining table in Dr. Saari’s office, practically sleeping on Dr. Saari’s comfortable bosom. And Dr. Saari reminded him of it. She must have been standing there for some time, waiting for him to move or speak. A pad of writing paper was shoved before him.
“Are you going to lie there all night?”
He said, no mam, and sat up. “Sorry. I’ve been thinking.”
She moved around in front of him. He had very little difficulty in following her lips.
She nodded, smiled slightly, and said, “Out loud.”
“Aloud? I must be nuts. What did I say?”
He watched her fast scrawl on the writing pad.
“Something about a redhead who isn’t a redhead, and that it might be me wearing a wig, and a worm.”
“I’ll tell you all about it some time.”
“Bend your head over.” She wanted to poke into his ears. “Why not now?”
While she was poking he repeated the night’s adventure, as much of it as he had seen and much of what he’d guessed, including the comparing of her to the girl who had walked beneath his window. He sensed rather than saw her following smile.
He told her about the blast and the windows coming down and the thunder bounding around the room, and that he had been able to hear at first but not at all by the time she arrived. He asked, was it permanent?
She shook her head and made a note on the pad.
“Temporary loss of hearing due to the concussion. No serious or permanent damage to your ears. Will probably be okay when you awake in the morning.”
“Hell — if I get to sleep to wake up in the morning. I’ve got to call the sergeant. You know Sergeant Wiedenbeck. I want to get in on this...”
She shook her head violently this time and wrote some more.
“No! Am going to give you an injection and take you home to bed.”
“You are not! I’m a respectable citizen, see? I’ve got rights, I’m a taxpayer. I’m going to call Wiedenbeck. Look, Elizabeth, I’m an eyewitness...” suddenly then the missing thought struck him... “and I know of another one!”