There were no streetcars in sight when Charles Horne reached the corner. Shrugging, he turned east on Main Street. He wanted to question the crew of the car that stopped at Wilsey Street at approximately 7:20 the evening before, but it could wait.
Of more importance was the cat and dog hospital, the “Boone Animal Hotel.” Ninety thousand dollars, he reflected, would certainly feed a lot of cats and dogs. Mulberry Street was eight blocks across town.
Dr. Saari’s rather strange report on the man who had been hurt fought its way to the fore of his mind. The police had forbidden her to discuss the man’s situation with anyone. That order alone was strange enough to rear up on its feet and command attention. Why would a police official order a physician to keep quiet when the physician’s own code of ethics forbade disclosures? Why build a double fence around the pasture?
Because whatever was inside was something so strong that it might break down one fence. It was so important that it needed the bolstering of the second safeguard.
And that would be — what? The man’s condition. What was the matter with the man? He had been blown backwards through a doorway by the explosion. What was so mysterious about that? Dr. Saari had examined him this morning and sent him home. He, too, had probably been warned not to talk. So what? He was well enough to be sent home but his condition was so... so strange it was a secret. Hell, that didn’t make sense.
Let’s get back to the explosion. Wiedenbeck had none too subtly changed the subject when he was questioned about it last night in the doctor’s office. Why? Probably because he didn’t know what had caused it and didn’t wish to be reminded of the fact. The girl had removed a small red package from her purse, something resembling a cylinder perhaps three or four inches long and as thick as a roll of quarters. That had been it, whatever it was.
He sighed and bought a morning paper.
Leaning against a lamppost at the curb he scanned the front page for news of the tragedy. Rapidly skipping the matter he had read over someone’s shoulder that morning while riding downtown on the streetcar, including the bit of business about the oldest living inhabitant and his memory, he dug for the meat of the report.
The newspaper was delightfully vague, showing the official hand of the police department and the actual lack of real details. It quoted Sergeant Wiedenbeck as blaming “a powerful explosive in the hands of an ignorant or unscrupulous woman” for the crime, and that while “the motive was not clear, an important development was expected at any hour.” Naturally, an arrest was promised within the following forty-eight hours.
Horne was willing to bet Sergeant Wiedenbeck had never told the papers that. Wiedenbeck was not a man to make promises he couldn’t fulfil. The forty-eight hour business had come from someone higher up, the chief himself, or the mayor; someone who didn’t have to get out and get the culprit.
He read again the statement that an arrest was promised within forty-eight hours, and snorted aloud.
A feminine voice at his shoulder sniffed, “Huh! They always say that.”
He turned on the girl, amazed and amused. She was peering nearsightedly through thick glasses at his paper.
“May I?” he inquired, holding it out to her. “I can wait until you’ve finished.”
She was a mouse, peering up at him.
“Pardon me!” she answered contritely. She had forgotten to take her stenographer’s pencil from its resting place in her hair. “I’m sorry I bothered you.” And she flounced away. He watched her legs until they disappeared into a stationery store.
Back to the newspaper. What did they say about him? And the other two casualties?
Oh, yes, here was his name. Charles Horne. Too bad the paper didn’t use larger than eight-point type. Charles Horne was slightly injured when cut by falling glass. Hell — was that all? Charles Horne was slightly injured when cut by falling glass. Not a word about his being an eyewitness, not a word of his descriptions of the entire scene. Not a word — belatedly it came smashing home to him why the paper said nothing other than Charles Horne was slightly injured when cut by falling glass.
Wiedenbeck was not throwing away any chances. Charles Horne happened to be an eyewitness and was probably the only man in Boone — other than the unknown nobody who had stood below him on the stairway watching — who could describe the redheaded girl. And why should Wiedenbeck be so dumb as to advertise that fact?
The two other men: the dead man’s name and address was given following a brief report of how he had been blown through the window and had died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. The body was at so-and-so’s funeral home and burial plans were incomplete. The other bystander, the one who had been sent home from the hospitaclass="underline" there was his name and address and a brief description of his wounds.
Compared to the main points of the murder of Channy and the terrific damage done to Wilsey Street, the sticks devoted to the three other casualties were masterpieces of brevity.
Turning to an inside page, he carefully tore the crossword puzzle from the sheet and threw the paper in the street. Charles Horne was slightly injured when cut by falling glass.
He swung eastward along Main Street, watching the shop windows and the reflections they threw back at him. Wiedenbeck’s shadow should be back there somewhere, it he were suddenly as important as the brevity of the newspaper implied. Wiedenbeck would be having him guarded, not simply followed. But all the way to Mulberry Street there was nothing to reward him.
The “Boone Animal Hotel” was a squeaking sign swaying in the breeze over a screen door through which came the not unpleasant odor of clean dogs. He pushed open the screen and walked in.
A man in a white smock and rimless glasses got up from behind the desk.
“Yes sir?”
“Are you in charge?”
“Well, sir, yes and no. I’m the veterinarian, if you have a pet. Miss Deebie Bridges is the owner.”
“She’s the one I want. I represent the Union Workman’s Mutual of Chicago. Insurance.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I have instructions about salesmen.”
Horne gave the man a soft, disarming smile and removed his wallet from an inner breast pocket. His badge was pinned inside the wallet. The veterinarian stared at it.
“I’m not a salesman,” the detective purred.
“No sir. I can see you’re not.” He reached under the ledge of the desk and pushed a button. A buzzer sounded in the faraway reaches of the building. A buzzer, and the slamming of a door. Slow, dignified footsteps came towards the door at the other end of the office and presently the door opened.
A withered, dried up little lady peeped through at them.
“Yes?” she asked patiently.
“This is a detective, Miss Bridges,” the vet said. “To see you.”
“Well, come right in, young man, come right in.” The wrinkled face screwed up into an inviting smile and the old lady stepped aside, allowing him to enter. He was in her living quarters. She shut the office door, shutting out the sight of the staring veterinarian and almost shutting out the agreeable odor of the dogs. With a frail, gracious hand she waved him to a chair.
“What’s your business, young man?”
“Miss Bridges, does the name Walter Alfred Channy mean anything to you?”
She frowned, not at him but with straining memory. “Walter Alfred Channy? Channy? I knew a family named Channy many years ago, oh, it must have been fifty years ago, but that was in the Old Country. No, not here young man, not since I left the Old Country. I don’t believe I’ve heard the name in forty or fifty years. Why?”