What I was bent on doing was, if possible, to find out where and when Mrs. Garr had bought her tickets. I wished I’d taken a look at the back of the ticket Mr. Kistler had; then I’d know better how good my chances were of proving Mrs. Garr hadn’t bought it. For a moment, I considered calling Lieutenant Strom’s office to ask if I might be given the important information stamped on the back of the ticket they held, but I decided against it. They’d never tell me.
The places in Gilling City where tickets were sold would turn out to be few, I hoped. I could think of only two, offhand: the regular ticket windows at the Union Station, and the branch ticket offices, which the different railroads had established around town.
And of those, to which would an old woman—inexperienced in traveling, especially in recent traveling—go?
She’d go to the station.
So did I.
Gilling City’s Union Station is one of its joys and prides. It was built in 1918 when railroads were riding high. It’s almost the size of the state capitol, and six times as pontifical. The handful of passengers who trickle through it are lost in its cavernous spaces. Twenty-four ticket windows, with their numbers over them in little lights, stretch along the west wall of the huge, seatless entrance lobby.
Fortunately for me, sixteen of the windows were black and barred; I took a deep breath and tackled the other eight.
Every face behind every window was masculine, tired, bored. Ticket sellers, I suppose, must develop immunity to questions. If they didn’t feel like answering, they just didn’t answer.
“I’m trying to find out if a woman whom we suspect was murdered”—I tried to be as brisk and official as possible—“bought an excursion ticket to Chicago here last week. You might have noticed that she had lovely white hair; beautiful white hair like sleek, shining feathers on a goose. She’d be wearing a horrible draped black chiffon turban on top of it, with withered violets to the front.” Mrs. Garr had but one hat, that I’d seen. “And she had eyes like little black coals, set deep in her head.”
I tried it on windows one, two, three, four. I didn’t even get an admission that the seller sold tickets. Just:
“No . . . no . . . no . . . no.”
The seller at window five was even more indifferent than the others, if that was possible. Bored enough to talk.
“Lady, how many people do you think I sold those tickets to? I told the police—” He halted, and an almost human look came over his face. “What did you say she looked like?”
I eagerly repeated, adding every detail I could think of.
“Say, the picture the police had didn’t look like her.”
“You mean the police were here asking the same thing?”
“Sure. This morning. Just a couple hours ago. Didn’t you know? What’re you—a reporter?”
“Sort of,” I lied. “I’m on my own, though.”
“Well, I’m glad to give a girl a hand. The police were in with this picture, see, but I couldn’t remember any dame like that buying a ticket. They said she was older, had white hair, but jeez! I didn’t remember anybody had that face. But that hair the way you say it. I lived on a farm once. We had geese on it. That’s just the same white her hair was, just like you said it; you sure said it. I noticed hair like that. Would she have a lot of pennies and nickels?”
“I wouldn’t know, but it’s very likely.”
“Well, it’s like this, see. I’d just got back from lunch, and this old dame stepped up and asked for an excursion ticket to Chicago. I told her $8.42. She says she heard it was going to be $8.00 even. And she asked was there any place she could get it for $8.00. So I told her not unless she went a couple stations down the line, and it would cost $1.76 to get there. She hauled out a ratty black bag and begun counting out the money; I never saw such a mess of pennies and nickels come into this window all the eight years I’ve been here.”
“Sixteen dollars and eighty-four cents in pennies and nickels?”
“No, lady, $8.42.”
“But she bought two tickets, didn’t she?”
“Not from me. Eight dollars and forty-two cents. One ticket.”
That stopped me. I stared at him, my mind whirling at the implication.
“Could you possibly remember what day that was?”
“What day it—it must have been Wednesday, or perhaps Tuesday. Because by Thursday we were beginning to have a lot of people. And it wasn’t a rush day. It was right after lunch.”
“You’re sure no later than Wednesday?”
“I’m awfully mistaken if it was.”
“How long are you on duty here?”
“Go to lunch at twelve thirty.”
“I’ll be back.”
I sped across the lobby to the telephone booths.
“Could I speak to Lieutenant Strom, please?”
“Who’s calling?”
“Mrs. Dacres. In connection with Mrs. Garr’s death.”
“Wait a minute.” A pause. “He isn’t in his office, but I think I can locate him.” Another pause.
“Hello?”
“Lieutenant Strom, this is Mrs. Dacres. I think I’ve found something.”
“That’s nice.”
“About that ticket. The one Mr. Kistler had. I thought if I could find out when Mrs. Garr bought hers, and then the ticket Mr. Kistler had was stamped for some other time and place, it would help prove his ticket wasn’t Mrs. Garr’s.”
“What’ve you been up to—reading that flatfoot’s mind?”
“I haven’t been reading anybody’s mind. But I think I’ve found the ticket seller. The one Mrs. Garr bought a ticket from.”
Interest sharpened his voice.
“You have? Where?”
“Union Station.”
“Where’re you now?”
“There.”
“Stay there until I get there.”
It wasn’t five minutes before he came striding across the lobby with another officer at his heels.
“Mother’s little helper,” he said wryly at me. “What window?”
“Five.”
He thrust his face at window five.
“Didn’t one of my men ask you about selling tickets to Mrs. Garr this morning?”
“Yes, sir. He showed me a picture. I hadn’t seen
