“I don’t see where it gets you in this case, though,” I put in practically. “Perfectly reasonable for Mrs. Garr to run to a man she’d been doing business with, in a pinch. That’s funny, though, about his being a liquor salesman,” I went on, remembering something. “It must have been before he got on the police force. Or else after he retired. But you’d hardly have thought he could have retired even before that.”
If I’d thrown a bomb directly at Lieutenant Strom’s wide nose, I don’t think I’d have gotten as big a reaction. He stopped dead, stared at me so stunned he almost looked weak. Then he walked toward me; if I hadn’t known it was impossible, I’d have said he was quivering.
“Would you say that again?” He asked it gently.
I said it again.
Silence.
“Do you recall where you heard that Mr. Waller was ever on the police force?”
“Why, certainly. Mrs. Garr told me. She said he was retired. A retired policeman.”
“Mrs. Garr told you. And do you remember bringing out this interesting little fact in your evidence?”
“Why, no. Why should I? You didn’t ask me if I knew anything about anyone’s past, Miss Sands’ or Mr. Kistler’s or Mr. Buffingham’s . . .”
“Perfectly true. Why should you? Do you remember its having been brought out at the inquest in Mr. Waller’s testimony?”
I cast my thoughts wildly back to the inquest; with surprising ease I could remember Mr. Waller talking, Mrs. Waller talking. Nothing about the period when Mr. Waller had been a policeman. But why should they say so? It was perhaps a long time ago. Perhaps for just a short time. Why should that fact have any bearing on Mrs. Garr’s death? “No, I don’t think Mr. Waller brought it up, either. Why should he? But he knows it well enough. I mentioned it to him once. I said how odd it was he retired so young.”
The lieutenant groaned. “I don’t see how you’ve kept alive this long. As far as I can see, you know everything that everyone wants kept secret. As a finder-outer, Mrs. Dacres, you are tops. As a putter-togetherer, Mrs. Dacres, you are bottoms. I don’t suppose”—his sarcasm took on an exaggerated pathos—“you can now recall any more such little facts tucked away?”
“They’ll probably come out in time.” I said it brightly and carelessly; he wasn’t going to step on me; he wasn’t my employer. “You ought to be glad I’m here for you to find things out of.”
“Oh, I am,” he said. “I’m profoundly grateful.” He dropped me. He wasn’t interested in me anymore. “Gad! Waller was on the force! He has a note signed July 8, 1919. Practically an entire police force retired in 1919. If he was on the force then . . . That entire police force didn’t hold notes signed by Harriet Luella Garr! There’s something in this somewhere! If there isn’t, I’ll eat my—I’ll eat a suit of winter woolen underwear!”
He shot me a defiant glance on that one; continued to walk in high excitement, turned to me again.
“Mrs. Dacres! I could use you on this. Not today. What time is it? After five. Tomorrow. You’ve got the background, as I find out bit by bit. Do you want a job? You should be well enough to tackle it by tomorrow. Tonight I’m going to start going through the police records on the Liberry case again. It’ll take me a while. I’m using a fine comb this time. And you—know what you can do? You go down to the Comet office. Get their old files, beginning about May 1919. Look through every inch until you get the reports on the Liberry case. Read every word. Copy down the headlines and the first paragraph of every account for me. If there’s anything that the papers have that the court records haven’t, I want to know it. The papers played it up big. We’ve got pictures, but they’ve got pictures we mightn’t have—social pictures. Get me?”
“I’ll get there if I have to crawl,” I said.
We were still discussing our plans when Mr. Kistler walked in.
“What! Still alive?” he asked. He looked a little bit worn, but he was grinning as usual. “I’ve got to get back down to the paper tonight—we distribute tomorrow, you know. But I thought I’d come around and count the latest corpses.”
“You don’t have to worry. I’m here, Kistler.” The lieutenant.
“That’s what does worry me.”
“There’s been some excitement,” I said.
“Hush,” said the lieutenant. “Secrets.”
What didn’t he want me to tell? About the note? I turned the subject by thanking Mr. Kistler for saving my life, which he said was a small matter; he did things like that every day. Then the lieutenant put Mr. Kistler through his grilling.
Mr. Kistler told a factual story of our activities Monday evening and until three a.m., then the now-familiar tale of his rescue on Tuesday morning.
“Anything in that, Mrs. Dacres?” asked Lieutenant Strom when he had finished.
“Nothing that I could hear.”
“That’s a compliment.” From Mr. Kistler.
“Cut it, you two. I think I heard Miss Sands come in while Kistler was talking; find out, Van.”
“Want me to go?”
“Suit yourself, Kistler. It won’t make any difference on this next one.”
“Thanks.”
Miss Sands came down looking rumpled, as if now, thank heaven, work was over for the day and she didn’t have to be so everlastingly neat. Perhaps that was why she looked, as she walked in the door, better and more peaceful than I had ever seen her. It almost seemed as if her face were less lined, as if some care had slipped from her.
“Sit
