“Maybe you doubt it, but nobody else would.”
Blue stood up, looking grim. “Then isn’t that all the more reason for me to do what I can to keep the investigation on the right path? What are war crimes? Torturing prisoners, perhaps, or multiplying civilian deaths. Professional dissidents might use those accusations to extenuate any actions of their own, and in fact apologists for the American policy in Vietnam used the very real war crimes of the North Vietnamese to excuse ours. But these people appeared to be anything but professional; they struck me as consciencestricken blunderers. They might, just conceivably, have been carried to the point of destroying the object of their hatred. But would they do that by detonating an infernal device that not only might, but actually did, kill or mutilate a dozen blameless people? I suppose you’re too young to remember the comic strip Pogo, but there was a character called Deacon Mushrat who urged the others to
“But Larry’s dead, so it could have been them. Only you don’t think it was. Who do you think?”
“I don’t think. I need more facts.” He had gone over to the window, and was looking out. It wasn’t dark yet—in fact it was only the middle of the afternoon—but I had the feeling that for him it was night out, that he was staring into blackness.
I said, “Sandoz sounded like he thought it might be Elaine. Did you buy that?”
“No.” Blue turned to face me. “Did you?”
“Maybe a little.”
“Why?”
“Oh, just because he made it sound so good. Fixing the drawing, finding out what ticket Munroe had. All that.”
“Yes, it was beautifully logical. However, you followed it to the place Sandoz wanted you to go, and not to the place where it had led Sandoz. I’m still not quite certain why, but Sandoz wanted you to believe he might accuse your mother. What all of that really meant was that unless Mrs. Hollander was the killer, Munroe was not the target. Anyone might have learned his ticket number, just as Sandoz said. But only your mother could have arranged for that number to be the winner. Besides, if someone had merely wanted to kill Munroe, and wasn’t concerned about the possible deaths of others, why not put a bomb in his car in the parking lot? The Mob does such things all the time. Why bother with so much folderol?”
I had been thinking, a bad habit my teachers hadn’t quite knocked out of me. “Wait a minute! There’s another way someone could’ve fixed the numbers. Suppose it was somebody that little girl—What was her name? Nancy Noonan? Suppose it was somebody Nancy trusted, and somehow he got hold of Munroe’s ticket. I took tickets for a while, and I was just dropping them into a box. He could have pretended he had to tie his shoe or scratch his ankle, or if it was a woman maybe pull up a heel strap, just after Munroe went in. Later, he’d give the ticket to Nancy and tell her they were going play a joke or something, and she was only supposed to pretend to reach into the drum.”
Blue said, “He could never rely on a child that age to keep his secret.”
“Maybe he figured she’d be killed too when the bomb went off—only Sandoz says it wasn’t a bomb. Well, whatever it was. He probably thought Munroe’d be right there in the crowd watching the drawing instead of inside at the book sale with us. If he’d been outside, there wouldn’t have been time for her to get down off the platform. Anyway, the murderer would think that even if he missed her, he could—”
I broke off because all of a sudden the chocolate in my stomach had turned to vinegar ice. Besides, there wasn’t any use in going on with it. Blue’s face doesn’t give away much, but it’s nowhere near as expressionless as Sandoz’s, and I was learning to read it; it was blank now, just no expression at all, and that meant he had pulled into himself and was thinking so hard that he didn’t have any attention to spare for it. “She should be under guard,” he said. “And of course the police must speak with her as soon as possible. When it becomes known that they have, she’ll be out of danger.” He checked out my bedside table. “I must find a telephone.”
That was when a nurse I hadn’t seen before came bustling in. “There are public telephones in an alcove off the lobby, sir. The receptionist can show you, but you’ll have to go now. Visiting hours are over.”
Then to me: “Have you heard about the murder?” Her eyes were shining. What a treat!
“It wasn’t a little girl … .”
“Oh, no. An old man. They found him by the parking lot, right here at our hospital!”
She bustled out again, this time with Blue after her like a lame hound that can still run when a bunny jumps under its nose. I head the thump of his cane out in the corridor, and then the murmur of their voices; the only words I could make out, though, were what he said last: “I’d better go down and talk to them. I think I may be able to identify him.”
How I Heard Some News
After dinner when the news came on, I was right there waiting. One good thing about living close to a big city like Chicago is that you get a full hour of local stories from a station that can spring for mobile units and good reporters. My favorite’s Ben Jacobs, a good-looking Jew about thirtyfive or forty who doesn’t care what the hell he says or who the hell he says it to, and gets fighting mad about at least half the stories they cover. Naturally I was hoping tonight was my big night with Ben—if I couldn’t be in his arms, at least I’d be on his lips. But when they finally got around to “the Barton Bombing,” it was Gerri Corkeran. Gerri’s a pretty lady with big eyes and hair like a gold helmet, but she isn’t Ben Jacobs.
Besides, as soon as she started I realized I was really a day too late. All the big, exciting coverage had been the night before, when I was out of it. What Gerri had was follow-up. She interviewed Mrs. Munroe, who turned out to have one of those pushed-together faces and a couple little kids, besides a dumb-looking daughter about my age. And then, so help me, there were Molly and Megan and old Mr. Lief from the shoe store, all sitting side-by-each on the living-room sofa.
