CHAPTER V
"I've got to look into a butcher store," Fink said. "Drive over with me. You can tell me about those letters."
They got into a dusty car parked in front of the Precinct Station. Fink was a small, slender man with thin blonde hair and the harmless manner of a bank clerk. He had a soft sweet voice. He seemed shy. His smile was hesitant and haphazard, as though he acknowledged humor but had given up hope of ever recognizing it.
"Shopping for dinner?" Lennox asked.
"No. The Health Department had a complaint this butcher is selling bad meat. They couldn't find anything so they handed it to us. You can tell me about those letters."
Lennox told him. Fink drove carefully and listened without comment. Finally he shook his head.
"Tough," he said.
"You mean dangerous?"
"Tough to locate the writer."
"Are the letters dangerous?"