Unsmilingly, Fibsy’s sharp, blue eyes scanned block after block.
“New buildin’,” he said, at last, thoughtfully; and then, darting across the street, to a forlorn little shop, he burst in and out again, crying, “Here you are, Mr. Stone!”
Stone crossed the street and entered the shop. There was a swarthy Italian woman, and several children, some coughing, others quarreling and all dirty.
A phonograph was in evidence, and Fibsy casually looked over the records till he found the rag-time ditty the inspector had recalled.
He called up headquarters and asked Inspector Collins if that were the music he heard before. “Yes,” said Collins, and Stone shouted, “Hold that wire, Fibsy, wait a minute,” and dragging the scared woman to the telephone he bade her repeat the message she had given the day of the murder.
“Same voice! Same woman!” declared the inspector, and Stone hung up the receiver.
Then he soothed the frightened Italian, promising no harm should come to her if she told the truth.
The truth, as she tremblingly divulged it, seemed to be, that some man had come to her shop that afternoon, and forced her to telephone as he dictated. She remembered it all perfectly, and had been frightened out of her wits ever since. He had given her ten dollars which she had never dared to spend, as it was blood money!
“Describe the man,” said Stone.
“I not see heem good. He hold noosa-paper before his face, and maka me speak-a telephone.”