“Let’s say the anemone had murdered a great-aunt of yours, if you must have a motive. The aunt’s name was Abigail. She used to eke out a precarious living by blackmailing anemones. Got that straight?”
“Sure,” said Hoppy, satisfied.
“If you scoop fast, you can scrape up the anemone. But if you aren’t quite fast enough, it’ll retract and fold up into such a tight knot that you can’t pry it loose. I don’t want the King to retract.”
Hoppy said, “Sure.”
“The King doesn’t know I’m the blind beggar — I hope. That’s something. And I don’t think his murder frame has a chance to stick.” Simon frowned. “Or... perhaps he’s smarter than I thought. We’ll have to wait and see. At worst, you can get an anemone to reopen by feeding it.”
“Hey,” Hoppy said suddenly. “What’s an anemone?”
Simon decided it would be more discreet to leave this alone.
“What we want to know,” he said grimly, “is how this all happened. Who did what to who? Did Junior dig through a wall and escape? Then who bumped him off and called the cops? Is something wrong about that stooge — what was his name? — Fingers Schultz. Who talked too much to who — and brought my name into it? And how much too much has been said? Most important of all, what made Sammy run?”
“It couldn’t of been Sammy,” Hoppy said miserably. “I’d trust Sammy wit’ my right eye. If he signs a receipt, dat is.”
“We didn’t get a receipt,” Simon pointed out.