"Pretty damn closely," he repeated. "Almost as closely as if she was going up under radio control...." He stopped. He looked at me from under his eyebrows.
I studied him. "Already told the brass I'd take her up, Pop." I kept my voice down.
"Sure, guy. Sure. Uh—you mention it to Marge?"
"Last night."
"I see." His eyes got suddenly far away. I left him like that. Hell with him—hell with the whole family!
It was in the evening paper, tucked in the second section. They treated it lightly. It seemed the night watchman had opened the rear door of the museum for a breath of air or maybe a smoke. Or maybe to kitchie-koo some babe under the chin in the alley.
That's the only way it could have happened. And he'd discovered the empty exhibit case at 2:10 in the morning. The case still had a little white card on it that told about the Brown Bess musket and the powder horn and the ball shot inside.
But the little white card lied in its teeth. There weren't any such things in the case at all. And he'd notified the curator at once.
There was also mention of a mysterious phone call which couldn't be traced.