“Well, can’t I do myself more good by being there to block that very thing?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why?”
“If you’re out of circulation for a while the real murderer will then try to make you the goat by planting evidence, making false statements, and things of that sort. Then you’ll have the chance to find out who this is. Reel out lots of rope and see if we can’t hang somebody.”
“Not me, I hope.”
I met her eyes, raised my coffee cup.
“I hope.”
I paid the check, inquired if there was a telephone booth in the restaurant, found there was, closeted myself in it, and called the airport at New Orleans.
“This is Detective Lam at Shreveport talking,” I said, and then so they wouldn’t start asking questions as to whether I was on the force at Shreveport or a private detective, I started talking fast. “On Wednesday noon you had a passenger for New York. That passenger turned right around at New York and came back to New Orleans. The name was Emory G. Hale.”
The voice at the other end of the line said, “Wait a minute and I’ll consult the records.”