“Go on, Delaney. Tell me what happened then?”
“I gets my chewin’-gum, Chief. I backs to the curb. They finish their sundae. I’m across the street when the lad goose-steps out of the drug-store—alone. O’Toole was talking with the fixed-post cop and a Central Office man half-way down the block. They gets my office when I pulls out my handkerchief. The C. O. dick covers the corner. O’Toole falls in behind the lad in the fur benny as he passes him, with collar turned up and leggins working at a double-time through the snow.”
“That’s good! O’Toole will put him to bed.”
“Sure, Chief. Leave it to O’Toole. He never lost a tail yet. He’ll follow that lad to France—unless you call him off.”
Drew polished the glass and strained his eyes in the direction of Stockbridge’s mansion. The Avenue had quieted over the hour after midnight. A few belated pedestrians, muffled to the brows, glanced at the waiting taxi with curiosity. They did not stop, however.
Delaney drew out his watch and studied its dial by aid of the light which streamed from a corner arc. He replaced the watch.
“Twelve-forty-five,” he announced. “Wish I’d brought a pint along. I would have, if the dame hadn’t come out of the drug-store so quick.”
“Did she buy anything—or do anything, after the officer left her?”
“No! Just waited a second, then came sailin’ out without a smile. Had her hands crammed in her muff. That’s where the revolver was. Bet it was loaded.”
“More deduction,” said Drew. “Don’t jump at conclusions, Delaney. Get facts and work from them. Get––”