“A detective you put in the bed...?”
Higgins nodded flatly, and turned the pages. At the back of the book was written, upon the stiff cover:
Murder Chart:
May 13th, 1:00 A. M.—goitre—E.S. & E.S. Jr.—Datura stramonium May 15th, 1:00 A. M.—heart—E.S. & E.S. Jr.—overdose Digitalis May 17th, 1:15 A. M.—operative E.S. obs. S. Jr.—Coniine May 18th, 1:30 A. M.—nurse—E.S. Jr. obs. E.S.—Coniine May 19th, 3:40 P. M.—heart—House & E.S. Jr.—failed to murder but ruined E.S. Jr.
The sunset breeze wound in the window and loosened the bands of Higgins’ heated brain, and the hysterical tears of Sally Ferguson. She buried her head in Cub’s shoulder and sobbed horribly.
Her sobs were long and rending and they forced Matthew Higgins into instant action. He struck a match, tore the pages from the front of the blank book and put them over the match.
The yellow-red flames ran up the crinkling paper as Cub Sterling’s legs began untangling themselves and he threw Sally aside.
“Aw, what’s the use?” Higgins’ gray eyes shot into Cub. “He’s dead and your father’s dying. The body and the murder chart’s all we need.”
The contact with Cub had revived Sally’s fight.
“How can we stop The Call?”