Leaving the car, after he had complied with Sam’s request, Rodgers stood watching him for a few minutes, but his thought would stray back to Kitty Baird and he lost interest in both the car and the mechanic. Lighting a cigarette, he strolled down the alley to where it opened into Pennsylvania Avenue. The sight of hurrying pedestrians and swift-moving vehicles proved only a brief diversion as his mind again returned to Kitty and the unsolved problem of her aunt’s mysterious death.
Oscar’s conduct was a puzzle which he wanted time to think out. That the old man knew more of the circumstances of Miss Susan Baird’s death than he was willing to divulge was self-evident. Rodgers was thoroughly convinced that Oscar was devoted to Kitty. What then, did he mean to infer by saying that he, Rodgers, must find Kitty’s red coat before the police secured it? In what possible way was the coat connected with Miss Baird’s death?
The blare of a motor horn almost in his ear caused Rodgers to jump to one side as an army truck drove out of the valley and turned into Pennsylvania Avenue. Not having time to look where he was going, Rodgers collided with a dummy figure placed in front of a second-hand clothes store. As Rodgers picked up the figure he found that its wax face had come in contact with the pavement and was decidedly damaged. With an impatient sigh he entered the store and was met by the proprietor.
“I knocked over your dummy,” he explained, drawing out his leather wallet. “It got a bit damaged. How much—?” and he opened a roll of Treasury bills.
“Wait; I’ll go see the dummy first,” and the proprietor bustled out of the shop.
As Rodgers turned to accompany him, his eyes fell upon a red coat lying on the counter. He had the faculty of carrying a color in his mind’s eye, also of noticing minute details. The coat looked like Kitty’s—with a single stride he was at the counter—the coat was Kitty’s. It was a stylishly cut garment, of a rough finish cloth, with large patch pockets and a scarflike collar with fringe on the ends. To make assurance doubly sure Rodgers examined the black and gold buttons of Japanese handiwork. He had admired them too often to be mistaken. How came Kitty’s coat in that store? A voice at his elbow caused him to wheel about.
“The face is kinda mussed up,” announced the proprietor. “Five dollars will cover it.”
“Five dollars!” fumed Rodgers, then paused. “Oh, all right—” handing him the money. “How much is this coat?”
“Twenty dollars.” The proprietor had caught sight of Rodgers’ generous roll of greenbacks. “It’s a nice coat; good as new, ’cept for the torn lining and a few faded spots. It’s just what any lady would want. She could reline—”
“I’ll take it,” cut in Rodgers and the proprietor accepted his money with a wry face. Why had he not asked more? It was not often that so biddable a purchaser wandered into his shop. “By the way,” Rodgers paused in the doorway. “How long have you had this coat?”