“I can’t say. They may have decided while we’ve been talking. They know the whole town will be rooting for someone to be locked up, and Bill is the leading candidate.”
“Then I’ve got to do something. I wish I knew what he’s telling them. Do you know?”
“Only that he’s denying he knows anything about it. He says he left the clubhouse after the others had gone because he went back to the locker room to change to other shoes.”
She shook her head. “I don’t mean that. I mean whether he told them—” She stopped. “No. I know he didn’t. He wouldn’t. He knows something, and I know it too, about a man trying to fix that game. Only he wouldn’t tell, on account of me. I have to go and see someone. Will you come along?”
“To see who?”
“I’ll tell you on the way. Will you come?”
“Where to?”
“In the Fifties. Eighth Avenue.”
Helen Goidell blurted, “For God’s sake, Lila, do you know what you’re saying?”
If Lila replied I missed it, for I was on my way around the car. It had taken me no part of a second to decide. This sounded like something. It was a little headstrong to dash off with a damsel, leaving Wolfe up there with mass-production sandwiches, warm beer, and his one measly little fact he was saving up, but this might be really hot.