“If he were frightened,” Dr. Stone asked mildly, “why didn’t he run to the house? What frightened him? Did whatever happen happen so quickly that there was no time to run? And then there’s something else.”
“What?” Captain Tucker snapped.
“The cap. It would take quite a fright to pop a cap off a boy’s head.” The blind man put the pipe back in his pocket. “You’ve kept track of this organ-grinder, haven’t you, Tucker? Where has he been staying?”
“Petey Ring’s shack on the river.”
“I think,” Dr. Stone said, “it might be worth our while to go down toward the river.” A dozen steps toward Captain Tucker’s car he paused. “You’d better have that finger looked at, Ira. Gun-shot wounds can develop lock-jaw.”
“Doctors want money,” Ira Close said resentfully.
“It’s a common failing,” the blind man observed pleasantly.
Joe tingled. Something lay behind those four words. But again the bland face was expressionless.
Petey Ring, unkempt and wrapped in a soiled apron, met them in the frowsy public room of this river “hotel.”
“Cap,” he said, “I was just thinking of giving you a buzz. You know that bird who’s been penny snatching with a monk?”