Duff opened the screen door. “Come out in the kitchen, will you? I just got up.”
In the kitchen, Mr. Higgins told Duff briefly about the capsule.
“You see,” he concluded, “how we can all go haywire. My men went through his things with the police. Never looked under the bed — which is the first thing an old maid would do. Never looked, I mean, beyond seeing nothing big was there. Thought I’d have a squint, myself.”
Duff bit toast he had made. He shook his head. “Too late. I cleaned the place yesterday. You think, then, that Harry—”
Higgins exhaled slowly. “Knocked himself off. Sure. They do. The heat was on him.
His people”—Higgins cursed softly—”whoever they may be, were probably sore at him because you started uncovering Harry’s business. I think when Harry went to Baltimore he was trying to contact somebody. We had men on him the whole time.”
“You did!”
Higgins’ eyes smiled, but not his lips. “This isn’t any amateur outfit, Bogan! Yes. But he never made a contact — not that our men saw, anyhow. He did consult doctors. He said he was sick — and I guess he was. Sick from fear. The doctors couldn’t treat that. So he came back here and maybe got the word. Or knew his number was up because they didn’t get to him in Baltimore. So he took that thing — and probably coughed the skin of it out as he died.”
“That means,” Duff said gravely, “Harry knew what he was doing the whole time.”
Again the G-man swore. “It means that, whatever the hell they are trying to do! By now, I’d give a leg to know. A life, I guess! I’ll take a fast gander at the room, even though you did clean it up.”