Then he faced Lieutenant Lacey, who had his feet on his desk and was grinning.
“Evening, Hank.”
Henry Conner had not sworn much in years. He now turned the lieutenant’s office blue.
“Just what,” he finally managed to ask, “is the idea of picking me up and hauling me into the hoosegow?”
“Don’t get riled, Henry. You’ll be home in time for a good night’s sleep.”
“ You won’t sleep, by God, Lacey, unless you can explain what in the name of jumped-up…!” The square, homely face was brick-red and the gray hair frizzed in sweat. Righteous wrath exploded in Henry’s every syllable.
“Things,” Lacey answered, his Irish grin undisturbed, “were really in a mess here, Henry, a few minutes ago. A call came in from a right upset person, known to us, a Mrs. Agnes Heer, of twenty-six twenty-eight Pine Street—”
“What the hell has that busybody of an Aggie Fleer got to do with me being grabbed by cops?”
“—saying that a dead body had fallen out of the rear end of a car. She got the car’s number. We radioed. They picked you up.”
Henry said, “Oh.” He sat down. “A dead body, eh? Fell out of my car, eh?” His voice rose, “Did that old cheese-butt examine the body?”