O’Gar tilted his bowl, scooped up the last drops of the chowder, put them in his mouth, and grunted.
“Maybe. But we got nothing to show that Gilmore knew anybody in that block.”
“Many people gather around afterward?”
“A few. There’s always people on the street to come running if anything happens. But Kelly says there wasn’t anybody that looked wrong—just the ordinary night crowd. The boys gave the neighborhood a combing, but didn’t turn up anything.”
“Any cars around?”
“Kelly says there wasn’t, that he didn’t see any, and couldn’t of missed seeing it if there’d been one.”
“What do you think?” I asked.
He got to his feet, glaring at me.
“I don’t think,” he said disagreeably; “I’m a police detective.”
I knew by that that somebody had been panning him for not finding the murderer.
“I have a line on a woman,” I told him. “Want to come along and talk to her with me?”
“I want to,” he growled, “but I can’t. I got to be in court this afternoon—in half an hour.”