The little Canadian operative met me at the hospital door. His clothes and hair were dripping wet, but he had had a shot of whisky and his teeth had stopped chattering.
“Damned fool jumped in bay!” he barked as if it were my fault.
“Angel Grace?”
“Who else was I shadowing? Got on Oakland ferry. Moved off by self by rail. Thought she was going to throw something over. Kept eye on her. Bingo! She jumps.” Dick sneezed. “I was goofy enough to jump after her. Held her up. Were fished out. In there,” nodding his wet head toward the interior of the hospital.
“What happened before she took the ferry?”
“Nothing. Been in joint all day. Straight out to ferry.”
“How about yesterday?”
“Apartment all day. Out at night with man. Roadhouse. Home at four. Bad break. Couldn’t tail him off.”
“What did he look like?”
The man Dick described was Tom-Tom Carey.
“Good,” I said. “You’d better beat it home for a hot bath and some dry rags.”
I went in to see the near-suicide.