“Yes, sir.”
Lieutenant Valcour rang off. He turned to the sergeant in charge of the detail.
“Leave one man here, Sergeant,” he said. “The rest of you men can go back to the station after you’ve dropped me at the Endicotts’.”
“Anything you want the man who’s left here to do, Lieutenant?”
“Not unless a dark-haired youngster comes back, which he won’t. But if he should, just have him kept for me, please, on ice.”
Down on the street, Lieutenant Valcour jumped in beside the driver of the department car and said, “Step on it, Clancy. It’s only eleven blocks up and three west.”
The car shot forward, swept to the right at the corner, and lunged up Lexington Avenue. There was little traffic, and what little there was was so scattered that nothing impeded its way.
“Something going to break on that Endicott business, Lieutenant?”
“Either going to, or has.”
“A homicide, ain’t it?”
“Possibly—by now.”
Nurse Murrow smoothed the last wrinkles from her uniform while waiting for Dr. Worth to open the door. It paid to look one’s best. Always, at any time at all. One never could tell.
“Oh, Doctor. I’m sorry to get you up again so soon, but Mr. Endicott shows symptoms of coming to.”