I said: “Well, well!” and, “See you tonight,” and went away.
My next stop was in the office of the chief of police, in the City Hall.
Noonan, the chief, was a fat man with twinkling greenish eyes set in a round jovial face. When I told him what I was doing in his city he seemed glad of it. He gave me a handshake, a cigar and a chair.
“Now,” he said when we were settled, “tell me who turned the trick.”
“The secret’s safe with me.”
“You and me both,” he said cheerfully through smoke. “But what do you guess?”
“I’m no good at guessing, especially when I haven’t got the facts.”
“ ’Twon’t take long to give you all the facts there is,” he said. “Willsson got a five-grand check in Dinah Brand’s name certified yesterday just before bank closing. Last night he was killed by slugs from a .32 less than a block from her house. People that heard the shooting saw a man and a woman bending over the remains. Bright and early this morning the said Dinah Brand deposits the said check in the said bank. Well?”
“Who is this Dinah Brand?”
The chief dumped the ash off his cigar in the center of his desk, flourished the cigar in his fat hand, and said:
“A soiled dove, as the fellow says, a deluxe hustler, a big-league gold-digger.”
“Gone up against her yet?”
“No. There’s a couple of slants to be taken care of first. We’re keeping an eye on her and waiting. This I’ve told you is under the hat.”