CHAPTER EIGHTResearch
At a quarter to twelve Gamadge was sitting in a small office, looking across a flat-topped desk at Detective-lieutenant Durfee. Gamadge sat slumped down in his hard chair, legs stretched out and lighted cigarette dangling from limp fingers. Durfee had some papers in front of him.
“Didn’t you read the newspapers?” asked Durfee.
“I was out of the country at the time. Now I’m doing a little research on Paul Bradlock, and I thought you might have something the papers never got.”
“Not much of anything,” said Durfee. He consulted the file. “Twelfth of June, nineteen hundred and forty-five. It wasn’t a mugging, somebody beat his head in. He was having a walk sometime after midnight—not long after midnight—in Central Park. It was either a hold-up—his pockets were turned o
