Seven
Maybe Whitmore was wrong. I was suddenly interested again. And maybe it wasn’t too bad at all. I could see a lot of interesting possibilities. If the Lieutenant’s description of the forger was correct, I could think of no reason why Benetto and Cabacchi would have anything to do with him. They were simply muscle hoods; his traffic must have been with more sophisticated criminals. But suppose they had killed him. Why? Because a .38 will brush away a lot of footprints?
“Well,” I said, “I’d better run along. I wish you luck on all your cases—especially the ones I’m interested in. I’ll be seeing you, Lieutenant.”
“Sure. Let me know next time and I’ll have the tea on. Walk softly down the hall; some of the boys may be asleep.”
“I thought they always were.” I smiled at him and left.
M
