Chapter 4

There were a couple of possibilities.

The option that involved wasting the most time was usually the safest bet.

That would have involved waiting until 5 o'clock, following the suspiciously righteous

Miss Wilkerson home, and establishing surveillance.

If the situation were as obvious as it seemed, our Marian Hardy would be on the guest list

tonight.

He wouldn't be calling himself that, of course, but he would come over to soothe the jangled

nerves of his new friend and whatever cock and bull story he was peddling, to make sure

she didn't spill the beans while he figured out step two,

which would almost certainly involve bolting.

Unless, of course, he got home from whatever job he had found with the help of the

Punch Clock Employment Agency, got the inevitable telephone call for Miss Wilkerson and bolted

straight away. That could happen. It usually didn't shake out that way.

Most men started out with the assumption they were smart enough,

or tough enough, to lock horns with whatever threat they faced.

It was a misconception born of evolution,

and it usually bought an enterprising private detective a few hours at least, and sometimes more.

But the fact remained, we had just sounded the trumpet, and thoughtfully advised the fox that

the hounds were on their way, and that was never the best participle to leave dangling.

The only trump card in our hand was Ida Bird, the girl from the counter.

She had known Marion Hardy by his picture, too. My bet was that she knew the score.

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