friend Miss Withers couldn’t be there already.”
“Damn and blast,” said Oscar Piper. “She could be. She must have caught a plane shortly after she walked out of here Saturday evening. That woman has a double-barreled intuition sometimes. She must have seen something that we missed, that’s all.”
The sergeant had been to some extent involved in the search of the libraries to trace Ina Kell’s reading habits. “But there wasn’t a single book about Mexico in the stuff she took out of the library!”
“That’s the point. It was a plant, a false trail carefully laid to lead us in the wrong direction. Now Hardesty is to hell and gone in the Virgin Islands, and the witness we want is in Tijuana. Out of the country, out of our reach.”
Sergeant Smith said, “No chance of extradition, sir?”
“There’s no treaty with Mexico. Anyway, there’s no question of extradition for a witness. She isn’t even a fugitive from justice. If she stays there below the border—” Piper stopped suddenly. “Wait a minute. That wire’s from Tijuana, isn’t it? Hasn’t that name crept into this case once before?”
“Yes, sir. It was in the report. There was a straw toy marked ‘Souvenir of Tijuana’ that Miss Dallas Trempleau sent to her caretaker’s little boy.”
The inspector snapped his fingers. “That’s it! The Trempleau dame didn’t really break her engagement after all; she just said she did! Suppose she has a yen for Junior Gault, and having learned somehow—we must check that leak, by the way—that the case against him rests on the testimony of one witness, she decided to make sure of saving his precious neck by taking the girl out of the country until after the trial!”
“Could be, Inspector. The Kell girl was bought off. And she seemed like the kind you’d take home and introduce to your mother.”
“There’s somebody smarter than little Ina behind all this. Smarter than the Trempleau girl. A certain high-class shyster named Sam Bordin, maybe.” Piper picked up the telephone and after some slight delay spoke briefly with John Hardesty’s superior. “That’s that,” he said, hanging up. “Bordin is being summoned to the D.A.’s office first thing tomorrow morning.”
“He’ll wriggle out of it,” Smitty said.
“Maybe not. Anyway, the thing to do is to somehow get the Kell girl back on U.S. territory, and then slap her with a subpoena.”
“It would take a magician,” said the sergeant.
“Well, I’ve seen Hildegarde Withers pull rabbits out of her funny hat several times in the past,” the inspector said softly. “She’s right there on the scene, and for once she’s on our side.” He nodded. “Say, what’s Tijuana near?”
“Somewhere along the border, sir. Near Arizona, I think. Or New Mexico.” Eventually they did have to look it up in an atlas, to find it a tiny speck in the very northwest corner of the Republica. The map was detailed enough so that both policemen saw at once why Hildegarde had smelled a rat. Tijuana was across the border, but still only a suburb of San Diego. No real railroads, no through highways, led out of it into Mexico proper. And nobody touring through the beautiful and exotic land of the Aztecs would ever be likely to go within hundreds of miles of the place. Yet Dallas Trempleau had purchased a toy horse there.
“Book me on the first plane to San Diego,” ordered the inspector.
“But, sir—”
“Don’t but me! I haven’t had a vacation in three years, and if the Commish won’t okay it I’ll pay my own way! Now get going!”
Smitty got, but his superior officer had barely swept off the top of his desk and put on his hat when the younger man poked his head in the door. “Ten-forty out of La Guardia for Chicago, Denver, L.A. and San Diego,” he said. “Flight Six.”
“Okay.”
“And the Daily Mirror is on the phone.”
“I don’t care if it’s the Times; somebody else will have to handle it.”
“Okay by me,”
“Damn and blast,” said Oscar Piper. “She could be. She must have caught a plane shortly after she walked out of here Saturday evening. That woman has a double-barreled intuition sometimes. She must have seen something that we missed, that’s all.”
The sergeant had been to some extent involved in the search of the libraries to trace Ina Kell’s reading habits. “But there wasn’t a single book about Mexico in the stuff she took out of the library!”
“That’s the point. It was a plant, a false trail carefully laid to lead us in the wrong direction. Now Hardesty is to hell and gone in the Virgin Islands, and the witness we want is in Tijuana. Out of the country, out of our reach.”
Sergeant Smith said, “No chance of extradition, sir?”
“There’s no treaty with Mexico. Anyway, there’s no question of extradition for a witness. She isn’t even a fugitive from justice. If she stays there below the border—” Piper stopped suddenly. “Wait a minute. That wire’s from Tijuana, isn’t it? Hasn’t that name crept into this case once before?”
“Yes, sir. It was in the report. There was a straw toy marked ‘Souvenir of Tijuana’ that Miss Dallas Trempleau sent to her caretaker’s little boy.”
The inspector snapped his fingers. “That’s it! The Trempleau dame didn’t really break her engagement after all; she just said she did! Suppose she has a yen for Junior Gault, and having learned somehow—we must check that leak, by the way—that the case against him rests on the testimony of one witness, she decided to make sure of saving his precious neck by taking the girl out of the country until after the trial!”
“Could be, Inspector. The Kell girl was bought off. And she seemed like the kind you’d take home and introduce to your mother.”
“There’s somebody smarter than little Ina behind all this. Smarter than the Trempleau girl. A certain high-class shyster named Sam Bordin, maybe.” Piper picked up the telephone and after some slight delay spoke briefly with John Hardesty’s superior. “That’s that,” he said, hanging up. “Bordin is being summoned to the D.A.’s office first thing tomorrow morning.”
“He’ll wriggle out of it,” Smitty said.
“Maybe not. Anyway, the thing to do is to somehow get the Kell girl back on U.S. territory, and then slap her with a subpoena.”
“It would take a magician,” said the sergeant.
“Well, I’ve seen Hildegarde Withers pull rabbits out of her funny hat several times in the past,” the inspector said softly. “She’s right there on the scene, and for once she’s on our side.” He nodded. “Say, what’s Tijuana near?”
“Somewhere along the border, sir. Near Arizona, I think. Or New Mexico.” Eventually they did have to look it up in an atlas, to find it a tiny speck in the very northwest corner of the Republica. The map was detailed enough so that both policemen saw at once why Hildegarde had smelled a rat. Tijuana was across the border, but still only a suburb of San Diego. No real railroads, no through highways, led out of it into Mexico proper. And nobody touring through the beautiful and exotic land of the Aztecs would ever be likely to go within hundreds of miles of the place. Yet Dallas Trempleau had purchased a toy horse there.
“Book me on the first plane to San Diego,” ordered the inspector.
“But, sir—”
“Don’t but me! I haven’t had a vacation in three years, and if the Commish won’t okay it I’ll pay my own way! Now get going!”
Smitty got, but his superior officer had barely swept off the top of his desk and put on his hat when the younger man poked his head in the door. “Ten-forty out of La Guardia for Chicago, Denver, L.A. and San Diego,” he said. “Flight Six.”
“Okay.”
“And the Daily Mirror is on the phone.”
“I don’t care if it’s the Times; somebody else will have to handle it.”
“Okay by me,”
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