The Case of the Murdered Muckraker by Carola Dunn Read Free Book Online Page A

sandwich in her mouth, just in case (rye had turned out to be a darkish, sourish bread and bratwurst a sort of German sausage, the consumption of which made her feel vaguely unpatriotic).
    â€œYes, you, mister.” Gilligan drew his gun from his shoulder holster.
    Lambert dropped his sandwich and put his hands up. “I didn’t! Mrs. Fletcher, tell him I didn’t.”
    â€œI can’t,” Daisy said regretfully. She did not honestly think the inept agent had shot Carmody, but he had, after all, rushed on stage brandishing a pistol immediately after the murder.
    â€œLemme pinch him, sir?” begged Gilligan.
    â€œHoly mackerel!” Rosenblatt exclaimed. “You can’t go arresting a federal agent without evidence, Sergeant, just like he was anyone. Not without landing us all in deep … er,”—he glanced at Daisy and amended whatever he had been going to say—“in big trouble. It’s no go.”
    â€œRats! But how do we know he’s really a Fed?”
    â€œMy papers are in my pocket,” said Lambert eagerly. He lowered one hand, but it shot up again when the Sergeant waved his gun.
    â€œI’ll get ’em,” Rosenblatt offered.
    â€œO.K., but don’t get between me and him.”
    The D.A. retrieved the papers and studied them. “U.S.
Department of Justice, Bureau of Investigation. All in order,” he sighed.
    Lambert’s sigh was considerably more heartfelt. “Can I put my hands down, please?”
    Reluctantly Gilligan nodded, but he did not put away his gun. “Who’s to say he wasn’t hired on as an agent just to croak Carmody?” he demanded.
    â€œMr. Hoover, my boss, isn’t one of the people Carmody had an interest in. He’s working to get things running on the level again, after the mess Burns made of the Bureau.”
    â€œOh yeah?”
    â€œYes,” Lambert assured him. “See, Burns used federal agents to run his own detective agency. I wasn’t one of them, I’ve only just joined.”
    â€œJust outta college and still wet behind the ears,” Gilligan muttered, returning his gun to its holster at last. Then he noticed that Pascoli, all ears, was scribbling in a notebook. “Hey, you!”
    â€œMe?” Pascoli said innocently.
    â€œYeah, you. Whaddaya think you’re doing? You’re not a reporter.”
    â€œNo,” said Rosenblatt, “but he’s editor of a news weekly, which isn’t that different. I guess it’s useless to ask you to hand over your notes.”
    â€œDamn right!”
    â€œBut we have no more questions for you at present, Mr. Pascoli, and I’m certain you’re anxious to get back to your work.”
    Pascoli grinned. “If you say so.” He waved his notebook in a jaunty farewell, which made Gilligan bite through his dead cigar to grit his teeth audibly.

    Rosenblatt turned back to Lambert. “All the same,” he said, “I get notified whenever a new federal agent is stationed here, as a courtesy and to prevent mix-ups, and you’re not on the list. If you weren’t after Carmody, what brought you to the ‘Big Apple,’ and to the Flatiron Building just when he was killed?”
    Lambert threw an apologetic look at Daisy. “I was tailing Mrs. Fletcher here.”
    Rosenblatt and Gilligan swung round to stare at her. The sergeant’s hand hovered over his chest as if he wasn’t sure whether to draw again. “Her?” he asked, incredulous. “The dame’s ‘wanted’? Geez, she looks like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.”
    â€œNo, no,” Lambert sputtered, “just to protect her. Mr. Hoover was told by an English cop, a Superintendent Stork, that Mrs. Fletcher has a habit of landing herself in trouble.”
    â€œSuperintendent Crane,” corrected Daisy. “The rotter! How beastly of him!”
    â€œYou know this superintendent