“A muckraker,” said Rosenblatt, depressed. “Probably had half of the last administration out for his blood.”
“Got what was coming to him,” Gilligan grunted.
“Maybe,” Rosenblatt snapped, “but we still have to pin it on someone. What was he doing in New York?”
“He, uh, wanted to write for the magazine I edit,” Pascoli said evasively.
“Which magazine is that?”
“Town Talk,”admitted Pascoli with obvious reluctance.
Rosenblatt gave him a hard stare. “I knowTown Talk. That’s an opposition paper.”
Pascoli shrugged. “Hey, I don’t set policy. You don’t like it, you talk to my publisher.”
“Had Carmody written anything for you yet? Leopards don’t change their spots. What’s he been writing?”
“Ever heard of the First Amendment, buddy?”
“Say, listen,” interpolated Sergeant Gilligan, “maybe we don’t wanna know …”
“Samwidges!” A boy in a cloth cap and a jacket several sizes too large ducked under the arm of the plainclothesman on duty at the doorway to the hall. He bore a white cardboard box in his hands. “Samwidges and coffee for Thorwald.”
“At last,” sighed Daisy, reaching for her bag.
“I’ll get it,” said Pascoli. “It’ll come out of petty cash, don’t worry.” He went over to the boy.
“Say, listen,” Gilligan repeated, “maybe we don’t wanna know who the stiff was digging up the dirt on here in Noo York.”
“We gotta find out,” Rosenblatt said gloomily. “The Feds are sure to. And we gotta clean this up quick, with the election next week, or the Hearst papers will wipe the floor with us again.”
“You think that’s what this guy Lambert’s after, sir? Maybe he ain’t got nuttin to do with what Carmody was up to in Washington. Maybe he’s here to make trouble for us.”
“No doubt we’ll soon know,” said the D.A. as the door of Thorwald’s office opened and Lambert came out.
He and the sandwiches reached the round table at the same moment. “Food!” he exclaimed, sniffing the air. “And coffee. Gee whiz, I could kill for a cup of coffee.”
Pascoli glanced at Thorwald, now whuffling gently in his sleep. With a sigh, he pushed one of the sandwiches and a large mug of coffee across the table towards Lambert.
Meanwhile, Sergeant Gilligan was staring suspiciously at Lambert. “Kill?” he growled, his right hand sliding inside his jacket. “You talk mighty easy about killing. Is that maybe what you was sent from Washington for? To croak the guy that blew the gaff on your boss?”
Lambert’s mouth, open to take a bite of sandwich, stayed open though the sandwich came to a halt in midair. After a horrified moment, he squeaked, “Who, me?”
Daisy recalled that Lambert had been given back his automatic, and she knew all New York police were armed. Was it time to dive under the table before a gun battle erupted? She hastily swallowed the bite of 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).
“Yes, 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.”
“I 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.
“Lemme pinch him, sir?” begged Gilligan.
“Holy 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.”
“Rats! But how do we know he’s really a Fed?”
“My papers are in my pocket,” said Lambert eagerly. He lowered one hand, but it shot up again when the Sergeant waved his gun.
