“Nor did I,” said Daisy. “I guessed that you must be the murderer, but before I could work out what to do, Mr. Thorwald brought you down.”
“That was some tackle,” Lambert admitted grudgingly. “I lost my glasses and my gun.”
“Which I caught. So I stopped worrying about what you were up to and went on chasing the man who was running away, who had to be either an accomplice or a frightened witness. In any case, he ought to be stopped if possible.”
“Whaddylooklike?” demanded Gilligan.
“Well …” Daisy considered, then shrugged. “Just ordinary. I only had a glimpse before he started down the stairs.”
“No distinctive characteristics?” said Rosenblatt gloomily.
“I don’t think so. Once he was going down I couldn’t see much but his hat, and that was a sort of bowler, rather shabby.”
“Bowler?”
“I think you’d call it a derby.”
“Dahby—oh, durrby. A derby hat doesn’t tell us much.”
“I’m afraid not.”
Gilligan snorted. “You don’t see many of ’em around these days. It’s all soft felts, homburgs and trilbies and fedoras. But you can’t arrest a bird for wearing a derby,” he said severely.
“I can’t describe him any better, but I have a feeling I’d recognize him if I saw him again.” She frowned. “I’m pretty sure I haven’t seen him before, so it’s odd that he seemed familiar. If only I could think why!”
“Yeah, well,” said Gilligan, “you think why, you let us know. Guess you better have a go at the mug book.”
Not for the first time, Daisy wished she spoke American. “What’s a mug book?” she asked cautiously.
“Scotland Yard don’t have ‘em yet?” Gilligan snickered, with mingled scorn and pride. “When we pinch—arrest—someone, see, we make ’em mug for the camera. We take a photo shot of their mugs, so we got a record.”
“Oh, of course. I think Scotland Yard calls it their rogues’ gallery.”
Gilligan looked chagrined at not being a step ahead of the Yard. “Yeah, well, we call it that, too.”
“What next, ma’am?” asked Rosenblatt. “You were chasing the man down the stairs.”
“He was far ahead of me by then. It was obvious I’d never catch him.”
“You didn’t shout to him to stop?”
“I did call, ‘Come back,’ but not very loudly. I mean, I was always taught that ladies simply don’t shout in public. And to tell the truth, I wasn’t absolutely sure I wanted to catch up with him. After all, I didn’t know whether he was just a witness, or a murderer, or Lambert’s accomplice.”
“You had a gun,” Rosenblatt pointed out. “You said you caught Mr. Lambert’s.”
Daisy stared at him. “Gosh, but … but I couldn’tshootit!”
The D.A. sighed. “No, I guess a lady that can’t shout out in public isn’t gonna know how to fire a gun. Heck,” he went on generously, “there aren’t too many women in America could do it, not in the East, anyhow. It’s not like we live in the Wild West, with rustlers and bandits and rattlesnakes all over. So you gave up the chase, ma’am?”
“Not just like that. Mr. Lambert came running down the stairs after me. He said he’d get him and I must stay out of it. I hadn’t the foggiest what was going on, but it seemed wisest to go back up to Mr. Thorwald.”
“You betcha!” Gilligan exclaimed. “A dame that can’t fire a gat’s got no business chasing crooks that can. So you went after him, Lambert?”
“One thing at a time,” said Rosenblatt. “We’ll take Mr. Lambert’s evidence when we’ve finished with Mrs. Fletcher’s.”
Storm clouds gathered on the sergeant’s brow, but they gradually dissipated as Daisy described the arrival of Carmody’scorpse, riding on top of the elevator. Tears came to his eyes when—mindful of Alec’s frequent injunction to omit no detail, however apparently insignificant—she told of the elevator attendant’s efforts to view the “stiff.” She didn’t think Gilligan’s tears were tears of sorrow. Ithadbeen funny in a macabre way.
She reported Lambert’s return, and his admission that he couldn’t see much without his glasses. That was a detail whose significance Gilligan did not miss.
