Daisy had expected “Eugene Cannon” and Miss Cabot to be hot on her heels, but the minutes ticked past and they didn’t come. Lambert started to twitch.
“Maybe I better go see what’s happening,” he muttered.
“No!” said Pascoli. “The less coming and going the better. I bet Miss Genevieve’s waiting downstairs so she can tell us when the big galoot leaves.”
“What shall I do if he doesn’t?” Daisy fretted. “Suppose he finds out somehow where I am and comes knocking on the door?”
As if in response to her words, someone knocked. Everyone froze.
“Who’s there?” Lambert enquired cautiously.
“Who do you think? Let me in, you fool. You have my key.”
Miss Genevieve lumbered in, her sister fluttering after her. Behind them came Kevin, sporting one red ear and waving two envelopes.
“He left a message for you, ma‘am, and one for Mr. Lambert. Warning him to stay outta the way, you betcha. I went and got ’em for you, but Mr. Blick caught me and gave me a thick ear. I tol’ him you asked me to get it for you, only he said it’s Stanley’s job running errands and I oughta be in my elevator. So I got Stanley to give ’em to me,” he ended triumphantly, handing one note to Daisy and the other to Lambert. “Whassit say?”
Though she gave him a severe glance, Miss Genevieve seconded his question. “Do please read it out, Mrs. Fletcher. We are all agog. Mr. Pascoli, you will find a paper knife on my desk.”
With the utilitarian steel blade, Daisy slit the envelope—hotel stationery—and took out a single sheet, which she handled gingerly by the edges. “Fingerprints,” she explained, unfolding it.
The writing was large, at first glance straight from a copybook but actually quite difficult to decipher. “‘Dear Mrs. Fletcher,’” Daisy read with a frown of puzzlement. “How odd to be so polite if his aim is to …” Her eyes flew to the end. “And it closes, ‘Yours truly.’ It’s signed! I can’t read the signature, but underneath he’s printed …” A half hysterical giggle escaped her. “It says, ‘Agent, Bureau of Investigation, U.S. Department of Justice.’”
“Agent Whitaker!” groaned Lambert, studying his note.
“Aw, punk!” said Kevin in tones of deep disgust.
“Yes, that could be aW,” Daisy said, examining the signature. She turned back to the body of the letter and managed to make some sense of it. “My husband asked him to drop by when he reached New York, to make sure I’m all right.”
“But I’m to stay on the job till Mr. Fletcher arrives,” said Lambert.
“He’s putting up at the something Hotel—I can’t make out the name—and will come back tomorrow morning when he’s talked to the local police.”
“My dear Miss Dal … Mrs. Fletcher,” said Thorwald, “do I understand correctly that the immediate jeopardy is averted? Permit me to congratulate you most sincerely.”
“It don’t mean there ain’t some other creep after her,” Kevin said hopefully.
“Very true,” Miss Genevieve agreed.
“Oh dear! Surely, sister …”
“I hope, young man, that you and your colleagues will continue to keep a watch for suspicious characters.”
“I gotta go home soon, ma’am,” Kevin deplored, “but I’ll sure get the night shift on the job.”
“Kevin,” said Daisy warmly, “you’re an angel. If Mr. Whitaker had really been out for my blood, only your organization would have saved me.”
Behind the freckles, Kevin blushed rosy red. “Aw, geez, m’lady, it wasn’t nuttin.”
“Indeed, we are deeply indebted to your vigilance, my boy.” Thorwald slipped him a crackling green note, which disappeared with a practised ease.
“Tell you what,” said Pascoli, “you ever need a job, you come to me. The news business can always use a kid with get-up-and-go. Here’s my card.”
“Yes, sir! I gotta get back to work now, or ol’ Blick’ll have conniptions.” Kevin’s hand went up protectively to his ear as he departed.
“Gosh,” said Daisy, suddenly exhausted, “I want to thank all of you for coming so nobly to the rescue. And now I think I’ll go and lie down for a bit after all the brouhaha.”
Though she left the bedside light on, intending to read, Daisy actually dozed off. Through her dreams floated faces from Gilligan’s mug book, with Barton Bender’s broad, greasy face looming over them in the guise of a dirigible. In the basket dangling below the airship, a scarlet-and-white cat with Mrs. Carmody’s face preened itself with long, painted talons. It kept fading, like the Cheshire cat, leaving a sharp-toothed grin. On the ground, a figure in a bowler hat and a bandit’s bandanna mask aimed a crossbow at the airship and shot it. Deflating, Barton Bender whizzed around madly, growing smaller and smaller until he disappeared. Meanwhile his lady love turned into a winged crocodile, weeping copiously, and flew away. “Rats!” said Detective Sergeant Gilligan. “Angels and ministers of grace defend us!”
