Part 38 (1/2)
”Not at all,” said Oscar. What, after all, was a loaded revolver between friends?
”I was pretty well steamed up at the time,” said Grigsby. ”Reckon I owe you an apology. Anyways, like I say, you're in the clear.”
The man seemed guileless; surely this was no trick? Oscar asked him, ”And how did you make this determination?”
Grigsby gave him a small smile. ”Your feet.”
”My feet?”
Grigsby nodded. ”They're too big.”
”Too big,” Oscar said, ”for what?”
”To belong to the killer. He left some tracks at Molly Woods' place. His feet are average size. Couldn't help but notice, when I took a look, that yours are a little on the largish side.”
The waiter was hovering at the table. ”Howdy do, Marshal,” he grinned. ”Get you a drink?”
”Howdy, Edward. Not today, thanks. Cup of coffee?”
”Yes sir, coming right up.
”I've always thought of my feet,” saidOscar, ”as rather nicely sized in proportion to my height.”
Grigsby smiled again. ”Never said they weren't. They fit you just fine. They just don't fit the killer.”
”I see. Well, thank you for telling me.” Still rather nettled: his feet were, in his opinion, one of his finest features. ”Have you also examined the feet of the rest of the men on the tour?”
A nod. ”Took a look or two. Average size, all of 'em.”
”Marshal,” said the Countess, putting her hand briefly atop Grigsby's arm, ”Oscair has, like yourself, been trying to discover the ident.i.ty of the killer.”
Grigsby turned back to Oscar. A small smile. Amus.e.m.e.nt? ”That right?”
Oscar shrugged. ”A few questions here and there. Nothing terribly elaborate. A sort of intellectual exercise, really.”
”Yes, but Oscair, you did learn something about the poor dead prost.i.tute.”
Why on earth was she pursuing this?
Grigsby said, ”What's that?”
Oscar shook his head. ”Nothing, really. Only that she had red hair.”
Grigsby nodded, his face unchanged, and said nothing.
But by rights he should have belittled the information; laughed at it; after all, it was useless. Unless ...
”Which of course,” said Oscar, ”would be significant only if the other murdered women also had red hair.”
His face still unchanged, Grigsby still said nothing.
”Here you go, Marshal,” said the grinning black waiter.
”'Predate it, Edward.” Grigsby looked at the Countess, looked back at Oscar.
Oscar said, ”They did, didn't they?”
Grigsby sipped at his coffee, set the cup carefully back down on its saucer, looked back at Oscar. ”You can keep your mouth shut?”
”I can be,” said Oscar, ”and often am, the soul of discretion.”
”I want your word on it. That you won't go gabbin' about any of this to the others.”
”That goes without saying.”
”My experience, things that go without sayin', they go better when they're said.”
”You have my word. But by now it's obvious, isn't it. They did have red hair.”
Grigsby nodded.
”All four of them?” asked the Countess.
Grigsby turned to her. ”All five of 'em. There was another one. Just got a telegram this mornin'.”
”Where?” Oscar asked him.
”San Jose, California.”
The Countess turned to Oscar. ”We were in San Jose, were we not?”
”At the beginning of February.”
”February the sixth,” said Grigsby.
”When was she killed?” Oscar asked, already knowing the answer.
”That night.”
Oscar felt the breath leave his lungs. Its departure weakened him, and he sat back.
The Countess said to no one in particular, ”Then there is no doubt at all. It is one of us.”
Grigsby nodded. ”Looks like.”
Listlessly, Oscar said, ”What about Dr. Holliday?” Not really believing in the possibility, and feeling curiously disloyal even for suggesting it. After all, the man had saved his life, and Elizabeth's. ”He might've been in San Jose that night.”
”Prob'ly was. Doc's a gambler. He's been followin' your tour. Been settin' up poker games with the high rollers who come in to see ya.”
”He told you this?”