If my deduction was correct, I ought to keep them guessing. As long as they thought I knew something, my life was probably safe. I got off the Drive downtown, going past Buckingham Fountain as it shot up jets of colored water high into the night. A large crowd had gathered to see the nightly show. I wondered if I could lose myself in it, but didn’t think much of my chances. I went on over to Michigan Avenue, and parked across the street from the Conrad Hilton Hotel. I locked the car door and leisurely crossed the street. I stopped inside the glass doors for a glance outside, and was pleased to see the gray sedan pull up next to my car. I didn’t wait to see what the occupants would do, but moved quickly down the hotel’s long corridor to the side entrance on Eighth Street.
This part of the hotel had airline ticket offices, and as I walked past them, a doorman was calling, “Last call for the airport bus. Nonstop to O’Hare Field.” Without thinking or stopping to look behind me, I pushed in front of a small crew of laughing flight attendants and got on the bus. They followed me more slowly; the conductor checked his load and got off, and the bus started moving. As we turned the corner onto Michigan, I could see a man looking up and down the street. I thought it might be Freddie.
The bus moved ponderously across the Loop to Ontario Street, some twelve blocks north, and I kept an anxious lookout through the rear window, but it seemed as though Freddie’s slow wits had not considered the possibility of my being on the bus.
It was 9:30 when we got to O’Hare. I moved from the bus to stand in the shadow of one of the giant pillars supporting the terminal, but saw no gray sedan. I was about to step out when I thought perhaps they had a second car, so I looked to see if any vehicle repeated its circuit more than once, and scanned the occupants to see if I recognized any of Smeissen’s crew. By ten I decided I was clear and caught a cab back to Lotty’s.
I had the driver drop me at the top of her street. Then I went down the alley behind her building, keeping a hand close to my gun, I didn’t see anyone but a group of three teen-age boys, drinking beer and talking lazily.
I had to pound on the back door for several minutes before Lotty heard and came to let me in. Her thick black eyebrows went up in surprise. “Trouble?” she asked.
“A little, downtown. I’m not sure whether anyone is watching the front.”
“Jill?” she asked.
“I don’t think so. I think they’re hoping I’ll lead them to Anita McGraw. Unless I do, or unless they find her first, I think we’re all pretty safe.” I shook my head in dissatisfaction. “I don’t like it, though. They could snatch Jill and hold her to ransom if they thought I knew where Anita was. I didn’t find out tonight. I’m sure one of those goddamned radical women knows where she is, but they think they’re being noble and winning a great war against the pigs, and they won’t tell me. It’s so frustrating.”
“Yes, I see,” Lotty said seriously. “Maybe it’s not so good for the child to be here. She and Paul are watching the movie on television,” she added, jerking her head toward the living room.
“I left my car downtown,” I said. “Someone was following me back from the university and I shook them off in the Loop—took the bus out to O’Hare—long and expensive way to shake a tail, but it worked.
“Tomorrow, Jill’s taking me out to Winnetka to go through her father’s papers. Maybe she should just stay there.”
“We’ll sleep on it,” Lotty suggested. “Paul is loving his guard duty, but he couldn’t do much against men with machine guns. Besides, he is an architecture student and should not miss too many of his classes.”
We went back into the living room. Jill was curled up on the daybed, watching the movie. Paul was lying on his stomach, looking up at her every few minutes. Jill didn’t seem aware of the impression she was creating—this seemed to be her first conquest—but she glowed with contentment.
I went into the guest room to make some phone calls. Larry Anderson said they’d finished my apartment. “I didn’t think you’d want that couch, so I let one of the guys take it home. And about the door—I’ve got a friend who does some carpentry. He has a beautiful oak door, out of some mansion or other. He could fix it up for you and put some dead bolts in it, if you’d like.”
“Larry, I can’t begin to thank you,” I said, much moved. “That sounds like a beautiful idea. How did you close the place up today?”
“Oh, we nailed it shut,” he said cheerfully. Larry and I had gone to school together years ago, but he’d dropped out earlier and further than I had. We chatted for a few minutes, then I hung up to call Ralph.
“It’s me. Sherlock Holmes,” I said. “How did your claim files go?”
“Oh, fine. Summer is a busy time for accidents with so many people on the road. They should stay home, but then they’d cut off their legs with lawnmowers or something and we’d be paying just the same.”
“Did you refile that draft without any trouble?” I asked.
“Actually not, I couldn’t find the file. I looked up the guy’s account, though: he must have been in a doozy of an accident—We’ve been sending him weekly checks for four years now.” He chuckled a little. “I was going to inspect Yardley’s face today to see if he looked guilty of multiple homicide, but he’s taking the rest of the week off—apparently cut up about Thayer’s death.”
“I see.” I wasn’t going to bother telling him about the link I’d found between Masters and McGraw; I was tired of arguing with him over whether I had a case or not.