I glanced over at Sergeant Slade, and he raised his eyebrows. He said, “You don’t believe the man who escaped is the one you know?”
“Of course he is,” Minerva Warden said. “His picture’s in the paper. But there’s been some awful mistake. Gig wouldn’t do any of the things the paper says he has. He’s the kindest, most gentle man I ever knew. Courteous Killer, indeed!”
I said, “There isn’t much doubt he’s done everything he’s accused of, Miss Warden.”
“I don’t believe it! I have it all figured out what must have happened.”
“What do you mean, ma’am?”
“In the first place, his arrest must have been a mistake in identity. According to tonight’s paper, you had another man in jail out in California whom you at first thought was the Courteous Killer. But you let him go when they arrested Gig. Obviously you released the wrong man.”
“We don’t think so, ma’am.”
“Well, I do!”
Frank said, “Even if he weren’t the Courteous Killer, he killed a police officer when he escaped this morning.”
“That’s absurd, too,” she said. “Gig wouldn’t harm a fly. You know what I think happened?”
“No, ma’am,” Frank said.
“I think the real Courteous Killer — that man you had hold of out in California and let go — came up to St. Louis to make sure Gig got the blame for his crimes. I think he got his gang together and staged that escape without poor Gig knowing what was going to happen. He couldn’t let Gig go to trial, you see, because they’d prove he wasn’t the real criminal. So he kidnapped Gig.”
I looked at Frank and Slade, and they looked back at me. There wasn’t much point in arguing with her faith. I changed tack by asking, “How long have you known this man you call Gig, Miss Warden?”
“For more than twenty-five years. He used to deliver laundry to the girls’ dormitory when I was in school at Missouri U. That’s how he got the nickname Gig.”
“How was that?” I asked.
“When he brought clean laundry, instead of saying, ‘the price is a dollar and a half,’ or whatever it was, he used to say, ‘the gig is a dollar and a half.’ All the girls got to calling him Gig.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I suppose I’m the only person in the world who still calls him that. Because I’m the only one of the girls who stayed in contact with him after graduation. We were almost engaged once.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“After knowing a man more than a quarter of a century and almost being engaged to him, I think I’m in a position to judge his character. That’s why I’m sure he’s innocent of these charges.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “You gave him this watch in 1944?”
She nodded, then unaccountably blushed a flaming red. I said, “What’s the matter?”
“That’s the year we were almost engaged,” she said, not looking at me. “I took my vacation in Los Angeles that summer at Gig’s suggestion. He was working in a defense plant out there, and we’d been corresponding. We hadn’t seen each other since the beginning of the war, but... well, we’d sort of started a romance by mail. Funny, in a way.”
“How’s that?” I asked.
“The way it started. Here I’d known Gig off and on for a dozen years before he went to California. In all that time we never developed into more than casual friends. He had lots of opportunity to make a move, if he wanted to. But he never showed any interest in me. As a woman, I mean. Just as a friend.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Then he moved a couple of thousand miles away and began to write. Seemed to get more and more interested with every letter. First thing you know, they were regular love letters. He’d say how terribly he missed me, and how empty his life was without me around.” She paused, and a faraway look appeared in her eyes. “Got so we almost had to see each other. He couldn’t come back to Missouri because of his job, so I went out there.” She sighed. “I guess I was foolish to think it’d amount to anything.”
“Ma’am?”
“I thought we might get married. But it turned out he only knew how to make love at long-distance. Froze right up the minute I appeared in person. He was polite and friendly enough, but we were just like we’d been before the letters started. Just friends. He couldn’t seem to say the things in words that he wrote in his letters.”
I said, “I see.”
“Funny thing, how it worked out. You may not believe this, but it’s the Gospel truth. You know, after knowing Gig for twenty-five years and once being almost engaged to him—”
“Uh-huh.”
“—he never once ever tried to kiss me.”
We continued to talk to Minerva Warden. She said that after her unsuccessful trip to Los Angeles, their correspondence had cooled. During subsequent years she had heard from him only at long intervals, and had seen him only twice, briefly, when he passed through St. Louis. It had been more than two years since she had last seen or heard from him. She had not known he was in town until she’d read the newspaper account of his spectacular escape.
She gave us considerable background material on the suspect, including a list of relatives and past associates. But when we finally left, she was still convinced that he was the innocent victim of some terrible mistake in identity.
After we left, I asked Sergeant Slade, “What do you think?”
“Sounded on the up and up to me,” he said. “I don’t think she’s the type would harbor a criminal, even if she thought he was innocent.”
“Guess not,” I said.
“We won’t take any chances, though,” Slade said. “We’ll stake out the place on the chance that Whiteman tries to get in touch with her.”
Chapter XVIII
The next day, Wednesday, October 16th, Frank and I flew back to Los Angeles. We caught TWA Flight 19, which left Lambert Field at 1:05 p.m. St. Louis time and landed at International Airport at 6:12 p.m. Los Angeles time.
As this was a tourist flight, we hadn’t eaten on the plane. We caught some dinner at a coffee shop and reported in to Homicide Division at 7:30 p.m.
The news of the suspect’s escape had preceded us. Captain Hertel had left word that if we checked in that night, we should take the rest of the night off and report for a meeting in Chief Brown’s office in the morning. We left the two pairs of shoes, the slugs fired from the suspect’s .38, and the watch at the Crime Lab before going home.
At 8:32 a.m. Thursday morning, Frank and I met with Captain Hertel and Chief Brown in the latter’s office. When we had given a complete report of what had happened in St. Louis, Chief Brown thoughtfully tapped the frame of his glasses against his desktop.
“Looks as though we’ll never get this man to trial in California now unless he’s captured in this state,” the chief said. “Too many other people will be fighting for extradition, too. Even the FBI will be in on it now, since the suspect kidnapped those police officers and took them across a state line. They’ll want him on violation of the Lindbergh Law.”
Hertel said, “Why should Missouri care where he’s tried, so long as somebody gets him? Missouri can’t try him, because the murder took place in Illinois. You’d think it would just as soon let us have him as Illinois.”
Thad Brown has the rare capacity of being able to see others’ points of view. He said, “Suppose Whiteman’s shooting had been a little more accurate the night he winged Friday? Would you want to see him tried for some other murder in another state?”
The captain glanced at me and smiled ruefully. “Guess not. Suppose you can’t blame Missouri for wanting him to take the count for that particular kill. This guy’s sure managed to get a lot of people mad at him.”
Thad Brown said, “In any event, I want all the evidence in order in case he does turn up in California. Stick with it until you’ve got every loose end tied up. If we ever do get hold of this suspect, I don’t want there to be a chance of his beating the case.”