“Badly wounded!” Mrs. O’Malley exclaimed incredulously. “Why, gracious sakes alive, dear, dinna she tell you? That Remington pistol o’ hers ain’t verra big but it packs a wallop, it does. Sal Raggio—they call him ‘the Blade,’ he’s the man she shot—got as far as the Western Hotel. That’s where they found ’im, dead as a doornail, propped up against the brick wall out front. The papers was full of it the next mornin’.”

The Blade, dead in front of the Western Hotel. Verna was beginning to piece the details of the story together, but she needed more. “I don’t suppose the police knew that Miss LaMotte was the one who pulled the trigger,” she hazarded.

“Police?” Mrs. O’Malley cried, with a bitter gale of Irish laughter. “Police! Why, sure and begorrah, o’ course they knew who pulled that trigger! Sal Raggio was a friend of Mr. Capone, and Mr. C himself ordered ’em to come and haul Miss LaMotte off to jail. And that’s exactly what they would’ve done, too, if she’d’ve been here.”

“So Miss LaMotte is a fugitive from justice,” Verna said, half to herself.

Mrs. O’Malley gave an indignant sniff. “Well, I s’pose you could call her that—except that it ain’t ‘justice’ she’d likely get in this town. More like ‘revenge,’ is what I’d call it. But then, I guess you folks down there in Alabama dinna know that the police up here in Cicero are hand-in-glove with Mr. Capone and his mob. Not to mention the prosecutors and the judges and the juries and all the rest. If Mr. Capone’s cops get their hands on her, she’ll nivver see the light o’ day again. Nivver.”

“Of course,” Verna murmured, as the last piece fell into place. “Of course.”

“And that’s why they had to leave town so quick,” Mrs. O’Malley continued mournfully. “I miss ’em with all my heart, truly I do, but I’m glad they had a place to go, and I’ll be gladder yet when the house is sold and I can go, too. ’Twas the dear Lord’s blessin’ that Miss LaMotte was already makin’ arrangements with that old lady down there, Miss what’s-her-name. All they had to do was pack and run.”

“Miss Hamer,” Verna supplied. “Her aunt?” She let the question mark hang in the air.

“That’s right—Hamer, that’s the auntie,” Mrs. O’Malley replied. “An’ you tell Miss LaMotte that I’m verra glad that they hurried up and got on that train when they did, even though ’twas pourin’ down rain, ’cause Mr. Capone’s policemen showed up not thirty minutes after the door closed behind ’em.”

“Well, my goodness,” Verna murmured.

“Aye, indeed! If they’d waited to leave when they planned, they’d be in jail right now. Or dead.”

“Dead?”