She shivered again, watching Mr. Gold cross Larkspur Lane and walk up Robert E. Lee in the direction of the hotel. But he turned in at the first house up the block. Clearly, he was canvassing the neighborhood. Sooner or later, he was bound to run into someone who had seen the woman he was looking for. Miss LaMotte’s platinum hair was a dead giveaway, and his claim that he had money for her would encourage someone to tell him where she was staying.

Frowning, Verna dropped the curtain, turned away from the door, and crossed the living room to the bookshelf where she kept her collection of true crime magazines. She picked up one and leafed through it, then another. In the third, she found what she was looking for. She had remembered correctly, and her breath came quicker.

She went straight to the telephone on the wall, gave a short crank, and when the operator answered (it was Olive, sounding very froggy with her cold), gave Liz’s number. In a moment, Liz herself was on the line.

Mindful that someone else was probably listening—like most people in town, both she and Liz had a party line—Verna measured her words.

“You remember what I asked you this afternoon, Liz, about looking for that address in the file? Well, it turns out to be important, after all. The lady we were talking about—she definitely has a connection with that man who’s been in the news recently. The man in Cicero.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I wish,” Verna replied.

There was an astonished silence as Liz processed this. “How do you know?” she asked cautiously.

“A gentleman came to my door just now. Said his name was Gold, and that he’s looking for her and her friend. He showed me a photo of her standing in front of a building with a street number on it.” Verna couldn’t keep the excitement out of her voice. “Liz, it was the very same number as the hotel I mentioned to you!” According to the Dime Detective, 4823—the number on the wall of the building in the photo—was the address of the Western Hotel, on Twenty-second Street in Cicero. The place where Al Capone hung out.

A longer silence. “You’ve got to be kidding,” Liz said at last, with a little whoosh of her breath.

“On my honor,” Verna replied grimly. “It’s true, every word of it. I just double checked the street number in the magazine where I read about it.” She took a deep, shivery breath. “And what’s more, I have the feeling that the gentleman who came to my door is an associate of that fellow we’re talking about.”

Liz gulped. “Gee whiz,” she said incredulously. “You mean—”