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called back. He said, “In your own language, Marty: tight shoes, fresh lipstick, turkey.”
    Cap Martin said, “Thanks,” hung up, got his hat and coat. Young Weber was in the outer office. Cap said, “Can you keep something off the record?”
    Harry Weber said promptly, “Not if it’s something I can find out some place else.”
    “I’ll take a chance. Here it is: I’m pretty sure now a man took DeLisle home.” Then he stood, waiting; Weber’s answer would tell him a lot about the kid.
    Finally Harry Weber said, “If you’re right, this man was the murderer or a witness who fled the scene.”
    They were moving downstairs now. Cap Martin nodded. Smart boy. A dumb one would jump to the conclusion that the unidentified man was the murderer.
    He said, “Your paper paying Frederick Van Lear?”
    “Who knows?” Harry Weber asked. “Maybe he’s paying us. He owns a lot of stock in the paper.”
    “Yeah.” Cap Martin flipped open the heavy glass door to the parking lot. His unmarked car, those of two precinct commanders, and a marked H.Q. car were all in the section reserved for the brass, their drivers out of them smoking together. Chief Jim Latson was leaning against a wall in the sun, his hands in his pockets, his feet crossed, chatting with the flattered drivers.
    Jim Latson took a hand out of his pocket, waved it at them. “Hi, Marty. Who do you like in the fights tonight?”
    Cap Martin said, “Who’s fighting?” in his driest voice.
    The drivers were scattering back to their cars, giving the two brass a chance to talk alone if they wanted to. Jim Latson chuckled, raked a glance across Harry Weber’s face, and said idly, “Old Strictly-Business Marty. Where you off to?”
    “Guild house. First chance I’ve had.”
    Latson nodded. He winked in the direction of Harry Weber. “Aren’t you scared of taking the opposition along?”
    Captain Martin said, “No.”
    Jim Latson chuckled his easy laugh. “Brave old Marty.” He raised a hand, and his driver was there, fast. “I’m going for a ride with Captain Martin. Tell my office and give them the number of the car.”
    “H-four,” Cap Martin’s driver said. He opened the door of the big sedan, and all three of his passengers got in the back seat.
    Jim Latson sat down, fished out a cigar, offered the other two smokes, and settled back, sighing. Unlike Martin and Harry, he was bareheaded and without a coat, but he didn’t look cold. He said, “This is damned bad practice. I should have taken my own car, in case you and I get separate calls, Marty. But it gets plenty lonesome, being a chief.”
    Martin said, “Yeah.” He leaned forward and tapped the driver’s shoulder, waved his flattened palms downward twice for “slower,” and then decided to shoot a whole lot of words, despite Latson’s presence. “Koch and Lyons are meeting us. Use their car.” He paused again, and added, “If you need it.”
    Latson said, “Sure.” He seemed interested in a construction job they were passing, and suddenly said, “Mind if I stop?”
    Cap Martin said, “No,” and the car came to a smooth halt. At each corner of the block, traffic patrolmen stiffened a little, but they didn’t stare directly at the car; they were under orders not to when a car was unmarked and its passengers un-uniformed.
    But Jim Latson raised a hand, and one of the patrolmen trotted over. Down in a hole that had been the Lakemen’s National Bank, a steam shovel and some bulldozers were digging away, in preparation for a new Lakemen’s National Bank building that would be twenty stories taller.
    The Chief, grinning, called the patrolman “Benny” and jerked a thumb at the crowd of sidewalk spectators. “Tell the super here to put a railing on the curb,” he said. “Those briefcase superintendents are crowding out in the street and cutting down traffic by a full lane.”
    The uniformed man said, “Yes, sir,” and Latson dropped a friendly hand on his shoulder, then