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“And if I told you that we suspect he killed Mr. Riggs?”
“Reed died in an accident.”
“It is possible it was not an accident.”
“Can you prove that?”
“I cannot prove it was murder,” Archie admitted, “though we have a pretty good idea how the killer did it.”
Jane looked out the window. Her beautiful eyes had recovered their natural color and her spirits had risen. It was cheerfulness that the geezers fell for, Archie guessed, as much as her round shape. “Archie, what you just said rings true. When Reed died, he left me the only thing he possessed. His decency. I hate to think of the poor man dying in fear. When they told me he fell under the train, I decided he had fainted.”
Archie said, “If he was killed the way we believe he was, he never knew what hit him, or even saw it coming. One moment he was alive, the next he was not.”
“How can you know that?”
Archie described in detail the assassin’s shooting perch that he and Isaac Bell had discovered in a Fort Scott train yard.
Jane turned from the window and touched Archie’s cheek. The conductor passing through the car noted their red hair and his stern face broke into a smile as he wondered, mother and son off to Chicago? More likely, maiden aunt and her favorite nephew.
“I will speak one name aloud,” said Archie. “Only one. Can you please nod if he’s the man Reed changed his mind about blackmailing?”
“Part of me wants to cover my ears.”
“No need,” said Archie. “I won’t say his name until you agree.”
“I still want to cover them.”
“I will say this. If it is who I think it is, then I can guarantee that Reed died just as I described and never felt a thing.”
She looked at him and believed him and Archie exulted. Jackpot!
34
Bet you a duck I can hit four in a row.”
“Bet a duck? What are you talking about?”
“If I hit four ducks,” said the assassin, “you give me one.”
It was too hot to stroll at the Hudson County Fair—ninety-five degrees even after dark. The midway was deserted except for ice cream stands and an enterprising kid selling chips of ice to press to sweaty foreheads. The heat made people cranky, and the owner of the shooting gallery, whose parade of moving ducks had attracted no gunfire for hours, was in no mood for jokers.
“You hit the duck, you win a prize. You win a cigar—if you’re old enough to smoke ’em.” He peered dubiously at the short, slight boyish figure leaning on the counter. “Or you get a dog.” He pointed at a plaster bulldog painted blue. “You hit the duck four times, you win a teddy bear for your girl—if you got one. The duck’s the target. You don’t win the target.”
“Afraid I’ll hit four?”
“You won’t hit three.”
“For the duck.”
The assassin dropped a nickel on the counter for five shots and fired three so quickly, the rifle bolt seemed to blur. Three moving ducks fell down and popped up. The owner nudged a hidden lever and the parade speeded up.
The assassin smiled, “Faster won’t save you,” fired again, and hit a fourth, then shifted slightly so that the barrel angled in the general direction of the man who owned the stand. “Do I have any left?”
“One.”
“Give me my duck.”
—
