McConnell did something strange then-he literally smacked his forehead. “How could I have forgotten, Lenox! I come bearing news.”
“What is it?”
“We had just spoken about the matter,” said McConnell with a bemused shake of his head. “It’s the drink-it puts me awkward-I’m not
…” He trailed off nervously. “My memory.”
“For the love of Christ, what is it?” Lenox asked.
“Hiram Smalls? The chap in jail?”
“Yes?”
“He’s dead, apparently. Just before midnight yesterday evening. I was in the train station when I heard about it.”
CHAPTER NINE
Lenox was stunned. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” said McConnell.
“You’re absolutely certain of that?”
“They were selling an extra edition of the paper with a story to that effect-I’m sure of that anyway.”
“Did you buy it?”
McConnell looked embarrassed. “I’m afraid I was-not myself,” he said.
With any luck the late papers from the night before might make it up to Stirrington tonight. Otherwise he would have to wait until the morning. It was maddening, just maddening. For a tenth of a second every fiber in Lenox’s body strained against the town and his task there.
“What did it say? Do you remember? Murder? Suicide? Was it unclear?”
Rather lamely, McConnell answered, “Only that he had just died, actually.”
Then Lucy arrived with a bubbling pie of some kind or other for Lenox, which despite his focus on Smalls was a welcome sight after a morning of what had been cold campaigning.
“Lucy, a moment-do you take telegrams here?”
“No, sir, but the boots will take a telegram to the post office for a small tip.”
“Could you send him over?”
The boots, when he appeared, turned out to be a lad of not more than thirteen or so, with a pronounced overbite and black hands from his work shining shoes.