This is typically not my style, staking out a lead by sitting on a bus stop bench reading the Green Streak edition of the Globe, but I had one of those hunches that come and haunt me now and then. I follow these inner urges now - didn't used to, I thought them foolish. But too often these hunches were the evidence of some sub-conscious genius that leads you to the places you need to go. Most cases are not solved by some smart-ass detective; they are revealed by the criminals themselves. Trust you instincts and my instincts told me to keep an eye out for that law firm's receptionist.
From where I sat, I could see the front door of the firm and the backdoor that led to the employees' parking. I was guessing the last client had left for the front door hadn't opened in thirty minutes. Two by two, the secretaries and bookkeepers slipped out that back door, almost all enjoying that glad-to-get-out-here laughter most workers share at the end of the day. There was a pause after the first rush and then Miss Devonshire made her appearance. Dressed smartly, carrying an over-sized handbag draped on her shoulder. She made her way to a top-of-the-line Chrysler, surprising me somewhat. "That's a lotta car for a receptionist. But maybe, Papa had left her a little cash." She got in. I waited for her to leave. But no. She just sat there. Ten minutes must have passed and then out comes Mr. Brown. He loads himself into this black Cadillac and directly pulls out, heading north on Cambridge in the direction of Beacon Hill. And right him followed that top-of-the-line Chrysler. "Now I wasn't expect that," I mumbled, "No, indeed." Nor was I expecting to see a Checker Cab wheel out of an alley, on the tail of that Chrysler.
I caught the number of the cab, 46, and I checked the time, 5:45.