* * * * *

 The next morning, at eight o'clock, we were awakened by a rather insistent knocking on our guest room door. It was Mr. Galstaff's assistant, urgently informing us that there was a phone call for us in the Lodge President's office. It turned out to be Detective Sgt. Stone. He had called to inform us that it would no longer be necessary for us to look through the mugbooks at police headquarters. Jamie Hillborne had been identified by other parties as one of the two semi-disembodied men found in that waterfront warehouse. So, if we had plans that called for us to leave Milwaukee, today, there was nothing interfering with them, now.

"Do you have any idea what happened at the scene?" Sir Anthony inquired.

"Well, right now, it looks like a time bomb was planted in one of several barrels of Chinese opium that'd been smuggled down from Canada, labeled as 'granulated beet sugar.' It blew both Hillborne and Corona in half, as they were sitting on either side of it. While the truck driver was driven cuckoo from breathing in too much of the dope!"

"I see," Sir Anthony replied: "Well, thank you for your consideration, Sergeant. And, good hunting!"

 Mr. Galstaff had joined us, by this point, so Sir Anthony was able to repeat the conversation to both of us, at the same time. When he had finished, he asked the Lodge President if any of his fellow members just happened to be employed by the insurance company covering the warehouse.

 Mr. Galstaff smiled: "Not really. But, we do have a judge and a bank president, who just happen to be good poker buddies of mine! And, with the judge as a character reference, the bank president would probably have no difficulty passing you off, to one of his loan officers, as out-of-town lawyers. Representing a certain real estate developer who just might be interested in buying that property once the police have freed it up."

"Oh, that would be lovely!" Sir Anthony grinned (in unison with me).

 An hour-and-a-half later, we were at the aforementioned warehouse. The summer heat forcing us to take off our sport coats, and drape them over our respective right arms.

"Peter, my boy?" Sir Anthony began, as he looked at the ceiling : "I investigated quite a few bombings, during my time at the Yard (mostly, Fenian anarchists). And, I can tell you for a fact that any time bomb powerful enough to blow a hole that huge, through the warehouse roof, would have literally disintegrated that truck, as well! Along with _all three_ of its male occupants."

 I nodded; adding:  "That, in turn, would have left a greater quantity of charred debris (metallic...and otherwise) strewn all around us."

"Yet, the worst damage visible, to my naked eye," Sir Anthony continued: "...is that odd V-shape in the cargo bed of the Model A. The one supposedly indicating the epicenter of the alleged blast!" "What's so odd about it?" I asked. "Well, let me put it this way. If you were giving someone a routine physical, right this very minute, what part of their anatomy would you say that V-shape most closely resembles?"

 I went over to the burnt-and-blackened truck, and partially kneeled down. Supporting myself on the knuckles of my left hand like a collegiate quarterback. I stared for several puzzled moments. But, it was only when I noted the roundness at the bottom of the so-called "V" that it hit me. "The lower half of a right foot!" I exclaimed: "From the heel, up to approximately the third metatarsal region!"

"Precisely!" He then walked over to join me, as I stood back up.

"You think this was done by Pamela Plaisantine. Don't you?"

 He nodded: "When she showed off those stilts in her dressing room, yesterday, I silently observed that their bottom tips showed no signs of wear, whatsoever. Which means that they were either a brand-new pair, bought to replace a worn-out and recently discarded set. Or..."

"Or, she's never needed them, at all..." I continued: "...because she can metaphysically grow to a height of ten feet or more! And, probably did so, in this case, as part of a bid for escape."

"Right, again. Which means this Model A was set afire, after the fact!"

"A cover-up by the local police?" That was more a statement than question. But, Sir Anthony once again nodded in the affirmative.

"The only question is; on whose behalf? The Milwaukee Lodge? Or, Don Pietro Taliaferro?"

"I think Cassandra White could better answer that, by this point, than we could. Don't you agree?"

"Indubitably," Sir Anthony declared. Whereupon, we headed back to the local airport, and Robert Gabriel's Handley/Page.

tbc