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He was intercepted by a running
policeman.
"Where was the explosion?" demanded the officer.
"Explosion? I hear a noise in the larch house on the corner,"
replied the musician dully.
The policeman grabbed his arm. "Come along back. You fer a
witness! Come on; you an' yer horn."
"It iss not a horn," explained the German patiently, "'it iss a
B-flat trombone."
Along with several million other readers, Average Jones followed the
Linder "bomb outrage" through the scandalized head-lines of the
local press. The perpetrator, declared the excited journals, had
been skilful. No clue was left. The explosion had taken care of
that. The police (with the characteristic stupidity of a corps of
former truck-drivers and bartenders, decorated with brass buttons
and shields and without further qualification dubbed "detectives")
vacillated from theory to theory. Their putty-and-pasteboard
fantasies did not long survive the Honorable William Linder's return
to consciousness and coherence. An "inside job," they had said.


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