It seemed like only seconds between the time that Maude hung up the phone, and the moment that at least a dozen police cars showed up. (In reality, it was only three. But shock can Greatly sway one's ability to perceive said reality.)
Maude's head was still spinning as two men jumped out of the car. One towards Mr Andrews, and another towards her.
"Detective Roy Arthurs, Chicago Constabulary." The concerned, yet sympathetic man lifted the collar of his jacket to reveal a shiny golden badge, keeping his collar open only long enough for the afternoon sun to glaze across the golden metal. "Are you the one who reported the murder?"
As if it was hardly a question, Maude stretched her shoulders even taller.
"I am, indeed. Miss Maude Miller."
"Is that so? I'll have to ask you into the station later, for questioning."
"Wait!" another voice called out, from inside the alleyway. By the time Maude had spun around to see, the voice had already caught up to her. "My name is Detective Frank Young."
"It wouldn't take a sleuth to figure that out.." Maude thought.
"We don't have a missing persons report, and we have no identifying features."
"And?" was the only remark that Maude could mutter in the moment.
"I was hoping you could identify the body."
Maude rocked back and forth on her feet, and placed her hands behind her back.
"Easy. That's Jacob Andrews. He runs Andrews and Co. Ladies' miscellaneous Between Dearborn and Clark street."
"Thank you, that will be all."
Maude had no trouble walking away, as much as she wanted to solve the murder, they'd never let her interfere; And she knew it, too.
Just as she was heading back to her boarding house, an idea hit her.
"What if I held my own investigation?"
It was, or would be, a great thought in itself, except there was a problem.
Maude had never held an investigation.
The walk was not far, and thinking was always a good way to pass the time, or at least according to Maude.
She made it to her boarding complex in no time, and made it to her room, before she even knew she was walking up the stairs.
She had read about investigations in the newspapers many times before, and decided that it would be rather easy once she gathered all her information.
She would have to settle with interviewing the victims wife, and decided to hit the telephone book.
"Ah, here. Mrs Lynn Andrews." (or, Ms as it would be now.)
The phone rang twice, perhaps three times, before someone picked up.
"Hello? Is this Lynn Andrews?"
"It is, indeed."