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Taylor approach. The wealthy financier was well known in upper crust social circles, and generally thought something of a fop, but his steely gaze and his whipcord muscles flexing like steel bands beneath the dark fabric of his suit would brook no delay. 
      There, on the tiled floor, lay the battered body of a young girl. She lay face up, an expression of terror frozen on her cold face, black blood encrusted round her lips. Where her heart should have been, where the beat of her young life once sounded like a small bird's wings, there was only a gaping chasm, a gory tunnel to the floor below. Taylor straightened himself, fixing his gaze on the inert body on the floor. Rush as he might, he would have arrived too late to save this girl. She had been dead for hours.
      Next came the sound of shouts, and a gruff voice raising above the rest, calling for order. Taylor knew the voice well. It belonged to Detective Chalmers, pride of the San Francisco Police Department.
      "Get outta my way, you blood-thirsty rubber neckers," he called again, shoving his way through the crowd. "Lemme do my job." 
      At a sign from Taylor, Louise slid her arm from under his and blended back into the crowd. She understood her duty at such a time: to canvas the onlookers nonchalantly, discovering what she could. Her report would aid Taylor in ferreting out the truth, and she cherished her responsibility. Of all Taylor's agents, only she knew the secret of his other life.
      With Louise gone, Taylor made his way across the crowd to a man he'd noted on his entrance. They had been climbing the stairs together, and when the waitress who had discovered the body had screamed, this man had been the only one not to hurry to the scene to investigate. Taylor had recognized him as Peter Matthews, black sheep son of a wealthy shipping magnate. 
      Sidling up to Matthews, Taylor watched as Detective Chalmers surveyed the scene, and began questioning the witnesses. Taylor, feigning horror and a weak stomach, addressed Matthews. 
      "Terrible business," he began, only a trace of the Texas twang he had inherited along with a fortune from his father sounding in his level voice. "What could possess someone to do such a thing?"
      "I wouldn't know," Matthews answered evenly, his gaze darting to Taylor. "I've only just arrived."
      "Not the sort of thing you expect to see at such a place," Taylor commented, eyeing the other man.
      "Oh?" Matthews answered coolly. "And where would you expect to see such a thing?" Abruptly he turned on his heel, and stalked away. Taylor watched him as he went, deep in thought. 
      When the police had finished their interviews, and the body had been carried out under a sheet, Taylor and Louise met on the stairs. Taylor produced a pair of cigarettes, and lit one for each of them with a silver-plated lighter, engraved with the emblem of an outstretched hand.
      "Well, Miss Aldridge," he finally spoke, loud enough for passersby to hear, the smoke curling about his head, "I see little reason to remain. I'll walk you home."
      They descended the stairs and went out into the dark street. Walking down the sidewalk, arm in arm, they looked the picture of the loving couple. But it was not endearments they whispered to one another. They spoke of crime.
      "Miss Aldridge," Taylor said, his voice low, "your report."
      Louise began simply, stating what she had learned from memory. "The hallway had been empty when the waitress last passed through it. It leads from the main dining room to a storage area. The storage area is visited throughout the night, waitresses and busboys going back and forth to get glasses, linens, and such. But sometimes half an hour can pass without anyone going that way. The waitress had been the last one to walk it, twenty minutes before, but when she went back, she found…" Despite herself, Louise found her voice breaking. She paused, trembling. 
      "She found the body," Taylor said,