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it, or maybe stepping out a few beats behind the counter. That was Virginia Wales. A girl who wasn’t as young as she tried to be, but still a plenty good looking female with no visible grief. Her grief had been plenty visible this morning.
    “It’s kind of sad when you think about it,” Mitch mused as Pinky slid the cup of coffee across the counter. “Virginia, I mean.”
    “Sure, Virginia,” Pinky said. “I knew that’s why you came in here. All day it’s been like this. People I don’t see in a month come piling in to talk about Virginia. French fries or hash-brown?”
    “Skip the potatoes. What about Virginia?”
    Now Pinky was unhappy again. “How should I know what about her?” He shrugged. “She worked here, that’s all.”
    “Did she work yesterday?”
    “Five to eight. It don’t pay me to keep open Sundays more than a couple hours in the evening. And if you’re fixing to ask if she had a date afterward save your breath. Virginia didn’t tell me about her love life. I didn’t even know she’d been married until I picked it up on the grapevine this noon.”
    There wasn’t anything actually wrong with what Pinky was saying, but it did seem there should be a little remorse for the dead Virginia. A little more regret than the annoyance of having been left shorthanded. Pinky started back to the refrigerator, and then he hesitated and did a fast translation of the expression in Mitch’s eyes.
    “It’s not that I don’t feel bad about what happened to her,” he added quickly. “She was a nice kid. I hope they find the guy and boil him in oil. But what can I do about it? I’ve got a business to run!”
    There wasn’t anything wrong with Pinky’s logic—only his insistence. But just then the street door swung open and another customer came in to annoy the boss. Sight unseen Mitch felt sorry for him, and swung around to get a look at the next victim of Pinky’s frazzled nerves. That’s when all the trouble began.
    Dave Singer was one of Valley City’s most prominent citizens—you could ask Kefauver. He was a dapper young man in a baggy sport coat and pale-blue slacks, and the sight of his too-perfect profile gave Mitch a start. Dave seemed a little out of place in a downtown hash house, but there was nothing self-conscious in the way he threw a leg over one of the lopsided stools and reached for a menu.
    “Where is everybody?” he demanded. “How about a little service?”
    Pinky was going to love this boy. “Been out of town?” he asked.
    “What’s that to you?” Dave scowled. “I didn’t come in here to shoot the breeze with you. Where’s Sunshine?”
    “That’s what I mean. It seems you ought to know about Virginia being murdered last night. Everybody else does.”
    What Mitch would remember for a long time was the way Dave Singer took Pinky’s news. A wet towel across the face might have had the same result. He might have turned the same sickly color and made the same gasping sound before he choked, “Murdered! Why that dirty sonova—”
    And then Dave stopped. Behind the counter was a gleaming chrome coffee urn that reflected a couple of faces, one of which belonged to a suddenly alerted Mitch Gorman. Dave whirled about and stared at him, and then rushed off without even saying good-by.

4
    A TRUCKER, a salesman—any merchant on the block could have made that unfinished accusation and Mitch would be interested; but when it came from Dave Singer, whose associates were not averse to murder if it served their purposes, interest was too mild a word. He started for the doorway, but it was too late. The underslung, imported speedster Dave had parked at the curb was already buzzing off like an infuriated hornet, and Dave’s sudden shyness was understandable. The discussion of murder was frowned upon in his profession.
    Behind the counter Pinky’s face was beginning to match his hair. “What was the meaning of all that?” Mitch wanted to know, but he wasn’t going to get