girl of twenty-five already showing signs of wear. Little lines crossed the corners of her big ripe mouth. Fainter lines were beginning to make nets around her thick-lashed eyes. They were large eyes, blue and a bit blood-shot.
Her coarse hair-brown-needed trimming and was parted crookedly. One side of her upper lip had been rouged higher than the other. Her dress was of a particularly unbecoming wine color, and it gaped here and there down one side, where she had neglected to snap the fasteners or they had popped open. There was a run down the front of her left stocking.
This was the Dinah Brand who took her pick of Poisonville's men, according to what I had been told.
"His father sent for you, of course," she said while she moved a pair of lizard-skin slippers and a cup and saucer off a chair to make room for me.
Her voice was soft, lazy.
I told her the truth:
"Donald Willsson sent for me. I was waiting to see him while he was being killed."
"Don't go away, Dan," she called to Rolff.
He came back into the room. She returned to her place at the table. He sat on the opposite side, leaning his thin face on a thin hand, looking at me without interest.
She drew her brows together, making two creases between them, and asked:
"You mean he knew someone meant to kill him?"
"I don't know. He didn't say what he wanted. Maybe just help in the reform campaign."
"But do you-?"
I made a complaint:
"It's no fun being a sleuth when somebody steals your stuff, does all the questioning."
"I like to find out what's going on," she said, a little laugh gurgling down in her throat.
"I'm that way too. For instance, I'd like to know why you made him have the check certified."
Very casually, Dan Rolff shifted in his chair, leaning back, lowering his thin hands out of sight below the table's edge.
"So you found out about that?" Dinah Brand asked. She crossed left leg over right and looked down. Her eyes focused on the run in her stocking. "Honest to God, I'm going to stop wearing them!" she complained. "I'm going barefooted. I paid five bucks for these socks yesterday. Now look at the damned things. Every day-runs, runs, runs!"
"It's no secret," I said. "I mean the check, not the runs. Noonan's got it."
She looked at Rolff, who stopped watching me long enough to nod once.
"If you talked my language," she drawled, looking narrow-eyed at me, "I might be able to give you some help."
"Maybe if I knew what it was."
"Money," she explained, "the more the better. I like it."
I became proverbial:
"Money saved is money earned. I can save you money and grief."
"That doesn't mean anything to me," she said, "though it sounds like it's meant to."
"The police haven't asked you anything about the check?"
She shook her head, no.
I said:
"Noonan's figuring on hanging the rap on you as well as on Whisper."
"Don't scare me," she lisped. "I'm only a child."
"Noonan knows that Thaler knew about the check. He knows that Thaler came here while Willsson was here, but didn't get in. He knows that Thaler was hanging around the neighborhood when Willsson was shot. He knows that Thaler and a woman were seen bending over the dead man."
The girl picked up a pencil from the table and thoughtfully scratched her cheek with it. The pencil made little curly black lines over the rouge.
Rolff's eyes had lost their weariness. They were bright, feverish, fixed on mine. He leaned forward, but kept his hands out of sight below the table.
"Those things," he said, "concern Thaler, not Miss Brand."
"Thaler and Miss Brand aren't strangers," I said. "Willsson brought a five-thousand-dollar check here, and was killed leaving. That way, Miss Brand might have had trouble cashing it-if Willsson hadn't been thoughtful enough to get it certified."
"My God!" the girl protested, "if I'd been going to kill him I'd have done it in here where nobody could have seen it, or waited until he got out of sight of the house. What kind of a dumb onion do you take me for?"
"I'm
Her coarse hair-brown-needed trimming and was parted crookedly. One side of her upper lip had been rouged higher than the other. Her dress was of a particularly unbecoming wine color, and it gaped here and there down one side, where she had neglected to snap the fasteners or they had popped open. There was a run down the front of her left stocking.
This was the Dinah Brand who took her pick of Poisonville's men, according to what I had been told.
"His father sent for you, of course," she said while she moved a pair of lizard-skin slippers and a cup and saucer off a chair to make room for me.
Her voice was soft, lazy.
I told her the truth:
"Donald Willsson sent for me. I was waiting to see him while he was being killed."
"Don't go away, Dan," she called to Rolff.
He came back into the room. She returned to her place at the table. He sat on the opposite side, leaning his thin face on a thin hand, looking at me without interest.
She drew her brows together, making two creases between them, and asked:
"You mean he knew someone meant to kill him?"
"I don't know. He didn't say what he wanted. Maybe just help in the reform campaign."
"But do you-?"
I made a complaint:
"It's no fun being a sleuth when somebody steals your stuff, does all the questioning."
"I like to find out what's going on," she said, a little laugh gurgling down in her throat.
"I'm that way too. For instance, I'd like to know why you made him have the check certified."
Very casually, Dan Rolff shifted in his chair, leaning back, lowering his thin hands out of sight below the table's edge.
"So you found out about that?" Dinah Brand asked. She crossed left leg over right and looked down. Her eyes focused on the run in her stocking. "Honest to God, I'm going to stop wearing them!" she complained. "I'm going barefooted. I paid five bucks for these socks yesterday. Now look at the damned things. Every day-runs, runs, runs!"
"It's no secret," I said. "I mean the check, not the runs. Noonan's got it."
She looked at Rolff, who stopped watching me long enough to nod once.
"If you talked my language," she drawled, looking narrow-eyed at me, "I might be able to give you some help."
"Maybe if I knew what it was."
"Money," she explained, "the more the better. I like it."
I became proverbial:
"Money saved is money earned. I can save you money and grief."
"That doesn't mean anything to me," she said, "though it sounds like it's meant to."
"The police haven't asked you anything about the check?"
She shook her head, no.
I said:
"Noonan's figuring on hanging the rap on you as well as on Whisper."
"Don't scare me," she lisped. "I'm only a child."
"Noonan knows that Thaler knew about the check. He knows that Thaler came here while Willsson was here, but didn't get in. He knows that Thaler was hanging around the neighborhood when Willsson was shot. He knows that Thaler and a woman were seen bending over the dead man."
The girl picked up a pencil from the table and thoughtfully scratched her cheek with it. The pencil made little curly black lines over the rouge.
Rolff's eyes had lost their weariness. They were bright, feverish, fixed on mine. He leaned forward, but kept his hands out of sight below the table.
"Those things," he said, "concern Thaler, not Miss Brand."
"Thaler and Miss Brand aren't strangers," I said. "Willsson brought a five-thousand-dollar check here, and was killed leaving. That way, Miss Brand might have had trouble cashing it-if Willsson hadn't been thoughtful enough to get it certified."
"My God!" the girl protested, "if I'd been going to kill him I'd have done it in here where nobody could have seen it, or waited until he got out of sight of the house. What kind of a dumb onion do you take me for?"
"I'm
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