hiding from me, but you’re hiding something. I don’t like it. I don’t like it a bit.” She suddenly and energetically arose and pointed at the middle of the table. “And another thing I don’t like is that hat. Souvenir? Souvenir of what?”
She moved with such unexpected swiftness that Amy merely sat and goggled at her, helpless. Darting to the bedroom door, with a hand extended to push it open, Miss Bonner stopped as abruptly as she had started, when it swung wide just before she reached it and her path was blocked by the solid figure of a man who stood there smiling at her. She fell back a step.
“Flagrante,” he said. “There’s no doubt of that, but not delicto. How do you do, Miss Bonner. I’ve heard of you.”
She regarded him from head to foot, and back up again, and then turned her back on him without returning the amenity. She spoke to the youngest member of her siren squad, and the ice had become dry ice:
“Apparently your uncle knows what he’s talking about. I’ll mail you a check for last week. I’ll hold upthe release on your bond until I find out whether you’ve forfeited it or not.”
“But Miss Bonner!” Amy was pleading. “There’s nothing wrong—if you’ll let me—”
“Bosh. I find a rival—but no, I won’t flatter myself that Tecumseh Fox would consider himself a rival of Dol Bonner—I find an eminent detective in your apartment, and that alone is enough, without adding that he is concealed in your bedroom while I am discussing my business with you—” She broke off, turned, and smiled sarcastically at the man. “But why do I go on talking, Mr. Fox? Silly, isn’t it?”
“Fatuous,” Fox agreed, returning the smile. “It’s because you’re mad.” He moved past her, toward the door to the hall. “You’d better walk it off.” He opened the door and politely held it for her. Without another glance at her ex-employee, she walked to it, and passed through, and he closed the door behind her.
“You might—” Amy stopped to get better control of her voice. Her chin worked, and then she began again, “You might have helped me—you might—instead of shoving her out—”
Fox shook his head. “Not a chance. I couldn’t deny I’m a detective, and how was I going to explain being here? If I had said my car hit you and I brought you home, I would only have made myself ridiculous. You know that. It’s one of the oldest gags in the business, especially with female operatives. I wouldn’t be surprised if that was the way you introduced yourself to Mr. Leonard Cliff. Wasn’t it?”
Amy stood staring at him, biting her lip, breathing visibly.
“Wasn’t it?”
She nodded.
“So,” Fox nodded back, “it would have gone overbig if I had tried to dish that out for her. I did have a tale ready that would probably have done the trick, but I couldn’t trust you for your end. You’re all in pieces. I can’t blame you much, since in Mr. Cliff you seem to have picked on one who puts quinine in people’s food and hoodwinks you by consorting with your boss—”
“He didn’t—I didn’t—”
“Consort means merely to associate.”
Amy threw herself onto the sofa and buried her face in a cushion.
Fox stood frowning down at her. After a little he turned and strode toward the open doorway to the kitchenette, and in five paces swiftly pivoted his head to the rear; but if he expected to find her peeking he was disappointed. All he did in the kitchenette was drink two glasses of water from the faucet, letting it run a while first; then he returned to the sofa and saw that her shoulders were still making little jerks.
He spoke to the back of her head. “I’m late for an appointment, Miss Duncan, and I have to go. Your difficulties are pretty complicated. I’m in a slight one myself, because the minute I saw your eyes I fell in love with you, but we can ignore that because I’m doing it all the time. Are you listening?”
Her “yes” was muffled, but it