Tightrope Walker Read Online Free PDF Page B

nibbling on her index finger. “Yeah, he told me he sold it, the bastard. It was mine, not his, we had a fight and he sold it.”
    I brightened. “You mean it was yours?”
    She nodded.
    “But that’s great, I don’t have to see him at all, then. Could you tell me where you bought it?”
    “I didn’t buy it, it was a gift.”
    “Then who—”
    But Daisy was regarding me now with caution. “So if I told you the guy’s name what would you do?”
    “Pay a call and ask him where
he
bought it.”
    She shook her head. “No way, kid.”
    “Why?”
    She shook her head again. “No
way.
”
    “I don’t understand,” I pleaded. “I’m just tracing it for a customer, it’s all perfectly innocent.”
    “It may be as innocent as a meadow of clover,” she said, looking amused, “and I can see innocence is your bag, honey—I’ll bet you’re still a virgin—but a girl’s got to think of her future.”
    “But this is important—”
    “Like I told you—the hurdy-gurdy was a present. Along with a diamond clip and earrings, and a cash award for services rendered.”
    “Oh,” I said, blinking. “I don’t have to know that, do I?”
    “Don’t be dumb,” she said. “If I told you the guy’s name he’d assume I’d just as easily tell his wife or anybody else who comes asking. A girl’s got to think about these things. I’m really fond of Ollie, I live with him, he’s a great guy, but Ollie’s going to be doing porno calendars twenty years from now and taking empties to the store for pocket money. Sorry, honey. Cheat a little. Make up some names for your silly customer, I’ve got to protect my friends. You think this is going to last?” she demanded, with a glance downward, at her voluptuous body.
    “You’d still be six feet tall,” I pointed out dryly. I hated her stubbornness but it equaled mine. I drew the letter out of my shoulder bag and handed it to her. “Before you say no again, at least know what the real story is. I’m not tracing the hurdy-gurdy for a customer, the hurdy-gurdy belongs to me and I found this inside of it last night.”
    “Holding out on me, kid?” she said good-naturedly, but she was curious enough to take it. She moved closer to the light and read it, and then she read it again. “What is this, anyway! Who’s this Hannah?”
    “That’s what I want to find out,” I told her. “Doesyour friend—has he mentioned anyone named Hannah?”
    She frowned. “His wife’s name is Sylvia, I know that. God how I know it. Sylvia doesn’t understand him, Sylvia’s frigid, Sylvia’s this and Sylvia’s that.” But she was interested, I could see that. “Look, whoever this is, she has to be dead now.”
    “Not just dead,” I pointed out. “Murdered.”
    She was nibbling on her finger again, her eyes on the note. “Which makes you some kind of a nut, doesn’t it?” But she said it idly, without force.
    “Someone locked her up in her own house,” I said, watching her. “They didn’t give her food or let her sleep until she signed something. She was a woman and you’re a woman.”
    She shrugged. “There’s a lot of stuff like that going on now,” she said vaguely.
    “This had to be for money.”
    “Lucky Hannah, to have some.”
    “They got away with it.”
    “I’d sure be interested in what you figure
you
could do about it,” she said.
    The door opened and closed behind us sharply, and abruptly the atmosphere changed. It had been good until then, the two of us drawn together over the note, a fleeting intimacy between us as we thought about Hannah, but now I felt Daisy’s withdrawal. She said, not looking up, “Hi, Ollie.”
    I turned to look at Oliver Keene. He was big and good-looking, and as dramatic as Daisy in his own way: they matched. But a grain of coarseness had settled over him like silt, a coarseness that my Amazon friend could easily acquire, too, in a few years. His hair was thick and wavy, a brassy blond color, and his eyes a startling blue