“Excuse me,” I said.

  I got up and wandered over to the pinball machine. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Marilyn give Rosalind a signal.

  I’d shot the third ball on the machine when 1 noticed Rosalind standing beside me. “What did you do to her?” she asked.

  “Why?”

  “She gave me the highball to pick you up.”

  I said, “I let her think she had a diamond-studded live one.”

  “Is he?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Friend of yours?”

  “In a way. Why?”

  “Nothing. I was just wondering.”

  I finished out the game on the pinball machine, fed a coin in the slot, and pushed in the plunger. “Want to try it?” I asked.

  She started shooting balls around the board. Joe came over and looked at me significantly.

  “Couple of drinks,” I ordered.

  “What’s yours?” he asked Rosalind.

  “Same old stuff. This guy is wise to the joint, Joe. Don’t bother with the hooey. Just bring me the cold tea. You’ll get the dough.”

  “Yours?” Joe asked me, grinning.

  “Gin and Seven-Up.”

  Rosalind and I finished our drinks at the pinball machine. “You going back?” she asked.

  “Perhaps.”

  “Marilyn wants me to stay with you.”

  “Why not? Come on over and meet Emory.”

  “You aren’t sore, are you?”

  “At what?”

  “Oh-Marilyn. You don’t-you didn’t really fall for her, did you?”

  I grinned at her. “Come on over. Sit down and join the party.”

  She said, “You did a swell job with Marilyn.”

  “Why?”

  “She was looking daggers at me a few minutes ago when she thought I was making a play for you. Now she’s signaled me to go ahead.”

  “Circumstances alter cases.”

  She said, “Donald, you’re a deep one. Just what are you after?”

  “Nothing that’s going to hurt you any.”

  She looked at me and said, “I’ll bet you’d give a girl a square deal at that.”

  I didn’t say anything. We walked over to the table.

  Marilyn said casually, “Oh, hello, Rosalind. This is Emory, my friend, Mr. Emory—Smith.”

  She turned to Hale and flashed him a quick wink.

  Rosalind said, “How do you do, Mr. Smith?”

  Hale got up and bowed. I held a chair for Rosalind. We sat down.

  Marilyn said to Hale, “I don’t like to talk about it. Let’s talk about something else.”

  “What don’t you like to talk about?” I asked.

  Hale said, “What happened this morning.”

  “What happened?”

  “Marilyn heard the shot that killed that lawyer. You remember reading about it in the papers?”

  I said, “Oh.”

  “She was coming in around three o’clock in the morning,” Hale said.

  “Two-thirty,” Marilyn corrected.

  Hale frowned. “Why, I thought you told me it was somewhere between two-thirty and three.”

  “No. I looked at my watch. It must have happened just a second or two after two-thirty.”

  “Wrist watch?” Hale asked.

  “Yes.”

  He reached across the table, took her wrist in his hand, and looked at the diamond-studded watch.

  “My, what a beauty!”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “I’ll bet someone thought a lot of you to give you that. May I look at it?”

  She unsnapped it, and Hale turned it over and over in his fingers. “A very beautiful watch,” he said, “very, very beautiful.”

  I said to Rosalind, “What is there to do in this place? Don’t they dance?”

  “No. They have a floor show.”

  “When?”

  “It’ll be on almost any minute now.”

  Marilyn laughed and said, “There’s Joe looking at your empty glass, Rosalind.”

  Hale said, “Just a minute, and he can look at mine.” He tossed down the rest of his drink, snapped his fingers, and said, “Oh, Joe.”

  The waiter didn’t waste any time this trip. “Fill ‘em up with the same thing?” he asked.

  “Fill ‘em up same thing,” Hale said, still fingering Marilyn’s wrist watch.

  Joe brought the drinks. The lights dimmed. Marilyn said, “This is the floor show coming on. You’ll love it.”

  Chairs scraped over the floor as a girl with an Egyptian profile, a pair of shorts covered with hieroglyphics, and a bra decorated in the same way came out, sat cross-legged on the floor, and made angles with her hands and elbows. She got a spattering of applause. A man with boisterous hilarity came out and made a few off-color cracks into a microphone. A strip-tease artist did her stuff, finishing up in the middle of a blue spot that furnished all the clothing. She got a terrific hand. Then the Egyptian dancer came back into the blue spot wearing a grass skirt with a lei around her neck and an imitation hibiscus in her hair. The bird who has put on the monologue played a uke, and she did her version of the hula.

  When the lights came up again, Hale handed Marilyn the wrist watch he’d been playing with during the floor show.

  “That all of it?” I asked Rosalind.

  Marilyn said, “No. It’s just an intermission. There’ll be another act in a minute or two. This gives us a chance to get our glasses filled up.”

  Joe filled up our glasses.

  Hale grinned across the table at me, the man-of-the-world grin. “Havin’ a swell time,” he said. “Bes’ little girl in the world. Bes’ drinks in the world. Gonna have all my friends in when I get back t’ New York, show ‘em fine New Orleans drinks. Makes you feel good. Don’t get drunk. Jus’ get to feeling good.”

  “That’s right,” I told him.

  Marilyn put the wrist watch back on. A second or two later she was looking at me, then at Rosalind. She wiped her wrist with a napkin, said, “Ain’t we got fun?”

  The second act started. The man who had been playing the uke came out in evening clothes and put on a series of dances with the Egyptian dancer; then the strip-tease artist did a fan dance. The lights went back up, and Joe was at our elbows.

  “How many Joes are there?” I asked Marilyn.

  “Just one. Why?”

  “He seems to be twins.”

  “You seein’ two of ‘em?” Hale asked solicitously.

  I said, “No. I only see one, but the other one is over at the bar getting the drinks mixed. He’ll come back with the drinks while this one is over at the bar getting more drinks mixed. One man couldn’t make that many round trips.”

  Joe looked down at me with the half smile on his lips, an expression of detached amusement, not unmixed with contempt.

  Hale started to laugh. His laughter kept getting louder. I thought he was going to fall off the chair.

  Marilyn waved her hand. “Same thing all around.”

  Abruptly I pushed back my chair. “I’m going home,” I said.

  Rosalind looked at me. “Aw, gee, Donald, you just got here.”

  I took her hand, held it in mine long enough to slip her a couple of folded dollar bills. “I’m sorry. I’m not feeling good. That last drink didn’t agree with me.”

  Hale laughed uproariously. “Ought to drink gin and Coke,” he said. “That stuff you can drink all night. Marvelous drink. Makes you feel good, but doesn’t get you tight. You youngsters can’t stand anything. We know, don’t we, Marilyn?”

  He looked across at her with a loose-lipped leer, his alcohol-lighted eyes peering out from over the folds of flushed skin.

  Marilyn put her hand across to let it rest on his for a moment. A little later she freed her hand, moistened the tip of her napkin in the water glass, and rubbed it on her wrist.

  I said, “Good night, everybody.”

  Hale peered up at me. For a moment the laughter left his face. He started to say something, then changed his mind, turned back to Marilyn, thought of something else, swung around to me, and said, “This is a smart bird, Marilyn. You wanna watch him.”

  “What kind of a bird?” she asked—“not a pigeon!”

  “No,” Hale said, failing to get the significance of her remark. “He’s an owl—you know—wise guy. Always said he was ‘n owl.”

  That idea struck him as funny. When I went out of the door he was laughing so hard he could hardly catch his breath. Tears were beginning to trickle down his cheeks.

  I got to the hotel. Bertha had arrived in Los Angeles. There was the characteristic wire from her: What’s the idea digging in last year’s rabbit warren? We are too short-handed to scare up dope on old murder cases. Felonies outlaw in this state after three years. What sort of a bird do you think you are?

  I went down to the telegraph office and was feeling just good enough to send her the reply I wanted: Murder never outlaws. Hale says I’m an owl.

  I sent the message collect.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I GOT UP at seven o’clock, showered, shaved, had breakfast, and unpacked my bag to dig out the revolver that I was supposed to carry. It was a .38, blued steel, in only fair condition. I put it in my pocket and walked down Royal Street to the entrance to the apartment. I wondered how much of a hangover Hale had.

  I didn’t try to be quiet as I climbed the stairs. I made noise, lots of it, and my knock on the door wasn’t at all gentle.

  Hale didn’t answer.

  I started both knuckles to work and used the toe of my shoe to give the summons a little more interest.

  Still no Hale.

  I had the extra key to the apartment. I fitted this key to the lock and clicked back the bolt.

  Hale wasn’t there.

  The bed was rumpled, but the wrinkles in the sheet didn’t look as though it had been slept in much longer than an hour.

  I walked across the bedroom into the living-room, kicked out onto the porch to make certain he wasn’t there. Assured that the coast was clear, I took the drawers out of the writing-desk, tilted it up on one comer, and spilled out the debris from the bottom: letters, clippings, and the gun.

  I pocketed the gun that had been in there, replaced it with my own revolver, and then put the desk back into shape.

  It was a fine warm day, and the street below was filling up with people who were strolling around, enjoying the sunlight.

  I gave the place a final once-over, then quietly opened the door, pulled it shut behind me, and went down the stairs.

  I was in the courtyard when I met the colored maid. She gave me a grin and said, “Is the ge’man up yet?”

  I assured her that the “ge’man” was either out or was asleep, that I’d pounded on the door, and hadn’t been able to raise him.

  She thanked me and went on up.

  I went back to the hotel. There was a memo in my box to call Lockley 9746.

  I went into a booth and called the number, wondering whether it would be a hospital or the jail. It was neither. A velvet feminine voice answered the telephone.

  “Someone calling Mr. Lam?”

  She laughed. “Oh, yes. This is the office of the Silk-wear Importation Company calling its president.”

  “Indeed.”

  “You have a letter and a telegram here.”

  “Business is picking up,” I said.

  “Isn’t it? Know what happened? Listen to this. We send out two form letters, one by air mail, and we get two replies back, one of them by wire.”

  “That’s the way to write sales letters,” I said.

  “It was on account of the excellent job of mimeographing,” she retorted.

  “I’ll take your word for it and be right up.”

  I took a cab up to the office. Ethel Wells seemed really glad to see me. “How’s everything this morning?” she asked.

  “Not so hot.”

  “No? What’s wrong?”

  “I started out last night to show a tourist the town.”

  “You look as fresh as a daisy.”

  “I feel as though someone had pulled my petals off to see whether she loves me or loves me not.”

  “Don’t feel badly about it. Perhaps the answer was that she really loves you.”

  I didn’t have any answer for that, so I tore open the telegram.

  It read: Silkwear Importation Company. Send five dozen pair express collect size ten and one-half, color four your chart.

  The telegram was signed, Bertha Cool, and the address given was that of the agency.

  The letter was in a tinted square envelope. The stationery inside matched it. There was a faint scent. The postmark on the envelope was Shreveport, Louisiana. The letter bore the date line, Shreveport. It read simply, Send me six pair of your hose; size eight and one-half, color number five according to your chart.

  The letter was signed Edna Cutler, and there was a street address.

  I put the letter in my pocket, said to Ethel Wells. “When would I be able to get a train for Shreveport?”

  “Must it be a train?”

  “A bus will do all right.”

  She reached into a cubbyhole beneath the counter which ran on one side of her desk, pulled out a bus schedule, opened it, and handed it to me.

  “I see where I made my mistake,” she said.

  “What?”

  “I should have ordered my stockings by mail and given my home address.”

  “Why don’t you try it?” I asked.

  She was holding her lead pencil in her right hand, making aimless little diagrams across the page of her shorthand notebook.

  She said, very demurely, “I think I will.”

  I handed her the bus schedule. “I’ll be out of town today. Miss Wells,” I said very importantly. “If anyone wants to see me, I’m in conference.”

  “Yes, sir. And if any more letters come in, what shall I do?”

  “There won’t be any more.”

  “You wouldn’t want to bet on it, would you?”

  “I might.”

  “A pair of silk stockings?”

  “Against what?”

  “Anything you want. I’m betting on a cinch.”

  I said, “It’s a bet. I want to see what’s in the letter. I have to have a residence address, you know, or I can’t fill orders.”

  She smiled. “I know. Watch your step in Shreveport”

  Chapter Fifteen

  IT WAS around eight o’clock in the evening when I rang the buzzer on the apartment at the address given me in Edna Cutler’s letter.

  A feminine voice came drifting down through the little telephone set. “Who is it, please?”

  I placed the transmitter to my lips. “A representative of the Silkwear Importation Company.”

  “I thought you were in New Orleans.”

  “We have branches all over the country—special field representatives.”

  “Couldn’t you come tomorrow?”

  “No. I’m making a swing through this section of the state.”

  “Well, I can’t see you tonight.”

  “Sorry,” I said in a tone of finality.

  “Wait a minute. When can I see you?”

  “When I make my next trip through here.”

  “When will that be?”

  “Three or four months.”

  There was an exclamation of dismay. “Oh, hang it— I’m dressing. Wait a minute. I’ll throw something on and open the door. Come on up.”

  The buzzer sounded, and I climbed a flight of stairs and walked down a long corridor, looking at door numbers.

  Edna Cutler, attired in a blue dressing-gown, stood in the doorway waiting for me. She said, “I thought you shipped by mail.”

  “We do.”

  “Well, come on in. Let’s get it over with. Why did you come personally?”

  I said, “We have to conform with the regulations of the F.I.C.”

  “What’s the F.I.C.?”

  “Federal Importing Commission.”

  “Oh. I don’t see why.”

  I smiled and said, “My dear young woman, we’d be subject to a fine of ten thousand dollars and imprisonment for twelve months if we sold to other than private individuals. We aren’t allowed to sell to any dealers, or to any person who intends to resell our merchandise.”

  “I see,” she said, somewhat mollified.

  She was dark, although not so dark as Roberta Fenn. She was expensive. Her hair, her eyebrows, the curl of her long lashes, the enamel on her nails showed the sort of care which costs both time and money. Women lavish that type of care on themselves only when they are property which is well worth the investment. I looked her over carefully.

  “Well?” she asked, smiling tolerantly as she noticed the excursions made by my eyes.

  I said, “You still haven’t convinced me.”

  ‘7 haven’t convinced you?”

  She looked like a young woman who knew her way around. Sitting there in her apartment wearing a negligee, which showed enough bare leg to demonstrate clearly that she was entitled to an AAA1 priority on stockings, she was neither forward nor in the slightest degree embarrassed. So far as she was concerned, I wasn’t a human being. I was simply six pair of stockings at a bargain price.

  “I’ll want to see samples,” she observed abruptly.

  “The guarantee protects you.”

  “How do I know it does?”

  “Because you don’t pay anything until you’ve not only received the stockings, but have worn them for a full thirty days.”

  She said, “I shouldn’t think you could afford to do that.”

  “The only way we can is by having a very select mailing list. However, we want to get down to business. I have half a dozen other calls to make. Your name’s Edna Cutler. You want these stockings exclusively for your own use?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Now, I understand that you aren’t in business. I’m taking your assurance that none of these stockings will be offered for sale again?”

  “Why, certainly. I want them for myself.”

  “And perhaps some friends?”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “We’d have to have the names of the friends. That’s the only way we can keep our import permit from the Federal government.”

  She studied me curiously. “That sounds just a little fishy to me.”