"We can't bank on it," he warned. "Not yet. Though I'll get the truth out of Mrs. Fane today or I'm a Dutchman. But Agnew and I talked to any number of people who know — or knew — Polly Allen."
"Good. One of the gab, was she?" Masters spread out his notebook on the desk.
"If you mean professional, no. Not by a jugful!"
"So? That's very interestin'."
"She hung about bars a good deal, it's true. She'd let anybody stand her a drink. But she was very— choosy. Liked 'em young, and didn't care a hang about money. That hardly seems human, but there you are. Quite the lady, in a small way."
"What did she do for a living?"
Masters frowned.
"Nobody seems quite to know. She hadn't any of — what you'd call pals. Just a few hello-what-terrible-weather-isn't-it acquaintances. She told 'em she was on the stage for a while…" "On the stage? Doin'what?"
"She didn't say. Very mysterious and hoity-toity about it, though. We can look her up through the theatrical agencies, if you think it's worth while. I've got a snapshot of her."
From between the pages of his notebook Masters drew out a small photograph. H.M. took his feet down off the desk and studied it. Masters and Courtney looked over his shoulder.