She shut her eyes for a second, then her lids rolled back like a doll’s that has been sat up suddenly. She said desperately, “It’s so difficult not to believe him.” Then she put her bag on the desk, stripped off her gloves and hastily pulled off her coat. Fenner sat quite still, his hand on the telephone, watching her. She gave a little sob and then, with trembling fingers, she began to undo her shirt blouse.
Fenner shifted. “You don’t have to do this,” he said uneasily. “I’m interested in your case without any act.”
Once again she caught her breath in a sob and turned her back on him. She pulled the blouse off. Fenner’s hand strayed to the bell. Maybe this dame was nutty, and was going to hold him up for assault. Then he stiffened and took his hand away. Her back was covered with weals. The thin red streaks that crisscrossed on the white flesh made a strange and terrifying pattern. She pulled on the blouse again, fastened the buttons, and then put on her coat. Then she turned round and looked at Fenner with her eyes bigger than ever.
“Now do you believe I’m in trouble?” she said.
Fenner shook his head. “You didn’t have to do that,” he said. “You came to me for help. Okay, why look further? You don’t have to be scared.”
She stood there, torturing her lower lip with her glistening teeth. Then she opened her bag and took out a roll of notes. She put them on the desk. “Will that do as a retainer?” she said.
Fenner touched the roll with a thick finger. Without actually counting the money he couldn’t be sure, but he was willing to bet that there was at least six grand in that roll. He got up swiftly, picked up the roll, and stepped to the door. “Stay here,” he said, and went outside into the outer office.
Paula was sitting at the typewriter, her hands in her lap and her eyes expectant.
Fenner said, “Grab your hat quick, an’ take this baby to the Baltimore Hotel. Get her a room there and tell her to lock herself in. Take this roll and when you’ve fixed her, sock it in the bank. Find out all you can about her. Tell her I’ll look after her. Give her the you’re-in-good-hands dope: Feed her a good line of syrup. She’s got the jitters; she’s in trouble and she’s still young enough to need a mother.”
He went back to the office. “What’s your name?” he said.