The girl beat her hands together. “Do get me away from here,” she said.
Fenner put his hand on her arm. “I’m sending you out with my secretary. She’ll look after you. There’s a guy on his way up who’s interested in you. I’ll take care of him. What’s your name?”
“Marian Daley,” she said. Then she swallowed and went on hurriedly: “Where shall I go?”
Paula came in, pulling on her gloves. Fenner nodded. “Go with Miss Dolan,” he said. “Go down the back way. You’ll be okay now. Don’t get scared any more.”
Marian Daley gave him a timid little smile. “I’m glad I came to you,” she said. “You see, I’m in a lot of trouble. It’s my sister as well. What can she want with twelve Chinamen?”
Fenner blew out his cheeks. “Search me,” he said, leading her to the door. Maybe she likes Chinamen. Some people do, you know. Just take it easy until I see you tonight.”
He stepped into the passage and watched them walk to the elevator. When the cage shot out of sight he wandered back into the office. He shut the door softly behind him and went over to his desk. He opened the top drawer and took out a .38 police special. He was playing hunches. He put the gun inside his coat and sat down behind the desk. He put his feet up again and shut his eyes.
He sat like that for ten minutes or so, his mind busy with theories. Three things intrigued him. The six thousand dollars, the weals on the girl’s back and the twelve Chinamen. Why all that dough as a retainer? Why didn’t she just tell him that someone had beaten her up instead of stripping? Why tell him twelve Chinamen? Why not just say, ‘What did she want with Chinamen’? Why twelve? He shifted in his seat. Then there was the guy on the phone. Was she fresh from a nut farm after all? He doubted it; She had been badly scared, but she was normal enough. He opened his eyes and glanced at the small chromium clock on his desk. She had been gone twelve minutes. How long would this guy take to come up?
As he was thinking, he became aware that he was not concentrating as he should. Half his mind was listening to someone whistling outside in the corridor. He moved irritably and brought his mind back to the immediate problem. Who was Marian Daley? Obviously she was a rich girl of the upper crust. Her clothes must have cost a nice pile of dough. He wished the guy outside would stop whistling. What was the tune, anyway? He listened. Then very softly he began to hum the mournful strains of Chloe with the whistler.
The haunting tune held him, and he stopped humming and listened to the fluting sound, beating out the time with his index finger on the back of his hand. Then he suddenly felt a little chilled. Whoever was whistling was not moving. The low penetrating sound kept at the same degree of loudness, as if the whistler was standing outside his door, whistling to him.