Noolen got up and walked to the door. “He’s out there now.”
Fenner followed him into the main hall. “Show him to me,” he said. “I want to meet him.”
Noolen wandered through the crowd, looked right and left, then said, “He’s playin’ on the third. The guy sittin’ next to the blonde twist.”
Fenner saw the girl. She looked fine sitting there. The soft light reflected on her red-gold hair, making deep shadows of her eyes and making her red lips glisten. She was wearing a black dress that fitted her too well.
Fenner said, “Who’s the frill?” He said it very casually.
“Glorie Leadler. She’s good, isn’t she? The best of her is under the table.” The blood had mounted in Noolen’s face, and his blue eyes were watery. Fenner looked at him curiously. Noolen went on, “You’ll have to wait if you want to meet Thayler. He won’t want to be interrupted.”
“That’s all right. This Leadler girl, what is she?” Noolen turned his head and looked at Fenner. “Why the excitement?”
“Why not? She’s a riot, ain’t she?”
Noolen sneered. “I’ll leave you for a little while. I’ve got things to do,” he said, and walked away.
Fenner looked after him, wondered what it was all about, and walked over to the small bar at the other end of the room. He ordered a rye and ginger and leaned against the bar. From where he stood he could just see Glorie’s head and shoulders. He looked at Thayler and studied him, a big man with a very sunburnt complexion and black crinkly hair. His china-blue eyes and his long thin nose made him look handsome.