There was a line of washed clothes across the unkept garden: a man’s singlet, a woman’s vest, socks, stockings and a pair of ancient dungarees. I ducked under the stockings, and rapped on the shabby, blistered front door.
There was a lengthy pause, and as I was going to rap again the door opened.
The girl who stood in the doorway was small and Compact and blowsy. Even at a guess I couldn’t have put her age within five years either side of twenty-five. She looked as if life hadn’t been fun for a long time; so long she had ceased to care about fun, anyway. Her badly bleached hair was stringy and limp. Her face was puffy and her eyes red with recent weeping. Only the cold, hard set to her mouth showed she had a little spirit left, not much, but enough.
‘Yes?’ She looked at me suspiciously. ‘What do you want?’
I tipped my hat at her.
‘Mr. Ferris in?’
‘No. Who wants him?’
‘I understand he rented a car to Miss Jerome. I wanted to talk to him about her.’
She took a slow step back and her hand moved up to rest on the doorknob. In a second or so she was going to slam the door in my face.
‘He’s not here, and I’ve nothing to tell you.’