I wasn’t too keen having Blondie here. She just wouldn’t go back to her apartment. There was nothing else to do but to bring her here. I wanted to get her story, and although she didn’t say more than three or four words in the taxi… and they were bad ones, I had hopes of getting something out of her.
“When you’ve finished,” I bawled out to her, “you might remember I’m waiting.”
“All right,” she called back. “Come and give me a towel and I’ll come out.”
I said, “You can get it yourself. Remember I’m modest, if you ain’t.”
She didn’t say anything to that, but I heard her climb out of the bath, and after some time she came out wrapped in my woollen dressing-gown. Her eyes were still stormy and her mouth was set in a sullen line. She jerked her head towards the bathroom, and poured herself out three fingers of Scotch.
I went into the bathroom and had a quick one. The hot water did a lot to restore me, and when I came out again I was feeling fine.
Blondie was crouched over the fire. A cigarette dangled from her lips and the Scotch was way down in the bottle.
I sat down close to her and lit a cigarette. We remained like that for several moments. Then I said, “Maybe you’d like to tell me what happened.”
She twisted round so that she faced me. This dame was tough all right. I guess the street knocks hell out of these women. They’ve learnt to have no feelings, and to be on the look-out for a double-cross at every step. It is the one weapon they have to protect themselves.
Looking down at her hard face, I could see no redeeming expression.. She was a swell looker, but that didn’t get a dame far. If you’d got eyes like granite and a mouth like a trap, I guess the rest of your looks can’t even that lot up.