“Take it easy,” I said, panting with my exertions. “They’ve gone now.”
For a moment she stood gasping, her face set and her eyes blazing; a lovely thing of fury, and then the anger went and her eyes lost their explosive quality and she suddenly threw back her head and laughed.
“Well, we certainly scared the daylights out of those two rats, didn’t we?” she said, and flopped limply on the settee. “Give me a drink and have one yourself. You certainly look as if you need one.”
As I reached for the bottle I said, looking at her intently, “The name, of course, is Maureen Crosby?”
“You’ve guessed it.” She rubbed her wrists, making a comical grimace. “You’ve hurt me, you brute!”
“Sorry,” I said, and meant it.
“Lucky I looked in. If I hadn’t they would have had your hide by now.”
“So they would,” I said, pouring four fingers of Scotch into a glass. My hand was very unsteady and some of the whisky splashed on to the carpet. I handed her the glass, and began to fix myself a drink. “Whiterock or water?”
“In its bare skin,” she returned, holding the glass up to the light. “I don’t believe in mixing business with pleasure or water with Scotch. Do you?”
“It depends on the business and the Scotch,” I said, and sat down. My legs felt as if the shin bones had been removed. “So you are Maureen Crosby. Well, well, quite the last person I expected to call on me.”