The sullen look went from her face. Her eyes opened a trifle wider.
“Do I look as if a hundred-dollar bill would be of any use to me?” she said scornfully.
“Even Pierpoint Morgan could use a hundred dollars,” I said. “Still, I might raise the ante if you have anything worth buying.”
I could see her brain at work. At least now we were talking the same language. She stared past me, down the path into a world of dollar signs and secrets. She smiled suddenly, a half smirk, not directed at me, but at a thought that had come into her mind.
“What makes you think there’s anything wrong about her death?” she asked abruptly, her eyes shifting back to me.
“I didn’t say I thought there was something wrong. I said I wasn’t entirely satisfied. I have an open mind about it until I have talked to people who were with her about the time she died. Did you notice if she suffered from heart trouble?”
“It’s a long time ago, mister,” she said, and smirked. “I have a lousy memory for things like that. Maybe if you come back at nine tonight I’ll have had time to remember, and it’s no use coming back with a hundred dollars. I’m a big girl now and I have big ideas.”
“How big?” I asked politely.
“More like five. It would be worth my while to shake up my memory for five, but not for a nickle less.”
I made believe to consider this.