“Safer to let sleeping dogs lie. Crosby’s something in oil, isn’t he?”
“He was. He’s dead. He was killed in a shooting accident about a couple of years back.” I picked up the paper-knife and began to punch holes in the blotter. “It beats me how I came to leave the letter in my trenchcoat like that. I’ll never hear the end of it.”
Kerman, who knew Paula, grinned sympathetically.
“Slosh her in the slats if she nags,” he said helpfully. “Am I glad it wasn’t me!”
I went on punching holes in the blotter until Paula returned with a fistful of newspaper clippings.
“She died of heart failure on May 15th, the same day as she wrote the letter. No wonder you didn’t hear from her,” she said as she shut the office door.
“Heart failure? How old was she then?”
“Twenty-five.”
I laid down the paper-knife and groped for a cigarette.
“That seems mighty young to die of heart failure. Anyway, let’s have the dope. What have you got?”