“Police! Police! Murder!” screamed Rosalind.
A man’s voice from the house across the way called out, “What’s the trouble?”
“Help, police! Murder!” Rosalind screamed.
I heard a door bang, a man’s steps running across cement.
I turned quickly, walked down the corridor, down the half-dozen steps to the living-room, across the living-room to the door on the side of the patio, out into the night and to the sidewalk.
I needed a hell of a lot of time to think and I wasn’t going to get it there in that house, not with the only story I had to tell.
Twelve
It made a swell story for the newspapers. They had it all doped out.
The girl had been standing in front of the mirror, dressing, intent only upon making the best appearance for a date she had that evening. It was a warm night. The french windows were open to the patio and because the bedroom had complete privacy, the girl had neglected to pull the blinds.
A sex maniac, perhaps a Peeping Tom, had been making regular rounds of the neighbourhood. He had looked through the window of the bedroom and saw the half-clad girl in front of the mirror.