“Taxis,” I said.
“All right, let’s go.”
“Any particular place?”
“I think I’ll go to your apartment.”
“I’d rather go to yours.”
She looked at me for a minute, then shrugged her shoulders and said, “Why not?”
“Your friend, Mr. Parker, won’t show up, will he?”
“My friend, Mr. Parker,” she said grimly, “is taken care of for the evening, thank you.”
She gave the address of her apartment to the cab-driver. It took about ten minutes to get there. It was her apartment, all right. Her name was on the bell marker, and she used her key and went up... Well, after all, as she’d said, why not? I knew where she worked. I could have found out all about her. The newspapers had carried her picture and an interview with her describing the man who had asked her the questions about Ringold. She had nothing to fear from me.
On the other hand, I was in it, right up to my necktie.