“A sweet story,” she said, and then after a moment’s thought added, “By God, it is a sweet story — but you’ll never make the cops believe it.”
I smiled patronisingly at her. “You forget,” I said, “that I saw the murderer.”
Her reaction was as fast as though someone had shot an electric current into the seat of the chair. “Who was it?” she asked.
I laughed at her and blew another smoke ring. Or tried to.
She crossed the room and sat down. She crossed her knees, held the left knee in interlaced fingers. The thing didn’t make sense to her, and she didn’t know what to do about it. She’d look at me, then down at the toe of her shoe. The skirt of her evening gown got in her way. She started to pull it up, then got up, walked into the bedroom, and took it off. She didn’t close the bedroom door. After a minute or two she came out wearing a black velveteen housecoat. She came over again and sat down beside me. “Well,” she said. “I don’t know as it changes the situation a hell of a lot. I need someone to handle the Ashbury angle. You look like a good guy. I don’t know what there is about you that makes me trust you — sight unseen, so to speak. Who are you, anyway? What’s your name?”
I shook my head.
“Listen, you, you’re not going to get out of here until you give me your name, and I mean your name. I’m going to see your driving licence, your identification cards, take your finger-prints — or I’m going over to your apartment, find out where you live, and all about you. So get that straight.”
I pointed to the door. “When I get damn good and ready, I’m going to walk right out of that door.”
“I’ll rat on you.”
“And where will that leave you with your swell shake down with Alta Ashurst?”