She got up and walked over to the door, flung it open.
A man’s voice, sharp-edged with eagerness, said, “I told you you couldn’t run out on me! But you had to try it, didn’t you? Well, sweetheart, I—”
I wasn’t looking toward the door right then, but when his voice ran out of words, I knew he’d been pushing his way into the room as he talked, and had advanced just far enough to get a glimpse of me sitting there in the chair.
I turned my head casually.
I recognized him almost instantly. It was the man who had responded to all the horn-blowing at Jack O’Leary’s Bar around three-thirty that morning.
Roberta Fenn whirled, glanced at me, then said in a low voice to her visitor, “Come outside for a minute where we can talk.”
She half pushed him out into the hallway, and pulled the door behind her so that it was almost shut.
I had only a few seconds. I knew I must make every move count.
I raised myself gently from my chair so as not to make any noise. My hand snaked out and grabbed the letter which Roberta had left on the top of the table.
The envelope bore the return address: Edna Cutler, 935 Turpitz Building, Little Rock, Ark.