“Don’t happen to remember her name, do you?”
“No, I don’t wait a minute. I heard it, too — one of the boys was telling me about it. Let me see. It was a short name, name of — name of Pen — no, that’s not right. Wait a minute. Fenn. Fenn, that was the name. Roberta Fenn.”
I said, “Police think she pulled the trigger?”
“I don’t know what their theory is. All I know is what I picked up from a gabfest we were having down at the stand. One of the boys had had a hurry-up call to pick up a photographer for some pictures of the body. Said it was an awful mess. Well, here’s the building. Cars certainly parked all around it.”
Hale started to say something. I beat him to it. “What do you say,” I asked in a loud voice, “if we go and see this other party first, and then come back for our interview at the Gulfpride after the excitement has died down? I don’t like to try and carry on a business conversation with people running in and out, chasing up and down stairs, making noise and—”
“I think that’s a very wise decision,” Hale said.
I said to the cab driver, “Okay, drive us on down to Napoleon and St. Charles and let us off there.” I settled back against the cushions and said in a loud Voice to Hale, “Our party at the Gulfpride won’t be interested in talking business this morning, anyway. He’ll be swap ping gossip with the other tenants. My idea is we’d better let him go until afternoon.”
“Okay, just as you say.”
After that, we were silent until the cab driver let us off at Napoleon and St. Charles.
“Want to have me wait?” he asked.