“How many of these do you want?”
“A thousand. After you have the stencil made, I’d like to see one or two samples before we go ahead with the full thousand letters.”
She looked up at me, studying me. “All right. Now, what’s the racket?”
I just stared at her, saying nothing.
“Look — there was an embargo on silk a long time before Pearl Harbor, and when did stockings ever come from Japan?”
I grinned. “If the people who get these letters are as smart as you are, I’m out of luck. I’m a private detective. This is a stall. I’m trying to smoke someone out from behind a blind address.”
She looked me up and down. I could see the puzzled surprise in her eyes change to respect. She said, “Okay, you almost took me to the cleaners. So you’re a detective?”
“Yes, and don’t tell me I don’t look like one. I’m getting tired of hearing that.”
“It’s a business asset,” she announced. “You should be proud of it. All right, what’s the real dope on these? How many of them do you really want?”
“Just two. Don’t make too good a job of it. Smear them up a little as though out of a thousand copies these people were getting the last two. You can address the envelopes. The first is Edna Cutler, 935 Turpitz Building, Little Rock, Arkansas, and the other is Bertha Louise Cool, Drexel Building, Los Angeles.”