She averted her eyes once more, studied her shoe tip. “All right, Donald,” she blurted at length, “if you think I know something about Pug’s murder, and if you thought you could make a play for me because I was strong for you, pretend that you’d quit the detective business, and get me to tell you what I knew that way — well, Donald,” she said, looking at me suddenly with the steady stare of slate-gray eyes, “I think I really could kill you if you’re taking me for that kind of a ride.”
I said, “I wouldn’t blame you.”
She kept studying me. “Going to say anything more?” I smiled and shook my head.
She got to her feet abruptly. “Damn you, I wish I knew what it was you do to me, but I’m just telling you — I still say you’re working on that case. Remember what I told you.”
“I will. Where do you suppose Louie is?”
“Darned if I know. Did you give him any money?”
“Yes.”
She said, “There’s something wrong with Louie.”
“What?”
“He’s slap-happy.”