Drake stepped from the window to stand between her and the door.
She screamed.
Mason said, “Hold it.”
She whirled, at the sound of his voice, back to face him. She stared steadily for a moment, then said simply, “Oh.”
Mason said, “I’m an attorney. This man is a detective. In other words, we’re not thieves. Who are you?”
“How… how did you get in?”
“Walked in,” Mason said. “The door was unlocked and slightly ajar.”
“It was locked just now when I… when I…” She gulped as her voice caught in her throat, laughed nervously, and said, “This has knocked me for a loop. What’s it all about?”
She was in the late twenties or early thirties, a striking brunette with jaunty clothes which set off her figure to advantage, and she wore those clothes with an air of chic individuality. Her face had been drained of color, and the pattern of the orange rouge showed clearly against the pasty white of her skin.
“Do you,” Mason asked, “happen to live here?”