The door slowly swung back. Marcia Whittaker, looking as though she’d been seeing a steady procession of ghosts, came wearily into the room, lugging a Gladstone bag. She dropped the bag to the floor, came across the room, and held his arms with quivering fingers. “It’s so darn square of you!” she said.
Mason patted her shoulder. “Nix,” he said. “Get that bag unpacked.”
Della Street came out of the bathroom, smiling a cordial welcome.
“My secretary,” Mason said. “Della Street, Marcia Whittaker. Give her a hand, Della, if you will please.”
Mason returned to sit by the fireplace smoking in thoughtful silence until Marcia and Della returned.
“All right,” Mason said, “let’s have it. I want exact, detailed information. You can’t afford to indulge your emotions. Get right down to bedrock. You’ve cried before. You can cry afterward. Right now, you can’t cry. ”
She said, “I can take it now, Mr. Mason. It was a hell of a wallop. I should have expected it. Life’s done that to me ever since I was a kid.”
“Forget that,” Mason said. “I want facts — all the facts — and I want them fast.”
She said, “I didn’t give you a fair break the first time I saw you. I knew Louie Conway and John Milicant were the same. John’s sister is a hypocrite. She’s knocked around plenty in her time, but now she’s developed complexes and wants the family to amount to something. I’m a little tart, and I mustn’t be in the family— Oh, dear no!”
“Skip all that,” Mason said. “Let’s get down to brass tacks. What happened to Louie? Tell me...”