“I’m the man — Michael Shayne.” He took off his hat and extended his hand.
She hesitated an instant before offering her hand, her direct gaze flickering over his coarse red hair and his bruised face and on to the big hand he was offering. Her smile was sincere when she put her hand in his and said forthrightly, “You’re the man Margo told us about. And I’m sure she was right, too.”
“That all depends on what she told you,” he said.
“Now you’re fishing,” she accused. Her cool hand gave him back a firm pressure, and she invited him into a tiny efficiency apartment. She wore a flowered housecoat that zipped up the front and trailed the floor behind her. She was about 20, Shayne guessed, with a disarming simplicity of manner. Her brown hair was brushed back from her face and tied at the nape of her neck with a pink ribbon.
“Please sit here,” she said, indicating the one comfortable chair beside which a tall metal ash tray stood. She curled up on the studio couch which was converted into a bed, making the small room appear crowded. “Now tell me what you meant by the police — and what about Margo? Is something wrong?”
Shayne offered her a cigarette, took one for himself and struck a match to light both. “It’s bad news,” he said quietly. “Margo is dead.”
“No!” She flinched as though she had been struck a blow in the face. Her brown eyes were probing at Shayne for the truth behind his stark words.
“But — I saw her just a few hours ago,” she faltered. “Was it an accident?”
Shayne got up and paced restlessly to the chintz-curtained windows, turned, and let his brooding gaze rest on the girl. “Margo was murdered. A short time after you left her. It looks as though you and your friend, Evalyn, were the last to see her alive.”
“Murdered? Oh, no!” Her voice cried out vehemently against the unfairness of it. “Not Margo! She was so vitally alive. How terrible!” Her eyes flashed angrily when she realized the full import of his words. “Tell me how it happened. Who murdered her?”