"No, I didn't." He dropped his hat familiarly on the contour couch, with almost too much deliberation. "Livia in bed?"
"No." The girl appeared at the door of the bedroom, wrapping a powder-blue negligee around her. "What brings you here, Tom?"
"I—I wanted to talk something over with you. Now that you're here, Mr. Andrusco, we can all talk it over."
"What's that?" Andrusco made himself at home at the bar.
"It's about Walt Spencer. I had a visitor last night, the police commissioner. He showed me a letter that Spencer had written just before he—before he died. It was addressed to me, only Spencer had never mailed it."
Andrusco looked sharply at the girl. "And what was in this letter?"
"He was upset," Tom said. "He wanted to back out of the deal we made. Said the picture was a phoney. But the thing that's bothering the police is the tone of the damned letter. It just doesn't sound like a man about to kill himself and his wife—"
"Is that all?" Livia took the drink from Andrusco's hand and sipped at it. "I thought it was something serious."
"It is serious!" Tom looked sternly at her. "I want to know something, Mr. Andrusco. You told me that picture was genuine. Now I want you to tell me again."
The man smiled, with perfect teeth. "How do you mean, genuine? Is it a picture of a genuine infant with scales?"