She lowered the gun in her astonishment. “Why do you call me that?” she asked quickly.
Duffy stiffened a little. “Ain’t you Mrs. Morgan?”
“No, of course not.”
He scrambled to his feet and waved his hands at her as she jerked up the gun. “Okay, okay, skip it,” he said impatiently, “this is important. Who are you?”
She tapped her foot on the floor. “What is this?”
“I’ll tell you what this is,” Duffy said furiously, “I’ve been taken for a ride. You’ve got to get this straight. Listen, Toots, I’m Duffy of the Tribune. Some guy who called himself Morgan spun me a yarn that you were his wife and you were being blackmailed. He wanted me to take photos of the crook who was putting the screws on you. I fell for this guff and came up to the hen-roost here and took photos of you and the guy you slipped the money to. Just as I am reaching for my hat and calling it a nice day’s work, some thug hops up, pinches my camera, and heaves me out on my neck. You tell me you ain’t Mrs. Morgan. In your own interests you’d better tell me who you are.”
She stared at him and then said finally, “I think you must be mad.”
“Use your head,” Duffy was getting impatient, “can’t you see that you’re in a spot? Morgan wanted a photo of you with this other guy and he’s got it. Ask yourself why.”
She still stared at him and shook her head “I don’t understand… I don’t believe…”
He slid across to her in one movement and pushed the gun away. “For Krizake,” he said roughly, “will you listen to me? Who was the guy you gave that money to?”