“Listen, baby,” he said, speaking low and fast, “you don’t know half what happened last night.”
“What is it?”
“For one thing Morgan ain’t got those pictures. For another, he wants them mighty bad. When I got home last night, three birds were waiting for me and they beat me silly when I couldn’t give them the camera.”
She was silent for a moment. “But who has got it?” she said at last.
“I don’t know,” he had to admit it; “this is a line up against your Pa. Why the hell didn’t you tell me who you were?”
“Well, who am I?”
“You’re Edwin English’s daughter.”
“I prefer to say I am Annabel English.”
He laughed. He couldn’t help himself. “I’ve been looking up your record, baby, it ain’t so hot.”
“You think so?” She sounded very cool. “I thought you’d appreciate me.”