About three minutes ticked off, then a light sprang up in the hall. He could hear the chain being slipped and then the front door opened. A woman stood there, holding the door only partly open. He couldn’t make out her features, she was standing squarely with her back to the light.
“Miss Shann?” he said, taking off his hat.
“Suppose it is,” she said. Her voice had a Garbo tone.
He thought it was a hell of a welcome, but he let it slide. “It’s late for a call,” he said, trying to put his personality across, “but you’ll excuse me, I hope?”
“What is it?”
“I’m Duffy of the Tribune.” He took out his Press pass and flashed it, then he put it back again. “I wanted a word with you about Cattley.”
He saw her stiffen, then she said, “Let me see that Press card.”
He dug it out again and handed it over. She pushed the door to and examined the card in the light. Then she opened the door wide, and said, “You’d better come in.”
He followed her into a small sitting-room. It was modern, but the stuff was cheap. He looked at her with interest. The first thing he noticed about her was her eyebrows. They gave her face an expression of permanent surprise. She was lovely in a hard way. Big eyes with long lashes, a scarlet, full mouth; the top lip was almost bee-stung. Her thick chestnut hair was silky and cared for. Duffy liked her quite a lot.
She was wearing a nigger-brown silk dress, tight across her firm breasts and her flat hips.