While I was talking we reached Essex and Merrivale. I whizzed the Buick down Essex Street and nailed her before a shabby looking apartment block.
“Come on,” I said, grabbing the cigar box, “let’s hustle.”
We ran up the wooden steps to the house, and she led me up the stairs into a big bedroom overlooking the front of the house. She packed her things as if the devil was pricking her with his fork. She was so efficient that I just stood back and gave her room. In three minutes flat she had a big grip crammed full of the pick of her cupboard and drawers.
“Swell,” I said, grabbing the grip. “Now watch my dust,”
As I reached the head of the stairs, I paused. She clutched at my arm, looking at me with round eyes.
“What is it?” she whispered.
I motioned her to be quiet and listened. The radio was giving a police message. They were telling Paradise Palms to watch out for us.
“How do you like being called a blonde killer?” I asked, smiling at her.
She pushed past me and scurried downstairs. At the foot of the stairs, she stopped. A thickset man in his shirt sleeves had come out of the front room. He stood gaping at her.
“Hey, you,” he said, stepping up to her. “Not so fast. They want you!”