She shook her elegant head. "He hasn't been in."
Well, I could have phoned. Why didn't I?
"Miss Taylor's here." The jungle-bright eyes sloped darkly toward me and away.
"Is she? I thought—"
"I'll call her." She led me to the same room—Hattie's parlor.
I sat down. I could stick around a while. Paul might not come here, in his humiliating chase. He probably would. He'd had—no doubt—other leads to check first.
Gwen appeared. She was wearing her hair down, tonight, and a silk dress the color of a new penny. A matching dress. "'Lo, Phil." She walked gracefully to the phonograph, clicked records, turned dials, and filled the room with soft bongoses, maracas, the background thud of a conga drum.
"I thought you were going downtown?"
"Soon. Did you mind—about last night?"
"Tonight—I never mind about last night. Rule of my life. Look, Gwen. How did you know—so quickly—exactly what that gal was like?"