She followed him, furious and relieved. The poor goop still didn’t catch on, she thought. But then men never noticed anything but women; men like Mac, that is. She turned a corner and ran into his arms.
“Come to popsy,” he grinned. “I’ve got all the dope.”
“Are you sure that’s all you’ve got?” Laurel coldly swept past him.
“And I thought you’d give me a gold star!”
“It’s no make-up off my skin, but as your spiritual adviser ― if you’re lining up future mothers of the race for the radioactive new world, pick specimens who look as if they can climb a tree. You’d have to send that one up on a breeches buoy.”
“What do you mean, is that all I’ve got? You saw me through the window. Could anything have been more antiseptic?”
“I saw you take down her phone number!”
“Shucks, gal. That was professional data. Here.” He picked Laurel up, dropped her into the Austin, and got in beside her. “They made up a line of men’s wallets in alligator leather last year, dyed three or four different colors. All the other colors sold but the green ― they only unloaded three of those. Two of the three greens were bought before Christmas, almost seven months ago, as gifts. One by a Broadway actor to be sent to his agent back in New York, the other by a studio executive for some bigshot French producer ― the shop mailed that one to Paris. The third and only other one they’ve sold is unaccounted for.”
“It would be,” said Laurel morosely, “seeing that that’s the one we’re interested in. How unaccounted for, Mac?”
“My cowgirl dug out the duplicate sales slip. It was a cash-and-carry and didn’t have the purchaser’s name on it.”