“Then you didn’t feed the kitty?” asked Keats. “Thanks. No cream or sugar.”
“Of course not. I was wondering if it was you.”
“Not me. Must have been the Hill girl.”
“Not she. I’ve asked her.”
“Funny.”
“Very. How was the tip tipped?”
“By phone call to the city room. Disguised voice, and they couldn’t trace it.”
“Male or female?”
“They said male, but they admitted it was pitched in a queer way and might have been female. With all the actors floating around this town you never know.” Keats automatically struck a match, but then he shook his head and put it out. “You know, Mr. Queen,” he said, scowling at his cigaret, “if there’s anything to this thing, that tip might have come... I know it sounds screwy...”
“From the writer of the note? I’ve been dandling that notion myself, Lieutenant.”