“Then you hand me ten?”
“I found a news item and made a story of it. As the girl is still alive, I had to end my story by deduction.”
“What do you do, kill her off?”
“I do.”
“You and your morgue,” grunted Coltfoot. “—it’s a wonder your public stands for all the stiffs you bring in.... But they do.... They want more, too. It’s a murderous era. Fashion and taste have become necrological. But mortuary pleasures pass. Happy endings and bridal bells will come again. Then you tailors of Grubb Street will have to cut your shrouds according.”
He glanced at the first pencilled page, skimmed it, read the next sheet more slowly, lingered over the third—suddenly slapped the manuscript with open palm:
“All right. All right! You get away with murder, as usual.... Your stuff is dope. Anybody is an ass to try it. It’s habit-forming stuff. I don’t know now whether I owe you ten. I guess I do, don’t I?”
“We’ll have to wait and see what happens to her. If her story works out like my version of her story, you’ll owe me ten,” said Annan, laughing.
“What really happened last night after I left?” demanded Coltfoot.
Annan told him, briefly.