“He keeps black pigeons. They roost on his studio roof. And today,” she caught her breath. “Today I went for a long ride up into the hills. And what do you suppose I saw?”
“An estate all surrounded with palms, with your Carl Langer standing at the door,” Rita Warren laughed.
“The picture is perfect.” Norma did not laugh. “Only instead of palms there were huge pine trees standing out against the snow. Even the dogs were there, three of them—fierce-looking beasts. And the pigeons were on the barn roof, lots of them.”
“And you went up to the door and said: ‘Carl Langer, please show me your ancient masterpiece.’”
“I jumped on my bicycle and peddled away as fast as ever I could. I was scared. Scared to the tips of my toes.”
“The picture will come later no doubt. What a remarkable coincidence! I must see your Carl Langer!”
“I—I’ll take you there. I’d love to.”
“I’ll go with you. Let me see,” Rita Warren considered. “Not tomorrow. I am going to Black Knob, taking three girls out to assist with the spotting. That’s just temporary, of course. Later we’ll either make it a real center, such as we have here, or enlist more volunteers for the work.”
“You—you’re not sending me?” Norma asked.
“No, I think not. I need you here as my right-hand man. Then there’s this spy business. We must look into that. You won’t mind, will you?”