“Nothin'. I been listenin'. A great line of talk about the little lady. But—say, boss. What's his kink?”
“Couldn't you tell?”
“Sometimes I thought I got him,” said the Rat reflectively. “And sometimes I don't get him at all. Seems like he speaks of her like she was a dead person.”
“Well, she is.”
The Rat's jaw dropped. “Who is?”
“Orpheus's—the wop, as you call him—the woman he loved.”
“Are you nutty, too? Wasn't she in here to see me only yesterday?”
Light broke in upon me in a great wave. “Merciful powers!” I shouted. “Your Miss Tony—his Toinette? It can't be. She died in a hospital the day before May Day.”
“Ferget it! She moved out cured a week before May Day. Don't I know? Didn't I go humping up to Room 21 to see her, and find an old hen with a face like a mustard plaster and a busted mainspring?” The number woke remembrance within me. “What became of the woman in 21?”
“Croaked a few days later.”