“That’s right, that’s right!” Lanerd smoothed his carved-marble hair with both hands. “Miss Marino is Tildy Millett.”
Reidy was startled. “The Queen of Skates? Here in the house?”
“Oh, oh!” My surprise wasn’t due to her checking in under a nom de hotel. Plenty of people do, besides the John-Smith-and-wife couples who check in those midtown flea-bags after the niteries close. What jolted me was that I’d seen the Sweetheart of the Silver Skates, that’s the way they usually billed her, half a dozen times at the Music Hall, and she hadn’t looked anything like the lovely señorita with the fancy comb.
Lanerd went on distractedly. “That’s why she wears that eye-patch disguise and keeps out of sight all she can. But—”
Mona murmured, “’Sme, Mister V. What’ll it be?”
“Slight delay,” I told her. “I’ll call back. Sit on this plug, will you?”
She said she would. I racked the phone, turned to Lanerd.
“Your idea she murdered this guy?” I asked.
“No, no.” He groaned. “Stake my life she didn’t. It’s worse than that. The person who did that” — he stared at Roffis in horror — “is trying to kill her, too.”