She raised her left hand, touched the tip of her cigarette to the back of my thumb. I let go for just that split second that allowed her to wrench away, dodge around me, to where she could get a good look at the dead man.
“Dowie.” It was hardly a whisper; she kept it under her breath in a kind of smothered wail.
Hacklin made a grab for her, caught her, but only because she’d frozen into a crouch in front of the closet.
“It’s not — not him!” She began to blubber, leaning limply against Hacklin, who couldn’t think of anything better than to shake her.
“Cut it,” he commanded. “Shuddup!”
She raised the level a shrill half-pitch.
I thought he was going to slap her, in the style illustrated in the movies as recommended treatment for hysterical females. But she buried her face on his chest, so he couldn’t.
“I heard you say — somebody was dead.” She sniffled. “I thought it was Dow.”
Hacklin pushed her away, to the arm of a divan. “You’re the dame I saw in the studio. You Missus Lanerd?”
“No.” She shook her head like a dog coming out of water. “I’m Ruth Moore. Mister Lanerd’s private secretary.”