She puckered her forehead dubiously. “If you say I told you so, I’ll say you lie.”
“’Kay. Say.”
“Marge — Mrs. Lanerd — was here. Over there, I mean.” She pointed toward the MM suite. “This afternoon. She raised hell. Told off our Mystery Miss, but good. You could hear ’em clear out in the corridor.”
“You could?” Then it hadn’t been her first time with her ear glued to the panel, a few minutes ago. “What’d you hear?”
“Names. Threats.” Suddenly the secretary seemed miserable. “You can’t blame Marge. Dow’s always—” apparently she realized for the first time she’d been using her employer’s first name, was confused for a moment, “getting tangled up with skirts — and having trouble getting untangled.”
“Way it goes. What time was this?”
“Around five. Mister Lanerd wasn’t here then.”
“He know his wife came to the hotel?”
“I don’t think so. Marge didn’t wait for him. Or leave any message. She didn’t know I was here, either.”
“The threats, now. They what you meant by Miss Millett’s having another reason for running away after the show?”