I assumed a look which denied the interest I had in his bar partner. Especially in the pair of gloves stuck in her handbag. Cotton gloves. Dark maroon.
The fingers were tucked in the pocket of the bag where they couldn’t be seen.
Chapter ten:
Spilled handbag
Rule a in the manual: Make no snap judgments. No Plaza Royale employee ever mistakes a United Nations delegate for a porter out of uniform. Though guests do, sometimes.
So I wanted to be sure I had this Edie character right before I did anything about her. She looked like a Park Avenue edition of Diamond Lil. She sounded like one of those babes who think Longchamps is French for lamb chops. But she might have been the big winner in that Stack O’ Jack contest, for all I knew.
I finished my rum sour, hunted up Zingy, told him what I wanted.
When I went back to the Steeplechase Bar, there was a vacant stool but one removed from Edie. I appropriated it, ordered, listened.
She was talking about someone Walch evidently knew.
“Why, bless y’ pore ole gin-soaked gizzard, she used to work in the line out on the Coast. She’s a fair terper. An’ photogenic as Grable. But nobody could say she’s pretty.”