Chapter eleven:
Key to murder suite
The gloves had plopped into a puddle of mixed gin and vermouth; they sopped up the liquor so it was impossible to tell if the finger tips had been stained or not. Before I could get my hands on any other loose items from her purse, the Eberlein babe was on me. Raking my face with her claws.
“You did that on purpose!”
There are boites where noisy altercations are no handicap; our Steeplechase isn’t one of them.
“Mickey.” I gave him the high sign, maneuvered Walch between me and the fingernails. “Ask Miss Lane to step here.”
He slid out from behind the bar.
I’d counted on La Eberlein’s being more interested in retrieving her possessions than in punishing me. She was. She and Walch scooped up money, gloves, compact, combs, pencils.
Walch muttered to her, “Don’t start anything, now!” He had a thin, strongly corded neck, the back of it mottled with red as he bent over.
She swore beneath her breath. “This guy’s no errand boy.” By then everyone in the place was watching us, listening. “He’s a — lousy house dick!”