He swung on his heel and tramped into the office. I followed, and shut the door, and stayed between him and it until he had sat down. Then, knowing I could move at least twice as fast as he could, I went to my desk.
“Now,” I inquired pleasantly, “where is who?”
He regarded me with a mean eye. “Last night,” he said, “one of Wolfe’s men took Anne Tracy from her home in Richdale. My man covering the house recognized him and phoned in. I had a man out front when they arrived here. Your man soon left, and so did the Updegraff boy, later, but she hasn’t left up to now. Where is she?”
So our little Rose was still safe. I locked my relief in my breast and looked crestfallen.
“I guess it’s your trick, Inspector,” I admitted. “Miss Tracy is upstairs in my bed. She spent the night there.”
He got red. He’s a terrible prude. “See here, Goodwin—”
“No no no no,” I said hastily. “Rinse your mind out. I slept here on the couch. And I doubt if she’s in my bed at that, because she’s probably up and dressed. She has a date at the D.A.’s office at ten o’clock, and it’s nine thirty now.”
“Then you admit she’s here.”
“Admit it? I’m proud of it.”
“Where is she, up with Wolfe?”