I was firm. “So far,” I declared, “the over-all effect is comical. You aren’t going to tell us your name?”
“No.”
“Or where you live? Anything at all?”
“No.”
“Have you committed a crime or been accessory to one? Are you a fugitive from justice?”
“No.”
“Prove it.”
“That’s silly! I don’t have to prove it!”
“You do if you expect to get bed and board here. We’re particular. Altogether four murderers have slept in the south room — the last one was a Mrs. Floyd Whitten, some three years ago. And I am personally interested, since that room is on the same floor as mine.” I shook my head regretfully. “Under the circumstances, there’s no point in continuing the chinning, which is a pity, since I have nothing special to do and you are by no means a scarecrow, but unless you see fit to open up—”
I stopped short because it suddenly struck me that in any case I could do better than shoo her out. Even if she couldn’t be cast as a client, I could still use her.