“It’s perfectly ridiculous,” the redhead snorted.
I shook my head. “Rejected. That won’t do. Mr. Wolfe accepts my judgment on girls. A pretty girl or a homely girl, a smart girl or a dumb girl, a sad girl or a happy girl — he knows I know. I have told him you were happy. If I go back and report that you flatly deny it, I don’t see how he can do anything but tell the cops, and that will be bad. They’ll figure that you wanted the Giants to lose because you knew Bill did, and why. Then of course they’ll refigure the murder and get a new answer — that Ferrone found out that Bill had doped the drinks, and Bill killed him. They’ll start on Bill all over again, and if they—”
“Stop it!” She was hoarse. “For God’s sake!”
“I was only saying, if they—”
The redhead put in, leaning to the steering wheel and sticking out her chin. “How dumb can you get?” she demanded.
“It’s not a ques—”
“Phooey! You say you know girls! Do you know baseball girls? I’m one! I’m Helen Goidell, Walt’s wife. I would have liked to slap Lila this afternoon, sitting there gloating, much as I love her, but I’m not a sap like you! She’s not married to the Giants, she’s married to Bill! Lew Baker had batted two-thirty-two in the first six games of the series, and he had made two errors and had three bases stolen on him, and still they wouldn’t give Bill a chance! Lila had sat through those six games praying to see Bill walk out, and not once! What did she care about the series or the difference between winner’s and loser’s take? She wanted to see Bill in it! And look at Baker this afternoon! If he had been doped, all right, but Lila didn’t know it then! What you know about girls, you nitwit!”
She was blazing. I did not blaze back.
“I’m still willing to learn,” I said, not belligerently. “Is she right, Mrs. Moyse?”
“Yes.”