Promptly she wrote: “I’d love to.”
“Fine,” said the radio cop. “That’s settled then.”
What a smile that girl had! What delectable curving of red lips, and provocative little crinkles at the corners of dancing eyes!
It was an effort for Cates to force his mind to other matters. “Mind telling me how you knew these gangsters were planning to take me for a ride that night?”
A look of concern replaced the smile as Miss Anabelle lowered her eyes to the tablet.
“Every night at eleven I dance out at the Salon Quintesse,” she wrote. “Out there I frequently hear snatches of gangster talk not intended for my ears. When you broadcast the threat you received, I just seemed to know they would attempt something that night. So I hurried to the broadcasting building.
“I thought if I went up to you as if I were your sister they might not shoot for fear of killing me. Fortunately it was Slim Fiske. Others might have shot regardless, but I—I think he is an admirer of mine, for he has frequently danced with me at the Salon Quintesse. I hope you don’t think I was forward.”
“Forward!” exclaimed the radio cop. “Forward! I’ll tell the world I don’t! I think you were an angel. So that explains why Fiske didn’t shoot. But how did you know me?”
Blushing prettily Miss Anabelle went and got a picture clipped from a newspaper. When Cates had first got the job the picture had appeared under the caption: “Police Radio Announcer.”
“Gee!” he said, reddening.