At the First National Bank I got hold of an assistant cashier named Albury, a nice-looking blond youngster of twenty-five or so.

“I certified the check for Willsson,” he said after I had explained what I was up to. “It was drawn to the order of Dinah Brand—$5,000.”

“Know who she is?”

“Oh, yes! I know her.”

“Mind telling me what you know about her?”

“Not at all. I’d be glad to, but I’m already eight minutes overdue at a meeting with—”

“Can you have dinner with me this evening and give it to me then?”

“That’ll be fine,” he said.

“Seven o’clock at the Great Western?”

“Righto.”

“I’ll run along and let you get to your meeting, but tell me, has she an account here?”

“Yes, and she deposited the check this morning. The police have it.”

“Yeah? And where does she live?”

“1232 Hurricane Street.”

I said: “Well, well!” and, “See you tonight,” and went away.

My next stop was in the office of the chief of police, in the City Hall.

Noonan, the chief, was a fat man with twinkling greenish eyes set in a round jovial face. When I told him what I was doing in his city he seemed glad of it. He gave me a hand-shake, a cigar and a chair.

“Now,” he said when we were settled, “tell me who turned the trick.”

“The secret’s safe with me.”

“You and me both,” he said cheerfully through smoke. “But what do you guess?”

“I’m no good at guessing, especially when I haven’t got the facts.”

“ ’Twon’t take long to give you all the facts there is,” he said. “Willsson got a five-grand check in Dinah Brand’s name certified yesterday just before bank closing. Last night he was killed by slugs from a .32 less than a block from her house. People that heard the shooting saw a man and a woman bending over the remains. Bright and early this morning the said Dinah Brand deposits the said check in the said bank. Well?”

“Who is this Dinah Brand?”

The chief dumped the ash off his cigar in the center of his desk, flourished the cigar in his fat hand, and said:

“A soiled dove, as the fellow says, a de luxe hustler, a big-league gold-digger.”

“Gone up against her yet?”

“No. There’s a couple of slants to be taken care of first. We’re keeping an eye on her and waiting. This I’ve told you is under the hat.”

“Yeah. Now listen to this,” and I told him what I had seen and heard while waiting in Donald Willsson’s house the previous night.

When I had finished the chief bunched his fat mouth, whistled softly, and exclaimed:

“Man, that’s an interesting thing you’ve been telling me! So it was blood on her slipper? And she said her husband wouldn’t be home?”

“That’s what I took it for,” I said to the first question, and, “Yeah,” to the second.

“Have you done any talking to her since then?” he asked.

“No. I was up that way this morning, but a young fellow named Thaler went into the house ahead of me, so I put off my visit.”

“Grease us twice!” His greenish eyes glittered happily. “Are you telling me the Whisper was there?”

“Yeah.”

He threw his cigar on the floor, stood up, planted his fat hands on the desk top, and leaned over them toward me, oozing delight from every pore.

“Man, you’ve done something,” he purred. “Dinah Brand is this Whisper’s woman. Let’s me and you just go out and kind of talk to the widow.”

∴

We climbed out of the chief’s car in front of Mrs. Willsson’s residence. The chief stopped for a second with one foot on the bottom step to look at the black crêpe hanging over the bell. Then he said, “Well, what’s got to be done has got to be done,” and we went up the steps.

Mrs. Willsson wasn’t anxious to see us, but people usually see the chief of police if he insists. This one did. We were taken upstairs to where Donald Willsson’s widow sat in the library. She was in black. Her blue eyes had frost in them.

Noonan and I took turns mumbling condolences and then he began:

“We just wanted to ask you a couple of questions. For instance, like where’d you go last night?”

She looked disagreeably at me, then back to the chief, frowned, and spoke haughtily:

“May I ask why I am being questioned in this manner?”

I wondered how many times I had heard that question, word for word and tone for tone, while the chief, disregarding it, went on amiably:

“And then there was something about one of your shoes being stained. The right one, or maybe the left. Anyways it was one or the other.”

A muscle began twitching in her upper lip.

“Was that all?” the chief asked me. Before I could answer he made a clucking noise with his tongue and turned his genial face to the woman again. “I almost forgot. There was a matter of how you knew your husband wouldn’t be home.”

She got up, unsteadily, holding the back of her chair with one white hand.

“I’m sure you’ll excuse—”

“ ’S all right.” The chief made a big-hearted gesture with one beefy paw. “We don’t want to bother you. Just where you went, and about the shoe, and how you knew he wasn’t coming back. And, come to think of it, there’s another—What Thaler wanted here this morning.”

Mrs. Willsson sat down again, very rigidly. The chief looked at her. A smile that tried to be tender made funny lines and humps in his fat face. After a little while her shoulders began to relax, her chin went lower, a curve came in her back.

I put a chair facing her and sat on it.

“You’ll have to tell us, Mrs. Willsson,” I said, making it as sympathetic as I could. “These things have got to be explained.”

“Do you think I have anything to hide?” she asked defiantly, sitting up straight and stiff again, turning each word out very precisely, except that the s’s were a bit slurred. “I did go out. The stain was blood. I knew my husband was dead. Thaler came to see me about my husband’s death. Are your questions answered now?”

“We knew all that,” I said. “We’re asking you to explain them.”

She stood up again, said angrily:

“I dislike your manner. I refuse to submit to—”

Noonan said:

“That’s perfectly all right, Mrs. Willsson, only we’ll have to ask you to go down to the Hall with us.”

She turned her back to him, took a deep breath and threw words at me:

“While we were waiting here for Donald I had a telephone call. It was a man who wouldn’t give his name. He said Donald had gone to the home of a woman named Dinah Brand with a check for five thousand dollars. He gave me her address. Then I drove out there and waited down the street in the car until Donald came out.

“While I was waiting there I saw Max Thaler, whom I knew by sight. He went to the woman’s house, but didn’t go in. He went away. Then Donald came out and walked down the street. He didn’t see me. I didn’t want him to. I intended to drive home—get here before he came. I had just started the engine when I heard the shots, and I saw Donald fall. I got out of the car and ran over to him. He was dead. I was frantic. Then Thaler came. He said if I were found there they would say I had killed him. He made me run back to the car and drive home.”

Tears were in her eyes. Through the water her eyes studied my face, apparently trying to learn how I took the story. I didn’t say anything. She asked:

“Is that what you wanted?”

“Practically,” Noonan said. He had walked around to one side. “What did Thaler say this afternoon?”

“He urged me to keep quiet.” Her voice had become small and flat. “He said either or both of us would be suspected if anyone learned we were there, because Donald had been killed coming from the woman’s house after giving her money.”

“Where did the shots come from?” the chief asked.

“I don’t know. I didn’t see anything—except—when I looked up—Donald falling.”

“Did Thaler fire them?”

“No,” she said quickly. Then her mouth and eyes spread. She put a hand to her breast. “I don’t know. I didn’t think so, and he said he didn’t. I don’t know where he was. I don’t know why I never thought he might have.”

“What do you think now?” Noonan asked.

“He—he may have.”

The chief winked at me, an athletic wink in which all his facial muscles took part, and cast a little farther back:

“And you don’t know who called you up?”

“He wouldn’t tell me his name.”

“Didn’t recognize his voice?”

“No.”

“What kind of voice was it?”

“He talked in an undertone, as if afraid of being overheard. I had difficulty understanding him.”

“He whispered?” The chief’s mouth hung open as the last sound left it. His greenish eyes sparkled greedily between their pads of fat.

“Yes, a hoarse whisper.”

The chief shut his mouth with a click, opened it again to say persuasively:

“You’ve heard Thaler talk. . . .”

The woman started and stared big-eyed from the chief to me.

“It was he,” she cried. “It was he.”

∴

Robert Albury, the young assistant cashier of the First National Bank, was sitting in the lobby when I returned to the Great Western Hotel. We went up to my room, had some ice-water brought, used its ice to put chill in Scotch, lemon juice, and grenadine, and then went down to the dining room.

“Now tell me about the lady,” I said when we were working on the soup.

“Have you seen her yet?” he asked.

“Not yet.”

“But you’ve heard something about her?”

“Only that she’s an expert in her line.”

“She is,” he agreed. “I suppose you’ll see her. You’ll be disappointed at first. Then, without being able to say how or when it happened, you’ll find you’ve forgotten your disappointment, and the first thing you know you’ll be telling her your life’s history, and all your troubles and hopes.” He laughed with boyish shyness. “And then you’re caught, absolutely caught.”

“Thanks for the warning. How’d you come by the information?”

He grinned shamefacedly across his suspended soup spoon and confessed:

“I bought it.”

“Then I suppose it cost you plenty. I hear she likes dinero.”

“She’s money-mad, all right, but somehow you don’t mind it. She’s so thoroughly mercenary, so frankly greedy, that there’s nothing disagreeable about it. You’ll understand what I mean when you know her.”

“Maybe. Mind telling me how you happened to part with her?”

“No, I don’t mind. I spent it all, that’s how.”

“Cold-blooded like that?”

His face flushed a little. He nodded.

“You seem to have taken it well,” I said.

“There was nothing else to do.” The flush in his pleasant young face deepened and he spoke hesitantly. “It happens I owe her something for it. She—I’m going to tell you this. I want you to see this side of her. I had a little money. After that was gone—You must remember I was young and head over heels. After my money was gone there was the bank’s. I had—You don’t care whether I had actually done anything or was simply thinking about it. Anyway, she found it out. I never could hide anything from her. And that was the end.”

“She broke off with you?”

“Yes, thank God! If it hadn’t been for her you might be looking for me now—for embezzlement. I owe her that!” He wrinkled his forehead earnestly. “You won’t say anything about this—you know what I mean. But I wanted you to know she has her good side too. You’ll hear enough about the other.”

“Maybe she has. Or maybe it was just that she didn’t think she’d get enough to pay for the risk of being caught in a jam.”

He turned this over in his mind and then shook his head.

“That may have had something to do with it, but not all.”

“I gathered she was strictly pay-as-you-enter.”

“How about Dan Rolff?” he asked.

“Who’s he?”

“He’s supposed to be her brother, or half-brother, or something of the sort. He isn’t. He’s a down-and-outer—t. b. He lives with her. She keeps him. She’s not in love with him or anything. She simply found him somewhere and took him in.”

“Any more?”

“There was that radical chap she used to run around with. It’s not likely she got much money out of him.”

“What radical chap?”

“He came here back during the strike—Quint is his name.”

“So he was on her list?”

“That’s supposed to be the reason he stayed here after the strike was over.”

“So he’s still on her list?”

“No. She told me she was afraid of him. He had threatened to kill her.”

“She seems to have had everybody on her string at one time or another,” I said.

“Everybody she wanted,” he said, and he said it seriously.

“Donald Willsson was the latest?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I had never heard anything about them, had never seen anything. The chief of police had us try to find any checks he may have issued to her before yesterday, but we found nothing. Nobody could remember ever having seen any.”

“Who was her last customer, so far as you know?”

“Lately I’ve seen her around town quite often with a chap named Thaler—he runs a couple of gambling houses here. They call him Whisper. You’ve probably heard of him.”

∴

At eight-thirty I left young Albury and set out for the Miner’s Hotel in Forest Street. Half a block from the hotel I met Bill Quint.

“Hello!” I hailed him. “I was on my way down to see you.”

He stopped in front of me, looked me up and down, growled:

“So you’re a gum-shoe.”

“That’s the bunk,” I complained. “I come all the way down here to rope you, and you’re smarted up.”

“What do you want to know now?” he asked.

“About Donald Willsson. You knew him, didn’t you?”

“I knew him.”

“Very well?”

“No.”

“What did you think of him?”

He pursed his gray lips, by forcing breath between them made a noise like a rag tearing, and said:

“A lousy liberal.”

“You know Dinah Brand?” I asked.

“I know her.” His neck was shorter and thicker than it had been.

“Think she killed Willsson?”

“Sure. It’s a kick in the pants.”

“Then you didn’t?”

“Hell, yes,” he said, “the pair of us together. Got any more questions?”

“Yeah, but I’ll save my breath. You’d only lie to me.”

I walked back to Broadway, found a taxi, and told the driver to take me to 1232 Hurricane Street.