My destination was a gray frame cottage. When I rang the bell the door was opened by a thin man with a tired face that had no color in it except a red spot the size of a half-dollar high on each cheek. This, I thought, is the lunger Dan Rolff.

“I’d like to see Miss Brand,” I told him.

“What name shall I tell her?” His voice was a sick man’s and an educated man’s.

“It wouldn’t mean anything to her. I want to see her about Willsson’s death.”

He looked at me with level tired dark eyes and said:

“Yes?”

“I’m from the San Francisco office of the Continental Detective Agency. We’re interested in the murder.”

“That’s nice of you,” he said ironically. “Come in.”

I went in, into a ground floor room where a young woman sat at a table that had a lot of papers on it. Some of the papers were financial service bulletins, stock and bond market forecasts. One was a racing chart.

The room was disorderly, cluttered up. There were too many pieces of furniture in it, and none of them seemed to be in its proper place.

“Dinah,” the lunger introduced me, “this gentleman has come from San Francisco on behalf of the Continental Detective Agency to inquire into Mr. Donald Willsson’s demise.”

The young woman got up, kicked a couple of newspapers out of her way, and came to me with one hand out.

She was an inch or two taller than I, which made her about five feet eight. She had a broad-shouldered, full-breasted, round-hipped body and big muscular legs. The hand she gave me was soft, warm, strong. Her face was the face of a girl of twenty-five already showing signs of wear. Little lines crossed the corners of her big ripe mouth. Fainter lines were beginning to make nets around her thick-lashed eyes. They were large eyes, blue and a bit bloodshot.

Her coarse hair—brown—needed trimming and was parted crookedly. One side of her upper lip had been rouged higher than the other. Her dress was of a particularly unbecoming wine color, and it gaped here and there down one side, where she had neglected to snap the fasteners or they had popped open. There was a run down the front of her left stocking.

This was the Dinah Brand who took her pick of Poisonville’s men, according to what I had been told.

“His father sent for you, of course,” she said while she moved a pair of lizard-skin slippers and a cup and saucer off a chair to make room for me.

Her voice was soft, lazy.

I told her the truth:

“Donald Willsson sent for me. I was waiting to see him while he was being killed.”

“Don’t go away, Dan,” she called to Rolff.

He came back into the room. She returned to her place at the table. He sat on the opposite side, leaning his thin face on a thin hand, looking at me without interest.

She drew her brows together, making two creases between them, and asked:

“You mean he knew someone meant to kill him?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t say what he wanted. Maybe just help in the reform campaign.”

“But do you—?”

I made a complaint:

“It’s no fun being a sleuth when somebody steals your stuff, does all the questioning.”

“I like to find out what’s going on,” she said, a little laugh gurgling down in her throat.

“I’m that way too. For instance, I’d like to know why you made him have the check certified.”

Very casually, Dan Rolff shifted in his chair, leaning back, lowering his thin hands out of sight below the table’s edge.

“So you found out about that?” Dinah Brand asked. She crossed left leg over right and looked down. Her eyes focused on the run in her stocking. “Honest to God, I’m going to stop wearing them!” she complained. “I’m going barefooted. I paid five bucks for these socks yesterday. Now look at the damned things. Every day—runs, runs, runs!”

“It’s no secret,” I said. “I mean the check, not the runs. Noonan’s got it.”

She looked at Rolff, who stopped watching me long enough to nod once.

“If you talked my language,” she drawled, looking narrow-eyed at me, “I might be able to give you some help.”

“Maybe if I knew what it was.”

“Money,” she explained, “the more the better. I like it.”

I became proverbial:

“Money saved is money earned. I can save you money and grief.”

“That doesn’t mean anything to me,” she said, “though it sounds like it’s meant to.”

“The police haven’t asked you anything about the check?”

She shook her head, no.

I said:

“Noonan’s figuring on hanging the rap on you as well as on Whisper.”

“Don’t scare me,” she lisped. “I’m only a child.”

“Noonan knows that Thaler knew about the check. He knows that Thaler came here while Willsson was here, but didn’t get in. He knows that Thaler was hanging around the neighborhood when Willsson was shot. He knows that Thaler and a woman were seen bending over the dead man.”

The girl picked up a pencil from the table and thoughtfully scratched her cheek with it. The pencil made little curly black lines over the rouge.

Rolff’s eyes had lost their weariness. They were bright, feverish, fixed on mine. He leaned forward, but kept his hands out of sight below the table.

“Those things,” he said, “concern Thaler, not Miss Brand.”

“Thaler and Miss Brand aren’t strangers,” I said. “Willsson brought a five-thousand-dollar check here, and was killed leaving. That way, Miss Brand might have had trouble cashing it—if Willsson hadn’t been thoughtful enough to get it certified.”

“My God!” the girl protested, “if I’d been going to kill him I’d have done it in here where nobody could have seen it, or waited until he got out of sight of the house. What kind of a dumb onion do you take me for?”

“I’m not sure you killed him,” I said. “I’m just sure that the fat chief means to hang it on you.”

“What are you trying to do?” she asked.

“Learn who killed him. Not who could have or might have, but who did.”

“I could give you some help,” she said, “but there’d have to be something in it for me.”

“Safety,” I reminded her, but she shook her head.

“I mean it would have to get me something in a financial way. It’d be worth something to you, and you ought to pay something, even if not a fortune.”

“Can’t be done.” I grinned at her. “Forget the bank roll and go in for charity. Pretend I’m Bill Quint.”

Dan Rolff started up from his chair, lips white as the rest of his face. He sat down again when the girl laughed—a lazy, good-natured laugh.

“He thinks I didn’t make any profit out of Bill, Dan.” She leaned over and put a hand on my knee. “Suppose you knew far enough ahead that a company’s employes were going to strike, and when, and then far enough ahead when they were going to call the strike off. Could you take that info and some capital to the stock market and do yourself some good playing with the company’s stock? You bet you could!” she wound up triumphantly. “So don’t go around thinking that Bill didn’t pay his way.”

“You’ve been spoiled,” I said.

“What in the name of God’s the use of being so tight?” she demanded. “It’s not like it had to come out of your pocket. You’ve got an expense account, haven’t you?”

I didn’t say anything. She frowned at me, at the run in her stocking, and at Rolff. Then she said to him:

“Maybe he’d loosen up if he had a drink.”

The thin man got up and went out of the room.

She pouted at me, prodded my shin with her toe, and said:

“It’s not so much the money. It’s the principle of the thing. If a girl’s got something that’s worth something to somebody, she’s a boob if she doesn’t collect.”

I grinned.

“Why don’t you be a good guy?” she begged.

Dan Rolff came in with a siphon, a bottle of gin, some lemons, and a bowl of cracked ice. We had a drink apiece. The lunger went away. The girl and I wrangled over the money question while we had more drinks. I kept trying to keep the conversation on Thaler and Willsson. She kept switching it to the money she deserved. It went on that way until the gin bottle was empty. My watch said one-fifteen.

She chewed a piece of lemon peel and said for the thirtieth or fortieth time:

“It won’t come out of your pocket. What do you care?”

“It’s not the money,” I said, “it’s the principle of the thing.”

She made a face at me and put her glass where she thought the table was. She was eight inches wrong. I don’t remember if the glass broke when it hit the floor, or what happened to it. I do remember that I was encouraged by her missing the table.

“Another thing,” I opened up a new argumentative line, “I’m not sure I really need whatever you can tell me. If I have to get along without it, I think I can.”

“It’ll be nice if you can, but don’t forget I’m the last person who saw him alive, except whoever killed him.”

“Wrong,” I said. “His wife saw him come out, walk away, and fall.”

“His wife!”

“She was sitting in a coupé down the street.”

“How did she know he was here?”

“She says Thaler phoned her that her husband had come here with the check.”

“You’re trying to kid me,” the girl said. “Max couldn’t have known it.”

“I’m telling you what Mrs. Willsson told Noonan and me.”

The girl spit what was left of the lemon peel out on the floor, further disarranged her hair by running her fingers through it, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and slapped the table.

“All right, Mr. Knowitall,” she said, “I’m going to play with you. You can think it’s not going to cost you anything, but I’ll get mine before we’re through. You think I won’t?” she challenged me, peering at me as if I were a block away.

This was no time to revive the money argument, so I said: “I hope you do.” I think I said it three or four times, quite earnestly.

“I will. Now listen to me. You’re drunk, and I’m drunk, and I’m just exactly drunk enough to tell you anything you want to know. That’s the kind of girl I am. If I like a person I’ll tell them anything they want to know. Just ask me. Go ahead, ask me.”

I did:

“What did Willsson give you five thousand dollars for?”

“For fun.” She leaned back to laugh. Then: “Listen. He was hunting for scandal. I had some of it, some affidavits and things that I thought might be good for a piece of change some day. I’m a girl that likes to pick up a little jack when she can. So I had put these things away. When Donald began going after scalps I let him know that I had these things, and that they were for sale. I gave him enough of a peep at them to let him know they were good. And they were good. Then we talked how much. He wasn’t as tight as you—nobody ever was—but he was a little bit close. So the bargain hung fire, till yesterday.

“Then I gave him the rush, phoned him and told him I had another customer for the stuff and that if he wanted it he’d have to show up that night with either five thousand smacks in cash or a certified check. That was hooey, but he hadn’t been around much, so he fell for it.”

“Why ten o’clock?” I asked.

“Why not? That’s as good a time as any other. The main thing on a deal like that is to give them a definite time. Now you want to know why it had to be cash or a certified check? All right, I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you anything you want to know. That’s the kind of girl I am. Always was.”

She went on that way for five minutes, telling me in detail just which and what sort of a girl she was, and always had been, and why. I yes-yes’d her until I got a chance to cut in with:

“All right, now why did it have to be a certified check?”

She shut one eye, waggled a forefinger at me, and said:

“So he couldn’t stop payment. Because he couldn’t have used the stuff I sold him. It was good, all right. It was too good. It would have put his old man in jail with the rest of them. It would have nailed Papa Elihu tighter than anyone else.”

I laughed with her while I tried to keep my head above the gin I had guzzled.

“Who else would it nail?” I asked.

“The whole damned lot of them.” She waved a hand. “Max, Lew Yard, Pete, Noonan, and Elihu Willsson—the whole damned lot of them.”

“Did Max Thaler know what you were doing?”

“Of course not—nobody but Donald Willsson.”

“Sure of that?”

“Sure I’m sure. You don’t think I was going around bragging about it ahead of time, do you?”

“Who do you think knows about it now?”

“I don’t care,” she said. “It was only a joke on him. He couldn’t have used the stuff.”

“Do you think the birds whose secrets you sold will see anything funny in it? Noonan’s trying to hang the killing on you and Thaler. That means he found the stuff in Donald Willsson’s pocket. They all thought old Elihu was using his son to break them, didn’t they?”

“Yes, sir,” she said, “and I’m one who thinks the same thing.”

“You’re probably wrong, but that doesn’t matter. If Noonan found the things you sold Donald Willsson in his pocket, and learned you had sold them to him, why shouldn’t he add that up to mean that you and your friend Thaler had gone over to old Elihu’s side?”

“He can see that old Elihu would be hurt as much as anybody else.”

“What was this junk you sold him?”

“They built a new City Hall three years ago,” she said, “and none of them lost any money on it. If Noonan got the papers he’ll pretty soon find out that they tied as much on old Elihu, or more, than on anybody else.”

“That doesn’t make any difference. He’ll take it for granted that the old man had found an out for himself. Take my word for it, sister, Noonan and his friends think you and Thaler and Elihu are double-crossing them.”

“I don’t give a damn what they think,” she said obstinately. “It was only a joke. That’s all I meant it for. That’s all it was.”

“That’s good,” I growled. “You can go to the gallows with a clear conscience. Have you seen Thaler since the murder?”

“No, but Max didn’t kill him, if that’s what you think, even if he was around.”

“Why?”

“Lots of reasons. First place, Max wouldn’t have done it himself. He’d have had somebody else do it, and he’d have been way off with an alibi nobody could shake. Second place, Max carries a .38, and anybody he sent to do the job would have had that much gun or more. What kind of a gunman would use a .32?”

“Then who did it?”

“I’ve told you all I know,” she said. “I’ve told you too much.”

I stood up and said:

“No, you’ve told me just exactly enough.”

“You mean you think you know who killed him?”

“Yeah, though there’s a couple of things I’ll have to cover before I make the pinch.”

“Who? Who?” She stood up, suddenly almost sober, tugging at my lapels. “Tell me who did it.”

“Not now.”

“Be a good guy.”

“Not now.”

She let go my lapels, put her hands behind her, and laughed in my face.

“All right. Keep it to yourself—and try to figure out which part of what I told you is the truth.”

I said:

“Thanks for the part that is, anyhow, and for the gin. And if Max Thaler means anything to you, you ought to pass him the word that Noonan’s trying to rib him.”