“You can always telclass="underline" eyes and hands ... set too close together means a criminal.”
“His hands were set too close together...”
“Now don’t be maddening! He shot at you, didn’t he?”
I nodded calmly.
“Then you threw him to the ground and used judo to make him confess.”
“A somewhat highly colored version of what happened,” I said. “I was very brave though. Since he has the build of a somewhat frail praying mantis, you might say I had the edge on him.”
“Even so he had a gun. I suppose he’ll get the chair.” She sounded matter-of-fact.
“Never can tell. They’ll probably plead insanity ... especially after they read those notebooks of his. He gives the whole thing away . . . writes about a perfect crime which resembles the one he committed. I think he was a kind of maniac...”
“Oh you could tell that just by looking at him. I knew the first time I ever laid eyes on him. Not that I ever thought he’d done it. ... I won't say that...”
“Yet.”
“No, I won't say that but I did think him peculiar and you see how right I was. I’ve never seen so much space as the Globe gave you . . . that Mr. Bush must’ve been livid.”
“I think he was distressed.” It made me feel good, thinking of Elmer’s column being all chopped up because the issue which had contained my story had had a particularly well-displayed “America’s New York” telling how Elmer himself had helped gather the evidence which was to send Brexton to his just reward.
“Where’s Brexton now?”
“I don’t know. I think he’s gone off somewhere to hide . . . also to marry Allie when this thing dies down.” I got up and went over to a corner of the office where, face to the wall, was a large painting. “Brexton, with tears in his eyes, said he would give me anything I wanted: money, paintings . . . anything. I asked for this.” I turned the canvas around and there, triumphantly nude, reveling in her own golden skin was the young Mary Western Lung, not yet a penwoman, not yet the incomparable, fertile source of “Book-Chat.”
Liz shrieked with pleasure. “It’s Miss Lung! I can tell. You know she wasn’t at all bad-looking.”
“I ‘intend to keep this in the office for all to see. I shall collect a small but useful sum each month to keep it out of the hands of her competitors and enemies...”
“Her breasts were too big,” said Liz critically, that sharp slanted mean look on her face that women assume when examining on another.
“Many people like them that way,” I said, turning the picture back to the wall.
“Shall I go?”
“No, as a matter of fact there is an exercise which I’ve only just submitted to the patent office: it will make a pair of water wings out of the most nondescript. ...” I was heading purposefully toward Liz when the title box on my desk spluttered, exactly like Miss Flynn. I answered it.
“That Mr. Wheen who has been trying to contact you . . . he is on the Wire.” Miss Flynn’s voice dripped acid . . . she knew what was going on in the Inner Office. “I'll talk to him,” I said.
Liz came and sat on my lap, her hands were busy and embarrassing. “Stop that!” were the first words of mine Mr. Wheen heard.
“Stop what?” The voice was harsh, gravelly. “I just now got you, Mr. Sergeant...”
“I didn’t mean you, sir,” I said smoothly. “I understand you've been trying to get in touch with me...”
“Yeah, that’s right. I think I got a job for you. It’s about Muriel Sandoe.”
“Muriel Sandoe? I don’t think...”
“She was an associate of mine. You know her maybe by her professional name in the circus: ‘Peaches’ Sandoe. Well, you see this elephant. . .