She sat down on the edge of an overstuffed chair, leaned forward to share a match with him, then sat back and blew smoke through her nostrils.
“How did you know Dixon was mixed in it?” she asked cautiously.
“Oh, I figured it out,” he said.
“Did you get into the house?” she inquired.
“Yes, that’s where I made my mistake — going in. You see, the door was open.”
She nodded, then said after a moment, “Do the police know that?”
“I think they do. They know I must have picked up the stuff after Dixon was killed.”
“What stuff?”
“A whole suitcase full of it.”
She sat utterly motionless, the cigarette, forgotten, burning between the fingers of her right hand.
“The house was dark,” Moraine said. “A tree had blown across the light wires, and...”
“Yes, I read about it. They had it in the late morning edition.”
“Most unfortunate,” he told her. “Of course, I wouldn’t have gone up in the upper corridor unless I’d heard someone moving around. I thought of course it was Dixon. I went up. It wasn’t Dixon.”
“Who was it?”
“Why,” he said, “Thorne — your boy-friend. He was wandering around up there with a gun in his hand.”
Her nostrils were distended now. She leaned forward.
“And then what happened?”
He yawned and settled back in his chair.
“Lord, I’m sleepy,” he said. “How about a drink?”
“Tell me what happened.”
“I want a drink.”
She jumped up from the chair, started toward the little kitchenette.
Moraine settled back in the chair.
“Come on and help me mix it,” she said, pausing in the doorway.
Moraine reluctantly got to his feet, came toward her.
“Got some stuff here?” he asked.
“Yes, this is an apartment hotel. I have a little kitchenette where I can cook. There’s an icebox, and I’ve got some Scotch.”
“Swell!” he told her. “How about soda?”
“I’ve got some of that too.”
She opened the door, disclosing a kitchenette, took ice cubes from an electric refrigerator, produced a bottle of Scotch.
“Help yourself.”
“You’re joining me?”
“With a little one.”
“Better take a big one.”
“No, I don’t want to get crocked.”
“Why not?” he asked. “Of all the foolish things I’ve ever heard anyone say, that remark takes first prize.”
She giggled a bit and poured Scotch into the glasses. He noticed that her hand was quivering.
“Did Thorne see you?” she asked.
“Oh, Lord,” he said, “you would keep bringing that up. Listen, sister, let’s have about two fingers more Scotch.”
She poured more liquor into one glass.
Moraine switched glasses.
“Come on,” he said, “come on, loosen up and act natural.”
She poured liquor into the other glass.
“I can’t get drunk,” she said.
“Why not?”
“I’ve got the jitters.”
“That’s good for the jitters.”
“You were telling me about Thorne,” she said.
“Oh, was I?”
“Yes.”
“Did Thorne see you?”
“I think he did, but not clearly.”
“You say he had a gun?”
Moraine held the glass under the opening of the soda siphon, watched the liquid hiss into the glass.
“I guess I threw pretty much of a scare into Thorne,” he said. “He heard me and didn’t know who it was. He ran out of the room before he’d got what he wanted.”
She held her own glass to the soda siphon. The rim of it clicked several times against the metal top of the bottle as her hand shook.
“Did he run?”
“He most certainly did. I’ve never seen a man so frightened in my life. He heard me coming down the corridor, and he went out of that room as though he’d been a football player running for a touchdown.”
“Did he recognize you?”
“Frankly, I don’t think he did.”
“But you recognized him?”
“Oh, yes, I saw him clearly.”
“Then what?”
He touched his glass to hers. “My God,” he said, “but you’re inquisitive! Come on in here and sit down.”
They returned to the overstuffed chairs. She gulped more than half of her drink, then stared steadily at him.
“You went into the room?”
“What room?”
“The one that Thorne ran out of.”
“Oh, yes.”
“And Dixon was dead?”
“Yes, he was dead, and there was a suitcase full of papers and stuff lying on the table. There were four shorthand notebooks tied together.”
“Four shorthand notebooks,” she repeated, almost in a whisper.
Moraine nodded cheerfully.
“Did you call the police?’”
“No,” he said, “I looked around and saw there was nothing I could do. I didn’t see why I should mix into it. I figured no one would ever find out I’d been out there. I looked at the papers in the suitcase and they were filled with some pretty interesting stuff.”
“So what did you do?”
“I played a lucky hunch,” Moraine told her, “and took the whole suitcase full of papers with me.”
“They were all together in a suitcase?”
“Yes.”
She was watching him now as a cat watches a goldfish.
“You took that whole suitcase with you?”
“Yes.”
“Did Thorne know you’d taken it with you?”
“I don’t think so. Thorne skipped out.”
“Perhaps,” she said, “he’d been figuring on taking those things with him. Perhaps that’s why they were in the suitcase.”
“No,” Moraine said, “that’s the funny part of it. Dixon was going before the grand jury to-day. It had all been fixed up. The grand jury was going to subpoena him as a surprise witness. He was going to tell a lot of stuff about graft and corruption and throw these papers in front of the grand jury to prove it. So Dixon had them all neatly packed in a suitcase. He was going over things and getting them in order, getting ready to give his testimony.”
“Then why didn’t Thorne take that suitcase?”
“He never had time,” Moraine said. “There was a train going past the place as I was climbing the stairs. That’s why I didn’t hear the shot and why Thorne didn’t hear me coming until I was up the stairs and part way down the corridor.”
“You’re on the lam now?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“You re hot — they’re looking for you?”
“I’ll say they’re looking for me.”
“What did you do with the papers?”
“Carried them with me, of course. They’re too valuable to leave anywhere.”
“If they catch you they’ll pick up the papers.”
“That’s what I figured,” he said, “and that’s the reason I came here.”
“How did you know I was here?”
“That’s a secret.”
“You must tell me.”
“Oh, no, that’s a professional secret. I like to do a little detective work on the side, you know.”
She was breathing deeply and rapidly.
“I’m going to be frank with you,” she said.
“It always pays to be frank,” he told her.
“I’m hiding out, myself.”
“I gathered as much, from the fact that you’re registered here as Mrs. G. C. Chester.”
“If,” she said, “you found out that I was here, others must have found it out.”
“Oh, no, they haven’t — otherwise I wouldn’t have been here.”
“But why did you come?”
“Because it was the safest place I could think of. I figured no one would ever think of looking for me here.”