library of gramophone records in a cabinet by the door.
One look at the titles of the books and the records convinced me that Audrey Sheridan had a serious mind. I have always distrusted serious-minded women; but a serious-minded woman who took the trouble to learn jiu-jitsu and who didn ’ t hesitate to steal evidence from a fellow dick looked like poison to me.
I set fire to a cigarette, tossed the match into the fireplace and dragged down a lungful of smoke.
I decided it was time for Audrey Sheridan and me to have a little talk.
With one last glance around the disordered room, I went out, closing the door behind me.
* * *
At the far end of a light, airy passage was a door lettered in bright gilt on pebbled glass: “ The Alert Agency. ”
I turned the doorknob and went in.
The room was small. Two windows covered by cream net curtains faced me.
Three armchairs stood against the apple-green painted walls and on a light oak table under the windows were scattered copies of Saturday Evening Post, Harpers and the New Yorker. Bowls of bright flowers made pools of colour around the room and a thick Turkey carpet, thick enough to tickle my ankles, covered the floor. As an outer office of a detective agency it was something to see.
I was just recovering from the shock when I ran into another. The door leading into the main office jerked open and Jeff Gordan slid out. He had a gun in his hand and he pointed it at me. The muzzle of the gun looked to me as big and as steady as a tunnel.
“ For God ’ s sake, ” Jeff said, showing yellow teeth, “ look who ’ s here. ”
“ Well, well, ” I countered, “ if it isn ’ t Jeff! You do get around, don ’ t you? ”
He threatened me with the gun. “ Grab some cloud, you son of a bitch, and don ’ t start anything you can ’ t finish. ”
I raised my hands to my shoulders. “ The Warner Brothers have a lot to answer for, ” I said, with feeling. “ Can ’ t you cut this Bogart stuff out? ”
Jeff called through the open door: “ Hey, look what ’ s blown in. ”
A man ’ s voice said sharply: “ Who is it? The voice was high-pitched and staccato; the same voice that had threatened Dixon over the telephone.
“ The New York dick, ” Jeff said, grinning evilly at me.
“ Bring him in here, ” the high-pitched voice said.
Jeff jerked his head at the door. “ Get in, you. ”
“ Now wait a minute, ” I said hurriedly. “ I came to see Miss Sheridan. If she ’ s all tied up, I ’ ll come back. ”
Jeff sniggered. “ She ’ s tied up all right, ” he said, “ but that ain ’ t going to trouble you. ” His face changed to purple viciousness. “ Get in, you louse! ”
I shrugged and, keeping my hands up, walked into the other room.
The room was as big as the outer office was small. Another fitted Turkey carpet covered the floor. A big mahogany desk stood by the open window, and two armchairs, filing cases, and other office equipment completed the furnishing.
The room had none of the ordered neatness of the outer office. It looked like it had been hit by a hurricane. Drawers were pulled out, papers were scattered all over the floor, filing cabinets spilled their contents on the carpet.
There were three people in the room. A girl and two men.
The girl was, of course, Audrey Sheridan. I was about to give her a cursory glance, but I changed my mind. I stared plenty. She was sitting in a chair set in the middle of the room. Her hands were tied behind the chair. For the moment I dismissed that as unimportant. I concentrated on her as a person. As a person, Audrey Sheridan was something to see. She had broad shoulders and narrow hips and a figure that Varga likes to draw. Her eyes were large, blue in colour, with long, silky eyelashes. Her mouth was large, full-lipped and scarlet. Her hair, red shot with gold, fell to her shoulders in long, thick waves. If you can ’ t imagine her from this, then think of Joan Crawford and you ’ ll be near
One look at the titles of the books and the records convinced me that Audrey Sheridan had a serious mind. I have always distrusted serious-minded women; but a serious-minded woman who took the trouble to learn jiu-jitsu and who didn ’ t hesitate to steal evidence from a fellow dick looked like poison to me.
I set fire to a cigarette, tossed the match into the fireplace and dragged down a lungful of smoke.
I decided it was time for Audrey Sheridan and me to have a little talk.
With one last glance around the disordered room, I went out, closing the door behind me.
* * *
At the far end of a light, airy passage was a door lettered in bright gilt on pebbled glass: “ The Alert Agency. ”
I turned the doorknob and went in.
The room was small. Two windows covered by cream net curtains faced me.
Three armchairs stood against the apple-green painted walls and on a light oak table under the windows were scattered copies of Saturday Evening Post, Harpers and the New Yorker. Bowls of bright flowers made pools of colour around the room and a thick Turkey carpet, thick enough to tickle my ankles, covered the floor. As an outer office of a detective agency it was something to see.
I was just recovering from the shock when I ran into another. The door leading into the main office jerked open and Jeff Gordan slid out. He had a gun in his hand and he pointed it at me. The muzzle of the gun looked to me as big and as steady as a tunnel.
“ For God ’ s sake, ” Jeff said, showing yellow teeth, “ look who ’ s here. ”
“ Well, well, ” I countered, “ if it isn ’ t Jeff! You do get around, don ’ t you? ”
He threatened me with the gun. “ Grab some cloud, you son of a bitch, and don ’ t start anything you can ’ t finish. ”
I raised my hands to my shoulders. “ The Warner Brothers have a lot to answer for, ” I said, with feeling. “ Can ’ t you cut this Bogart stuff out? ”
Jeff called through the open door: “ Hey, look what ’ s blown in. ”
A man ’ s voice said sharply: “ Who is it? The voice was high-pitched and staccato; the same voice that had threatened Dixon over the telephone.
“ The New York dick, ” Jeff said, grinning evilly at me.
“ Bring him in here, ” the high-pitched voice said.
Jeff jerked his head at the door. “ Get in, you. ”
“ Now wait a minute, ” I said hurriedly. “ I came to see Miss Sheridan. If she ’ s all tied up, I ’ ll come back. ”
Jeff sniggered. “ She ’ s tied up all right, ” he said, “ but that ain ’ t going to trouble you. ” His face changed to purple viciousness. “ Get in, you louse! ”
I shrugged and, keeping my hands up, walked into the other room.
The room was as big as the outer office was small. Another fitted Turkey carpet covered the floor. A big mahogany desk stood by the open window, and two armchairs, filing cases, and other office equipment completed the furnishing.
The room had none of the ordered neatness of the outer office. It looked like it had been hit by a hurricane. Drawers were pulled out, papers were scattered all over the floor, filing cabinets spilled their contents on the carpet.
There were three people in the room. A girl and two men.
The girl was, of course, Audrey Sheridan. I was about to give her a cursory glance, but I changed my mind. I stared plenty. She was sitting in a chair set in the middle of the room. Her hands were tied behind the chair. For the moment I dismissed that as unimportant. I concentrated on her as a person. As a person, Audrey Sheridan was something to see. She had broad shoulders and narrow hips and a figure that Varga likes to draw. Her eyes were large, blue in colour, with long, silky eyelashes. Her mouth was large, full-lipped and scarlet. Her hair, red shot with gold, fell to her shoulders in long, thick waves. If you can ’ t imagine her from this, then think of Joan Crawford and you ’ ll be near
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