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ring her phone. She’s taking no calls except from the Sheriff’s office in case they find her sister, or from the sister herself, in case she calls. Now do I make this clear? You don’t seem to get it through your head that a terrible thing happened to her today. Every picture critic, movie reporter, fan magazine, City editor, and just plain fool in five states is trying to get through to her; they’ve already begun arriving in town hoping to see her in person, and she simply can’t see every fan that shows up here and wants to be sent up.”
    “I’m not a fan. I got business with her.”
    “Your business will have to wait.”
    “She might not think so.”
    “I only go by her instructions.”
    The girl went off, but didn’t leave the hotel. She went to a far corner of the lobby and sat down, to the clerk’s obvious annoyance. Mr. Layton finished his business and started to leave, but something in the girl’s voice lingered in his ear. It seemed to him that in that “She might not think so” there was some hint of a threat. He turned, crossed to where she sat in a mulish sulk, and said: “I couldn’t help hearing what was said to you just now. I wonder if there’s something I could do for you? I sometimes transact business for Miss Shoreham.”
    Insurance was certainly some sort of business, and if he wasn’t doing much transacting he was at least trying to. She looked him over suspiciously and said: “You a friend of hers?”
    “Well—more like an agent.”
    Smiling, as though it had all been settled now, he said: “Let’s go have some coffee. In the dining room we won’t be overheard.”
    They went into the dining room, ordered coffee and canapes, lit cigarettes. He said: “Nice girl Sylvia. Very nice girl indeed. But she’s in one bad mess now.”
    “What do you mean, bad mess?”
    “Don’t believe everything you see in the papers.”
    This cryptic fly, cast at random in the direction of something that might be water and might be a whirl of gnats in Mr. Gans’ fevered imagination, brought a flash of fins and a spurt of foam. She said: “So you was in on the dirty work too, hey?”
    “ ... What dirty work do you mean?”
    “At the Domino.”
    “I was in town.”
    “You seem to know about it.”
    “You mean making something look like nothing?”
    “That’s what I mean.”
    “Let’s say I’m a pretty good guesser.”
    He laughed. She laughed. She had big white teeth. He remarked on them, and on her eyes, asked if she had Spanish blood. She said no, but she was one eighth Indian. He said he always said if a woman really wanted to be good-looking, one thing she couldn’t do without was a drop of Indian blood. He said he ought to have known it, because she had such beautiful black hair. The canapes came, and he poured her coffee, gallantly giving her his sugar. She said it didn’t look like there was much use trying to kid him, did it? He said he hoped her eyes weren’t kidding him, anyway. Abruptly she said: “I seen something out there today.”
    “At the Domino?”
    “I work there.”
    “In the bar?”
    “I deal blackjack.”
    “Oh yes of course.”
    “What’s your name?”
    “Layton. George M. Layton. What’s yours?”
    “Call me Ethel.”
    “Want to call me George?”
    “I don’t mind. George, I seen it all. I don’t mean what they said happened. I don’t mean what they done to fix it up and make it look like a accident. I mean I seen it. But don’t get me wrong. I didn’t come down here to make her feel bad or anything like that. That’s why that clerk made me so sore. I came down here for just the opposite. I came down here to let her know it was all right and she didn’t have nothing to fear. I come down to let her know that so far as I was concerned that husband of hers was a heel. You’d be that amazed, George, if you know the propositions he made me, while I was dealing him blackjack not an hour before she shot him. Wanted me to drive back to his shack