took his beer to the womanâs table. She looked up at him.
âMay I join you?â
She smiled, faintly. âSuit yourself.â
Wallace offered his hand. âDavid Wallace,â he said. She shook his hand but said nothing. Wallace thought that she must be playing a game. But he didnât mind a game now and again. He smiled. âSo, you have no name, then?â
She didnât answer. Her faint smile reappeared.
âDo I have to guess?â Wallace asked.
âIf you like.â
He pretended to appraise her. âLet me see,â he said. âGreen eyes, green dress.â He pulled his chair back from the table and looked beneath it. âHa!â he said. âGreen shoes! Your name is Miss Green.â
She laughedâa kind of twitter. âNot even close.â
âYou have auburn hair. Miss Brown, then?â
âNo.â
âLetâs see. Iâm running out of colors. Miss Yellow?â
She laughed.
âTurquoise? No? I knowâyouâre French! Blanc. Miss Blanc! Hold on! Youâre blushing. Miss Rose?â
He believed the game to be a test. She wanted to see not only if he was willing to play, but how well he played. Apparently, heâd done well. The bloke of the night before likely hadnât.
âVery well,â she said. âI suppose Iâll have to tell you.â
âIâm all ears,â Wallace said. He tugged at his ears, pulling them out from his head.
She laughed againâsnorted. She put her right hand over her mouth, as if the unfeminine sound mortified her.
âSeriously, my dear,â Wallace said, affecting an upper-class accent. âWhat
is
your name? Mother
insists
on knowing.â
She twittered again. âDelilah,â she said.
Wallace sipped his beer, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. âDelilah what?â
âJust Delilah.â
Another game
. Delilah intrigued him. He quietly appraised her plump body. She was
voluptuous
âthat was the word. He reckoned she was maybe twenty-one. A good age. She had neither the look nor attitude of a virgin. Her modestyâthe hand over the mouth and the rest of itâwas affected, which added to her mystery.
She told him that she worked as a secretary in a firm of solicitors and was considering joining the WAAFs. He said that he was a copper, a sergeant. When she askedâas they always didâif he was stalking a killer, he told her as much about the Blackwell case as seemed prudent. She listened, rapt, as he described how theyâd found Will Blackwellâs body.
âIt all sounds so frightening,â she said.
Wallace shrugged. âI suppose. Though dead is dead, after all.â He smiled.
âYes, but the
way
he died.â She looked at her beer, which sheâd hardly touched. âPoor old man.â
âItâs possible he didnât feel anything beyond a knock on the back of the head. The killer drove in the pitchfork while the old boy wasunconscious. So the doc says.â He wondered if he was saying more than he shouldâif the beer was loosening his tongue. He must watch himself.
They talked for another half hour. Wallace tried to get more out of Delilahâwho she was, really, and why she had come to The Fallen Diva to sit alone. But Delilah deflected his questions. At closing, she said âI must get home now.â She offered no explanation and Wallace asked for none. He wondered if heâd pressed her too hard for information.
She picked up her purse and stood. Wallace escorted her to the dark street. Heâd had his three pints and felt within himself. He was prepared to go home, get a decent nightâs sleep, and appear in the nick on the following morning ready to go, like a loyal dog. Except that he didnât want to go home. Not yet.
The night had grown cool enough for a sweater, though Delilah had none. Wallace removed his coat and put it around her shoulders. To
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