"Pleased to meet you, Miss Essex," I said after Suzette introduced her.

"It's kind of you to meet with me, Mr. Devereaux," she lied. "I have a very simple problem: two men are following me. They're there whenever I come out of my apartment building. I tried talking to them. They wouldn't tell me anything. They look like plain, well-mannered men, always wearing neatly-pressed business suits. I can't understand it for the life of me."

"Where are they now?"

She looked down. "Well, they don't follow me every day. It's highly irregular, isn't it Mr. Devereaux, two men - for no earthly reason?"

"Highly. What sort of work do you do, Miss Essex."

"I was at the university, but that was a while ago. I get by on my aunt's savings. She lives in Rochester. You can guess the rest of the story."

"And this never happened before?"

"Never, Mr. Devereaux." She bit her lower lip and looked genuinely anxious.

"What do you want me to do, Miss Essex?" I was hoping for more rather than less.

"I'd like to call you next time it happens. Maybe you can find out what they want from me." She moved to get up.

"That seems fair." She tried to open her purse but I stopped her. "I only bill after the job is complete, Miss Essex. Rest easy, I'll be reachable."

She thanked me and I opened the door and let her out. Then I sank back into my chair and dreamed a light, little dream of a private eye meeting a glamorous but unattached woman of independent means.

She called my office the next day at around noon. She called from the Peterson Bar and Grill at Hennepin and 2nd. It was just down the block. Too good to be true.

She was sitting at the bar smoking a cigarette. She looked up. I smiled like a boy. Two men in a booth looked up at me. They wore business suits, both blue, but one had his tie off. They both wore glasses. I couldn't make much out of their appearances. I swept the smile off my face and scowled a little, ordered three gimlets for the table, waited till the waiter brought them, then walked over and introduced myself.

"Gentlemen, I'm Douglas Devereaux. I'd like to talk to you about your line of work. Maybe we can come to a little arrangement."

"Thank you for the drinks, Mr. Devereaux," the tie-less one said, "but we can't just now. And thank you for agreeing to come. We've been trying to find you for some time."

I was briefly nonplussed, and glanced to Miss Essex for support. She'd turned away.

I put on the tough guy act again, or tried. "Listen, I don't know what type of game you play, but I'm here because you've been bothering my friend."

"I didn't know we'd been any trouble to your friends, Mr. Devereaux. It's just that you're so hard to reach, as is so often the case, we find. But I haven't introduced myself properly." He dipped into a briefcase I hadn't noticed at his side, then handed me a business card. "Gerald Ross, Treasury Department, Bureau of Internal Revenue. This is my deputy Mr. Fallon. Now," and suddenly the full briefcase was on the table, contents being unloaded into an open space, "we'd like to ask you some questions about the return you filed this year."

The two men began speaking animatedly about receipts and business expenses, deductions and exemptions, but I didn't hear them. I sipped a little of my drink, then lit a cigarette and looked at the ceiling forlornly.

It's the cases you want most that you should never agree to take.

After thirty minutes of very friendly discussion, the three of us were in agreement that I could hardly avoid filing an amended return complete with penalty. We shook hands and promised to enjoy the pleasure of one another's company again quite soon. Then they headed for the door and I followed.

Everything looked set to fade to black, but as I pulled open the door in walked Marty Scorpino, one of my hefty mob-looking friends, wearing a white flanel blazer and wilting pink carnation. He looked like he'd fallen off Hell-on-Wheels at 70 mph and rolled three dozen yards. His jacket was torn at the elbow and there was dirt on his forhead. He wasn't paying any attention and the unexpected opening of the door threw him off balance. He careened into me like a barge hitting a sandbar, prow first.

"You got mud on my shirt, Marty."

"It suits you. Taking up doorkeeping as a sideline gig?"

"You got it all wrong, Mart. It's being a PI that's a sideline. And here they only let me open the door for nice people like you. What's with the getup?"

He wiped his forehead with the ripped material in his coat. "Sure, go on and ride me. I've been taking it all day."

"Don't get sentimental. There are three gimlets at the table over there and if you act fast we might share them. And then you can tell me as much or as little about whatever's bothering you, if you decide anything is bothering you. Free of charge since the one thing I know about this town is that if Marty Scorpino's in it, he's broke."

I indicated the table with a shake of the head. He slid into the booth after taking his blazer off and loosening his shirt. Then he picked the carnation out of his blazer and fiddled with it until I made him stop.

"Who's been into you?" I asked.

"Two guys loaned me some money to get them some information. I didn't like them so well, and it wasn't much money considering what they wanted, so I decided to keep the bankroll. They don't like me so well now either."

I lit a cigarette. It was 1935 after all. What's the point of setting your story in 1935 if you can't smoke in every other scene? Besides, I was trying to kill time in a way Marty wouldn't notice. You start interrupting these big beefy types with a lot of fool questions and they clam up. A silent hand at the tiller is mandatory. I inhaled noiselessly.

"They're setting up some kind of art heist, Joe. What the hell do they need a grand for if they're busy setting up something big? Why not let me keep the money, just to keep me quiet?" He looked genuinely confused. Actually, he looked like a sad puppy, only bigger and uglier. But I didn't say so. Again, the silent touch seemed indicated.

"Down at the Musee del Arte on 10th Street. I told them all about how the guards went in four shifts, overlapping for an hour or two depending on which shift, so that there are always about four guards and never the same group for too long at a stretch. Duties rotate too. That fascinated them. Everything I told them they took in like a hot tip on the race dogs. They didn't look too tough, but it's the amateurs that look tough, ain't it Joe?"

My name was Douglas, but I didn't mind. I started in on my third gimlet while he had a go at his first. It was around this time that I noticed Miss Essex was still at the bar. Maybe she looked classy and maybe she didn't. It would depend what I thought of her at the time. We exchanged glances.

"Where do people go in this town to hook up with layabouts like you, Marty? Who's your agent, and what's his cut?"

"I'm my own agent. Dress well and get your clothes ripped up often - it's only one method of advertisement, but it's effective for me, if you call one large once every six months effective."

"Uh-huh."

Marty emptied his glass and sat bolt upright in the booth. He looked at me straight in the eye, a power nobody ever knew he had before. Maybe he never knew he had it before. The man's gaze was riveting. He put his hands out in front of him on the table flat with the fingers spread out.

"Thing that gets me burned about it is they actually got the money. Not their money, but some other money, money I have to return to someone else who isn't cheap enough to go trolling for data on art museum logistics by dragging ten hundreds down the greasy end of a downtown bar. I'm talking about trouble, Joe, trouble enough to buy you thirty of these blazers if I you get it back and enough to buy me a large but narrow black box if you don't."

"How did you find me, Marty? Radio, newspaper advertisement, recommendation of a friend, referral from a professional, other source-kindly-fill-in-the-blank?"

He looked confused again, and it suited him.

"I just followed the obvious-looking Treasury guys - they were with you, right?"

"Go on and ride me," I said. "They all do. I've been taking it all day."

"That's okay, Joe. I'll do the job of both of us. Since you didn't ask what they looked like, I'll tell you anyway. One was short, dark hair, glasses, dressed like a hustler, wide tie, wide-brimmed hat with white, wide pants. Why do they dress like that Joe? The other was short too, but snappy. Green tie, no glasses, white shirt, pressed, and he had those nice cuff-links."

"Don't suppose they ever change clothes, do you Marty?"

"I'm no art-lover, how would I know? The second guy had a moustache and weighed about 230, at 5'5". Furtive looks. This guy was probably the brains of the operation."

I pictured the odd couple rambling through the collection on a Saturday afternoon trying to look just dopey enough to be inconspicuous without looking dopey enough to attract attention. Probably the short guy went around grunting his responses to the dumb one's remarks - the first would be saying things like, "I like them scenic ones best, don't you Pete?" And he'd be completely serious, too. Other people would stare, or snicker, but the smart short guy would look straight ahead, trying to imagine for all the world that the painting in front of him - the one with the bright light on it and the slightly-unsightly metal frame bolted to the concrete wall - was made out of large loose bills that could be swept up with two deft shakes of a thief's sleave. He'd be thinking about big blowtorches, large steel cutting tools that take three people to hold, and specialty knives that can bust canvasses out of frames without causing undue damage to old paintings or to the people who want to steal them. Then he'd think about where they keep the keys for the big metal frame, who guards them, and who would notice their absence when.

Only then would the smart short man start spending the money in his head.

"Maybe they're after one of the guards. You think of that?"

"Yeah, Joe. Real smart. Anyway, here's where I met them: Tom's Diner on 13th Street. They called me up beforehand and named the place. They left first and I watched them go. They got into a fancy white heap, '33 Ford with a big running board. The vehicle was pretty beat up already and the spare tires were gone. But they didn't strike me as car thieves. Not much help, but you might want to watch for that car, anyway."

I nodded. Marty is a good guy in some ways.

"They made a U-turn and went south. But that could mean anything too. Least ways it means they aren't hanging their hats downtown."

"You met them when?"

"Right, Joe, even though it was late they could've been going anywhere. But the patient always has to mention everything. You're the doctor. Oh, on the phone I heard one of them call the other 'Joneson,' and I don't think they knew I heard. No Joneson in this town according to the operator."

"You might have heard wrong."

"Who's the skirt?"

I looked back at Marty, realizing my gaze had wandered.

"I'm surprised you don't know her, Marty. She and you are in the same line of work."

"If so, she's good. I didn't nail her for a fixer, but she could slide into the part easy enough."

I gave him back the carnation and told him to get lost, but fast. Then I headed out the door and into a bar on the other side of town.

"Hey Douglas, don't bring those sour looks in here, baby." The voice was Wendolyn's, and it came from over her shoulder as she wiped down the bar from end to end with a dirty rag. I guessed she'd seen my reflection in a bottle somewhere across the room, but couldn't be sure.

"Sorry, Wendo. Thing is, I didn't get the chance to drop by the office for that rainbow you usually see round my shoulders." I shook my head glumly and gave the woman a toothy grin as she passed the required martini across. "Also, the tax people repossessed my bluebird."

She took in her breath and gave an exaggerated look of surprise: "I wondered about those guys." This didn't brighten my day much.

"You saying you saw them too?"

"Hey turn down the heat, your blood's boiling. Told them I never saw you before and wouldn't let you in here if I had."

I shook my head, a bad idea when sipping martinis. "Maybe if you'd thought of a more plausible story - "

"I was saving it for the shakedown, mac! Listen, are we still pals?" She rested her arm down low on the bar: "Because gin prices are up."

She waggled an eyebrow. I made eye contact, then gave my toothy grin again, without the cocky remark this time.

"Your secretary rang up. She says Miss Essex called again."

"Angel!" I said, picking up the instrument behind the bar. "Give me Downtown 4-1-9 please," I said to the operator, then to Wendolyn: "You know this Essex lady? She was looking for me yesterday too."

"Women looking for you? Baby, every night I try to forget them." She moved off as I spoke into the phone.

"What's the story on Essex, kid?"

My secretary told me in few words that she'd been in and would call again and had left the Curtis Hotel as her address. I repeated it all back to her like they always do in pictures.

"You get a bead on what she wants this time?"

She spoke animatedly for a moment.

"Agitated, hm? No details? What was she wearing? Or carrying?"

There were no details. I told her to keep a sharp lookout in case any strolled by, singly or in small clusters. Then I rang off and pulled out some coins and started to stack them on the table.

"Wendo, I'm looking for two art thieves or would-be thieves. Something about the Musee del Arte on 10th."

"Honestly, I've never heard of the place, but then again neither have you."

"Exactly. So who'd I talk to if I wanted to find out about it, meaning if I wanted to made a play for whatever swag these people are after."

"Simple. Find out who they are, what they want, who they're giving it to, then bust them over the head."

"What if I did a deal with the Musee del Arte instead? Finder's fee or help them prevent the crime altogether."

"Museum types could be tough eggs. Moralists. If you want a percentage you're better off throwing your lot in with the hardened criminal element."

"Got time to look at some paintings, Wendolyn?"

"Never - until just now."

The Musee del Arte is a pile of bricks in a bad neighborhood, or at least the people who go to the Musee del Arte think it's a bad neighborhood because the trash cans are always full and steam comes out of manhole covers during the night. Some people make a hobby out of deciding whether a neighborhood is good or not. It's easier than thinking about art. With art you've got to try to like whatever they're showing. They call it "appreciation."

I like art. It doesn't hurt me any to like it. Art has a way with solitary guys with short-brimmed hats and narrow ties. It's soothing. It doesn't show up at the bar at the wrong time. It brings people together yet never wants to bum a cigarrette or dominate the conversation with your lady friend. Like Dorothy Parker says, it's the best of friends, the same today and forever.

Wendolyn likes art too. We were there around five minutes before she found a friend, a human one. The man was a security guard.

"There's only one here they're telling me to worry about. This place isn't a basket of thrills this time of year anyway. Hitch is: the only info I can slip you is where it'll sit. Hasn't arrived yet."

We'd been strolling between rooms, and now we hove in sight of a large blank space on the wall.

"Can't say how much it'll be worth. But they're worried about it. I'll guess a hundred grand give or take fifty percent. Arriving tonight. Leaving in a month. Catch is: it's been arriving tonight for a week now, if you know what I mean."

"It got delayed."

"No art never got delayed on its way to this museum before, no sir."

"Uh-huh."

All three of us rubbed our chins for a while. Then I scratched my ear a bit to be different, saying: "You hear anything?"

"Silence of the tomb, buddy. I can't even start any rumors. Everyone in this joint clammed up about a week ago and nothing since. You might be able to tell me something."

"A guy got robbed by some people who took an interest in your museum, but I don't know what interest or when. All I know is what they were wearing."

"Clothes make the man - maybe."

It was a woman's voice but not Wendolyn's.

Miss Essex was at my side looking blankly at the empty space. The guard and the bartender slipped away from my immediate attention. I stuck a toothpick in my mouth and acted unruffled.

"Okay, I'll drop my nickel. Miss Essex, are you just a casual art lover, or is there a professional interest?"

"I don't blame you for being angry, Mr. Devereaux. I came to apologize. I saw an opportunity and took it. It was mercenary of me, but that, if you'll pardon the expression, is in the past. I'd like to help you, if I can."

She looked at me with the most profoundly alluring eyes and lips dripping with feeling. She poured on the syrup. I looked, then turned and walked away a bit and turned around again, clapping my hands once loudly and smiling.

"That's great," I added. "Shall we trade marbles now? And tell me, where do you buy your banana oil?"

"I deserve that, I do. On the other hand, you can't possibly expect me to believe that a man with your resourcefulness can't handle a little bureaucracy now and then. Won't you forgive me now? We can talk about art - and about Marty."

"So you want to take my business away from me now too? Miss Essex," I held her hand, "why were you so agitated when you came to my office just now?"

Her eyes flicked and she looked down. I added: "Prove you're here to help."

She pulled her hands away and looked to the side: "I can't talk here and I can't talk now. Come to my hotel in three hours. I'm not lying to you Douglas."

There wasn't an answer at the door to Marty's apartment, so I took the elevator down to the street and walked to the diner on the corner intent on killing some time. Where I sat at the counter had a clear view of the street and of the entrance. It was a one-man stakeout: I'd give him a solid hour or longer depending on how lunch looked. My coffee came and I glanced at the newspaper the guy on the stool next to mine was reading. Nothing about art. I read all the headlines twice and then looked at the man's hand while I waited for him to turn the page. He had on a white shirt with those flashy cuff-links you still see now and then. He was a short but big guy. His tall friend with the loud clothing was staring at the entrance across the street with rapt attention, mouth twisting a little as though he couldn't bear the concentration.

He was still wearing the wide hustler outfit. Maybe he never did change clothes.

"You want Marty Scorpino today you go through me," I said into my coffee cup. The two men turned toward me with expressions blanker than a blue North Dakota sky. The dumb guy moved to stand next to me, casually blocking the way to the door. His blank expression held.

"And to answer your questions," I added, "I'm working for myself today, so just relax."

Actually, they looked relaxed already. They kept up the quiet. I couldn't pick which part to play so I decided to play them all:

"I want either the money, or the art. Which will it be?"

"Well 23-skidoo," the dumb guy said, then smiled and looked at the short one.

"You made a mistake there," said the short one, "showed us your hand a little. You must not know us very well if you think we'd have what you seem to say we have."

"So you're fresh out of great masterpieces and large sacks of dough, that right?"

"We can't keep a dime around the house, for cryin' out loud, not with every Tom, Dick and Harry kicking into our ribs four nights out of a week. We don't blend in. We don't try. And we don't have the goods you're shopping for. Too hot. If we had any art - and like I say it's too hot for us in any case - we'd scarcely be lurking around trying to get the drop on cheap Minneapolis hoodlums like - " He broke off with a nod of the head and a wrinkled look like he'd just sniffed a rancid bottle of milk. "But you can shake us down if you like - and get shinned."

"Uh-huh. What have you got on Marty then?"

"Like I say," said the short one again, "everybody's kicking into us. He started the day we got into town, but then he stopped last night, and we wanted to know why."

I got wistful. "Last night, eh?" I said without meaning to.

"At first we thought he was a second-hand chisel. We can stand a certain amount of chiselling. It's in our line. Guys with chisels, they keep away from the law and have a friendly bedside manner. If we're sore with Marty it's for a reason. And if you know anything about it you'd be wise to throw the rest of your cards down."

I made a genuine smile and patted my knees with both hands. "I like you guys. Marty told me you had his money, and he told me you threw him around. Anything to it?"

"It's hooey," said the dumb guy in a toneless voice, looking across the street.

"You want to reach me, I'm at two-forty-three Marquette, second floor, Devereaux Investigations."

"Play nice and you'll come out of this well," said the short one. "I don't have to tell you not to play it any other way. Now, we like to take our lunch in privacy." He indicated the door with a shake of the head, and I made for it.

I rang up the office. Suzette answered, a reassuring voice. "No messages?" I said into the receiver. "Okay. All my love." I hung up, then walked into the sitting area of the Curtis Hotel. A couple was chatting lightly in one corner, and a businessman was reading the paper on the couch. I was an hour early. I asked a bellhop if he could bring me some bread and coffee from the restaurant for a dollar and he obliged. I laid out ten other dollars on the coffee table, and when he came back I gave him one and asked him to sit down.

"I'm a private investigator," I said, and waited. He looked at the money and then at me.

"Okay, I'll talk."

"Anybody else like me come in here lately swinging bills around in exchange for information?"

"Nope."

I gave him a dollar. He waved to the desk clerk and then pulled his chair around so it blocked the view of the currency.

"Miss Essex - you seen her?"

"Third floor, not much money, lots of friends. Very pretty. I've seen her."

Another dollar. "What friends?"

"Starting a week ago, two guys, one short and beefy, one tall and sloppily dressed. Very distinctive couple."

I gave him two dollars, then rubbed my face a little. "How often?"

"Just twice, but once was when she'd told the desk to say she'd checked out. They didn't believe it."

Another dollar. "What happened."

"I don't know. They made a call and she came down and left with them."

Another dollar. "Anyone else?"

"A couple of them maybe. I don't remember." He put his legs on the coffee table, covering up the money while the couple went out, then put his feet back on the floor. "Sorry. But there was one guy who talked to her in the lobby once this morning, looked very happy to see her, like maybe they were together or something."

Another dollar. "What'd he look like?"

"Another beefy type, red in the face. Funny thing is, he hangs around a lot, like a fixer or something. You understand I don't see everything, I don't work here all the time."

"She still living here?"

"On the books, but she doesn't come around very often. This a divorce case, mister?"

I gave him the rest of the money and told him no, not unless I'd been misinformed. You never can tell: anything can turn into a divorce case. He tipped his hat and went back behind the desk. I took a sip from my coffee, stood up, and started to pace the room, lost in thought.

The end of the case seemed near, but I couldn't make out the conclusion. Looking at it one way, I imagined Marty as the love-sick dupe of Miss Essex, whose first name I still didn't know. I pictured myself barging into her room and confronting her with damning evidence, smacking her with revelation after daming revelation, watching as her innocent manner gave way to the haughty pride of the queen of scams. Then I pictured Marty coming out from behind the arras with a pistol in his hand instead of the carnation. A real potboiler.

I also pictured the two thugs getting pulled over by the cops for some outstanding warrant on a different case. They'd take a plea and finger Marty and Miss Essex, but those two would hear about it through the fixer grapevine and send the incriminating evidence to my office by parcel post. It had all been my plan from the beginning, they would testify to a rapt grand jury, adding a yarn about how I'd secured their help by a skillful combination of blackmail and brawn. From my perch at the defense table I'd take in the proceedings with a manner that reflected true, idealized stoicism.

I was working on the third version when a talking fern distracted me. It spoke in a muffled, incomprehensible garble.

"Is that you Marty?" I said, addressing the ridiculous brown figure crouching awkwardly behind the shrubbery.

The plant shushed me, then gave out further instructions, the gist of which was that I should "act casual" and replace me eyeballs in their original sockets. I did my best under the circumstances.

"Where's the art, Marty?" I said. There was no way to conceal my voice.

"What are you talking about, Joe?"

The talking plant annoyed me. I stood up and yanked Marty out by the ear and made him sit. I saw no reason to beat around the bush.

"Slip me the info and fast or I hand you and Miss Essex over to the two hustler-looking guys."

Marty gave me his sad-sack look again: "You wouldn't do that to me, Joe, after what we've been through, the good times we've had?"

"There haven't been any. You'd better hope the insurance company finds you soon, because if they don't you'll find yourself - "

"Okay, cut the drama, Joe. It's over the mantle there." He made a motion with his head.

"What?"

"The Monnet, it's hidden in that dummy hotel art. Not so obvious!" I jerked my gaze away from the flimsy waterfall scene, still struck with disbelief. I turned back to Marty, who looked strangely nervous.

"Tell me when you threw in with the woman."

"That one was on you - hadn't been for you we never would have met."

"You expect me to believe - "

"Yeah, Joe, let me do the thinking again for you: Why would I have told you about the art when we met at the bar? What would be the motive?"

I replied: "So she overheard us talking and decided to lay out a story about the trouble she was in. She already had the art or knew how you could get it. She needed protection, so she put you behind a fern in the lobby of the Curtis Hotel. No doubt there's a stack of grenades back there I didn't see. You going to pay me off so I'll let you go back to your pillbox?"

"You got it all wrong. Listen, you don't seem to realize it, but this lobby is the most dangerous spot in town. Anyone could have followed you, or me, or her," he nodded his head toward the ceiling, "and I only have just so much time to unload the piece on the willing buyer. As for the woman, she turned to me because she recognized a man who could organize a transaction discretely."

I laughed. He looked hurt, then stood up and pointed at me accusingly. "Don't think you're not already in it up to your neck. Clients in my line tend to be very impatient people. To them delays smell like doublecrosses. They won't hesitate to turn us in first, and probably not to the law. Either way you'll have more than the Treasury to deal with. That won't be good for business, Joe."

"Go ahead, run out the door if you want. I'm staying and so is the pretty picture. You can't shoot me and get away with it, and you can't carry it with a gun in your hand."

He sweated for a moment, then shook his head. "Okay. Okay, I'll give you ten grand or a third of the take, and that means total including the dame's slice." He put his hand on the frame of the painting.

"Nice. Very nice." The short man addressed us from behind the bulge in the dumb guy's trenchcoat. The bulge was pointed roughly at Marty's midriff. Then the short guy walked slowly around us and took the painting off the wall.

"Miss Essex proved herself a master of the business arts," said the short one. "I guess she realized a hoodlum like yourself could never call on the resources needed to secure this type of merchandise. She played us well, but like I say I can stand a little chiselling now and then. As for the two of you, however, I'm afraid you'll have to come with us - the facilities are behind you."

"We're not going in there and you're not going to gun us down out here," I said. "You've made you're play, but we're small change. Better to run away from a grand theft charge than a murder rap."

"That's where you're wrong, bub." The dumb guy swung the gat into action and I dived at the painting. The short guy cursed as I went sprawling.

There was a sickening rip and then everyone stood there looking stupified - except for Marty, who bolted for the door. But he stopped in front of a wall of blue-suited cops who came in with Miss Essex at their head. They rounded everyone up and she wore her glamorous but - as forecast - rather haughty mastermind expression throughout the finale. The bad guys were taken away and we were left alone in the sitting room with a big ripped painting.

"Sorry about that, Miss Essex," I said, indicating the art.

"It's not so bad as that, Mr. Devereaux. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Sofali Bankhead and I'm with Federated Insurance of America, representing the Musee in this case. The painting you see on the floor is just what it looks like: cheap hotel art. I lied about that to Marty, and to the Jameson brothers. I didn't expect you to come early, however."

"You thought of everything. But if that's not the big masterpiece - "

"The best lies are similar to the truth, as you know. The other one, Mr. Devereaux." She indicated the other cheap painting on the wall to the left. I felt myself oozing into a gelatinous goo - because of the way this masterful woman was smiling at me.

"It seems you took my business after all, Miss, or Mrs., Bankhead. Now, what was it you wanted to see me about?"

This was where she kissed me.

"Like I said Mr. Devereaux: I wanted to help you, if you'll let me. And this time, as you say, I mean it without any 'professional interest.'"

I found myself hoping for more help rather than less.

- 30 -