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whispered, “for once get yourself over here on time.” And then, as she closed the bedroom door behind her, she heard the doorbell ring. Abner. It has to be Abner. She called out, “I’ll get it!” And then down the stairs as if her life depended on it, and still with no clear idea of what she would do.
    As she went to the door she saw, out of the corner of her eye, the two detectives handling the broken telephone line in her living room. Fool, fool, fool , she thought. Why didn’t I get rid of that one?
    She opened the door, flipped the latch, and closed the door behind her, whispering to Abner, who stood on her small porch, “There are two detectives inside. No time for questions, Abner. Just go along with me, please.”
    â€œWho have you killed?”
    â€œAbner, shut up. Just go along with me.” Then she opened the door and followed Abner into the house, trying to recall the policemen’s names: “Inspector Meyer, isn’t it? And Inspector—”
    â€œPhelps. I’m Phelps.” He still held the telephone cord in his hand.
    â€œThis is my friend Abner Berman, and my lawyer,” Barbara said, smiling as if it were the most normal thing in the world to have her lawyer at her house at just past nine in the morning.
    â€œYour lawyer?” the Inspector asked.
    â€œHis wife just left him. He comes for coffee and breakfast. Would you like some coffee?” she asked, feeling utterly ridiculous. Abner was watching her, puzzled.
    â€œNo thank you, Ms. Lavette.”
    So they knew who she was; of course they would, her name was on the door. She still used her maiden name.
    â€œThere was a robbery last night, Ms. Lavette,” he went on. “We caught the thief this morning, down on Fisherman’s Wharf.”
    â€œReally?” Barbara said.
    â€œHe had his loot on him.” He paused. Abner was studying her, his brow knitted. “Were you robbed last night?” the inspector went on.
    Barbara hesitated a long moment, and then she replied. “No.”
    â€œIs she a complainant?” Abner put in. “Did she call the police and report a theft?”
    â€œNo,” Meyer said.
    â€œThen why are you questioning her? Was the house broken into?”
    â€œNot as far as we know. But this?” Phelps exhibited the broken telephone plug.
    â€œIt happens.” Abner shrugged. “She said she wasn’t robbed. That’s it.”
    â€œNot quite.” He reached into his pocket and took out the brooch and held it out for her to see. “Is this yours?” When Barbara did not answer, he said, “We spoke to Swinburn this morning, got him out of bed. Our jewelry expert said that only Swinburn carries this kind of stuff. When we described the brooch, Swinburn remembered it. It was purchased by Carson Devron three years ago, for sixty-five thousand dollars. You don’t forget that kind of a buy. Your relationship with Devron, if you will forgive me, was all over the scandal sheets, so I’m not prying. Whether Devron gave it to you or his wife, I don’t know, but we will find out when we check the insurance companies. The thief we caught is a smooth and smartass operator with a record. He did two years for manslaughter. His name is Robert Jones, and he’s not your usual kind of crook, so all this makes me wonder. I’m going to ask you once more, is this your brooch?”
    â€œShe doesn’t have to answer that—or anything,” Abner said sharply. “She’s not a complainant, and I think she’s had enough for this morning. I suggest you leave.”
    Phelps was still staring at the telephone plug. The inspector nodded. “Come on,” he said to Phelps. Barbara went to the front door with them, managed a weak smile, and closed the door behind them. Then she returned to the living room, looked wearily at Abner, and flopped into an easy chair.
    â€œHow wondrous are the doings