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the low wooden gate and rapped with the little brass knocker that hadn't been cleaned in months.

    There was about a ten second delay: no more, and then the door jerked open. A solid young woman in grey-green slacks and a white silk blouse, her dark hair piled to the top of her head, looked me over with suspicious and slightly bloodshot eyes. She wasn't what you'd call a beauty, but there was an animal something about her that would make any man look at her twice, and some even three times.

    Before I could open my mouth:
    "Spare your breath if you're selling anything," she said in a voice a little more musical than a tin can being thrown downstairs, but not much. "I never buy at the door."

    "You should have that put on the gate," I said cheerfully, "look at the time it would save. Are you Miss Drew?"

    "What's it to you who I am?"

    "I have business with Miss Drew," I said patiently. "Important business."

    "Who are you?"

    "The name's Vic Malloy. I'm an old friend of Janet Crosby."

    A muscle in her upper lip suddenly twitched, but otherwise there was no reaction.

    "So what?"

    "Does that make you Miss Drew or doesn't it?"

    "Yes. What is it?"

    "I was hoping you might help me," I said, resting one hand on the wall and leaning on it. "The fact is I'm not entirely satisfied about Miss Crosby's death."

    This time a wary expression came into her eyes.

    "Excavating ancient history, aren't you? She's been dead long enough. Anyway, I don't know anything about it."

    "Were you there when she died?"

    She took hold of the front door and drew it against her side.

    "I tell you I don't know anything about it, and I haven't the time to waste on something that doesn't concern me."

    I studied the hard, suspicious face.

    "Miss Drew, do you know what makes scarcely any noise but can be heard a mile away?" I asked, and smiled knowingly at her.
    "You screwy or something?"

    "Some people can hear it two miles away. Have a guess?"

    She lifted her solid shoulders impatiently.

    "Okay, I'll buy it—what?"

    "A hundred-dollar bill, folded in two and rustled gently between finger and thumb."

    The sullen look went from her face. Her eyes opened a trifle wider.

    "Do I look as if a hundred-dollar bill would be of any use to me?" she said scornfully.

    "Even Pierpoint Morgan could use a hundred dollars," I said. "Still, I might raise the ante if you have anything worth buying."

    I could see her brain at work. At least now we were talking the same language. She stared past me, down the path into a world of dollar signs and secrets. She smiled suddenly, a half smirk, not directed at me, but at a thought that had come into her mind.

    "What makes you think there's anything wrong about her death?" she asked abruptly, her eyes shifting back to me.

    "I didn't say I thought there was something wrong. I said I wasn't entirely satisfied. I have an open mind about it until I have talked to people who were with her about the time she died. Did you notice if she suffered from heart trouble?"

    "It's a long time ago, mister," she said, and smirked. "I have a lousy memory for things like that. Maybe if you come back at nine to-night I'll have had time to remember, and it's no use coming back with a hundred dollars. I'm a big girl now and I have big ideas."

    "How big?" I asked politely.

    "More like five. It would be worth my while to shake up my memory for five, but not for a nickle less."

    I made believe to consider this.

    "Nine o'clock to-night?" I said.
    "About then."

    "I wouldn't want to spend all that money unless I was sure the information was of value."

    "If I can get my memory working," she said, "I wouldn't be surprised if the information was of value."

    "See you at nine, then."

    "Bring the money with you, mister. It has to be cash on the line."

    "Sure. Let's hope this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

    She gave me a long, thoughtful stare and then closed the door in my face. I walked slowly back up the path, climbed over