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sense.
    I said, “Who the hell do you think you’re fooling, Crowell? One-way glass, yet? Wait till my lawyer gets up in court and tells how you cops tried to railroad me!”
    â€œPolicemen,” he said.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWe don’t like that other word,” he said. “We prefer to be called policemen, particularly by goons like you, Petroni.”
    I’d been Mr. Peters up to now. I said sullenly, “So you’ve got word from Chi. So what?”
    â€œYou’re Jimmy Petroni, known as Jimmy the Lash. You’re pretty small time, but you sometimes run errands for the big boys.”
    â€œWho’s small time?” I asked angrily. “Let me tell you—”
    â€œLater,” he said. “Later, you’re going to tell me lots of things, Petroni. Right now you’re going to shut up. When I tell you, you’re going to get up and walk around. All right. Up. Walk.”
    I rose sullenly. There was a sound in the hall outside, the rapping sound of high heels. A man’s voice spoke out there.
    â€œDon’t be afraid, miss. He can’t see you.”
    â€œWho’s afraid?” It was the voice of the girl who’d asked me for a match; it seemed like a long time ago. I drew a long breath. It had been too much to hope that they’d get drunk and hit a culvert at ninety miles an hour before the police could find them and bring them here. Anyway, one dead woman was enough for one night. The clear, high voice spoke again. “Well, he does look sort of familiar, but I can’t really see—”
    The doorknob rattled. The man’s voice said quickly, “No, miss, you’re not supposed to go in!”
    Then she was in. She looked just as small as I remembered her, in a light, summery, full-skirted dress, predominantly blue, and tiny, white, high-heeled shoes. Her short, blonde hair, dry now, was a silvery cap on her small head. She looked child-sized in front of the big policeman who followed her in—without looking the least bit like a child, if you know what I mean.
    She came forward. The policeman reached for her clumsily, but Crowell waved him back. The little girl looked up at me. Her eyes were as blue as Jean’s had been, I noticed. It didn’t seem like a happy omen. She stared at me for quite a long time. I didn’t know why she bothered to go through the motions. There was no doubt in my mind that she’d recognized me as easily as I’d recognized her.
    Crowell spoke. “Well, Miss Michaelis? Is this the man who lit your cigarette at the swimming pool?”
    She gave me a final look and turned away. “Oh, no,” she said. “No, I’ve never seen this man before in my life.”
    That was far from being the end of it, of course. They had Mrs. Rosten in and she said yes. The little girl said no. Mr. Rosten said maybe, maybe not. A plump collegiate type with a crew cut was dragged in and addressed variously as Billy and Mr. Orcutt, depending upon who was speaking. He was no help. He hadn’t seen anything but water, he said—damn cold, green, chlorinated water.
    I didn’t get to listen to all of this at close range. They moved me into another room so they could discuss me more freely, but I guess the forces of law and order were shaken by the unexpected turn of events. A door got left open, and I heard most of it, and filed it for reference. It was too early to try to figure out why a perfectly strange young lady—with a very interesting last name—should get up and lie for me, plausibly and stubbornly. At the moment, I was more interested in learning whether or not her efforts in my behalf would be successful. They were.
    When I came outside at last, having been told, that I could leave but that I’d better keep myself available, there was a cold wind blowing from the direction of the Bay. At least it seemed cold to me, after the time I’d spent in Cuba. My car