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She carried a tan leather dog leash at the other end of which was nothing. McCall could hardly believe the evidence of his eyes. She looked like a freak. Or she was putting the world on.
    â€œSo you want to know about Laura,” she said. She had a little-girl voice and a trick of narrowing her eyes; the expanse of green eyelid thus exhibited made her look like a frog. “I can’t tell you anything I haven’t already told Chief Pearson’s pigs.”
    â€œPigs?”
    â€œI beg his pardon. Fuzz.”
    â€œWhatever you can tell me, Miss Hobart.”
    She ripped the tophat from her head and sailed it onto her unmade bed.
    â€œHat on a bed,” McCall said, smiling. “Bad luck.”
    â€œYou believe that traditional crud?”
    â€œNo. I just wanted to give you a chance to collect your thoughts.”
    â€œThey don’t need collecting! I have nothing to hide. But I’ll bet Damon Wilde does. Damon the Damned, he’s known as. Her boyfriend. You know? Heard of Damon yet?”
    â€œAll over the place.”
    â€œThen don’t bother with me. Go talk to him.”
    â€œAt the moment I’d rather talk to you, Miss Hobart. Is Laura in love with Wilde?”
    â€œLove, shove. Who knows? He thinks she is, is more to the point. Hell, it might be Perry Eastman. Or Christ knows who else. You’ll hear Laura’s the quiet type.” The girl giggled. “Well, you know what they say about the quiet types.”
    â€œHas she acted differently from usual lately, Miss Hobart?”
    Nina picked up the tophat, set it on her head, plumped down on the bed, and crossed her legs.
    â€œYes,” she said, “Laura’s been worried about something. She’s the secretive type, but I read her. Lately she’s been extra-hush-hush. Especially last Thursday. She acted real funny Thursday. Kind of absent-minded, dig? Preoccupied.”
    â€œWhen did you last see Laura?”
    â€œFriday just before noon. She was taking a painting back to the fine arts department. They loan out paintings like library books to fine arts students. She was worried about something, and I asked her what’s bugging you? But she was like mute. That’s the last I saw her.”
    â€œWhat do you think happened to her, Miss Hobart?”
    â€œHow should I know? Anything. That chick is the kind who could get into real trouble. You look at me and you think, there’s a real swinger, because of the way I dress and talk. Okay, so I swing some, but Laura’s type—” She shook her head. “You’d have to know her. Deep, she’s real deep. Deep trouble.”
    â€œDo you have any concrete reason for saying that?”
    â€œWell … no. But look. She’s arty. She digs poetry. She’s gullible. She’s … mysterious . Like London Bridge close to the water, where it’s dark green and all shadow. I was in England last summer.”
    â€œExactly what time was it when you last saw Laura Friday?”
    She thought about it. “Maybe eleven-fifteen A.M .”
    â€œI take it those paintings on the wall were done by Laura?”
    â€œOh, sure. Everybody says they’re groovy, but me, I dig these.” She jumped off the bed and dashed to Laura’s closet. She dived in among the hanging dresses and came out with a large portfolio. “There’s some real energetic stuff of hers in this.” She untied the portfolio on Laura’s bed.
    McCall had already seen its contents before the girl’s arrival. Nevertheless he examined the drawings—chiefly crayon and charcoal sketches—as if for the first time. They impressed him as much now as before. These were all representational and apparently had been done for a drawing class; they were really good, free, spirited, economical in line.
    â€œI see what you mean,” McCall said. “By the way, you say Laura was worried recently, especially Thursday and Friday