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to make a Garbo out of a cluck.” Kerrie said abruptly: “Let’s talk about something else.”
    â€œYou seem to have led a pretty tough life.”
    â€œIt hasn’t been all honey-and-almond cream. Monica—”
    â€œMonica?”
    â€œMy mother. Monica Cole Shawn. My real name’s Shawn. Monica slaved all her life to see me become somebody, and I’m a little bitter about … How did we ever get on this subject, anyway? You see, I have an uncle who’s a first-class rat. He’s really responsible for my mother’s suffering and hardships. But I don’t see why you—”
    â€œMonica Cole Shawn,” said Beau. “You know, that’s funny. Was your uncle’s name Cole?”
    â€œYes, Cadmus Cole. Why?”
    â€œHis name’s been in the papers. So you’re his niece!”
    â€œPapers? I haven’t seen a paper in two months. What’s he done now—turned a machine-gun on the Marriage License Bureau?”
    Beau looked straight at her. “Then you didn’t know your uncle just died?”
    She was silent for some time, a little paler. “No, I didn’t know. I’m sorry, of course, but he treated my mother abominably, and I’m afraid I can’t shed any tears. I never even saw him.” She frowned. “How did he die?”
    â€œHeart-attack on a Caribbean cruise. He was buried at sea. His own yacht, you know.”
    â€œYes, I’d read about him occasionally. He was supposed to be a rich man.” Kerrie’s lip curled. “And all the while he was spending his money on yachts and mansions, my mother was slaving to death, living in hall bedrooms, cooking Sunday breakfasts over gas-burners—if there was anything to cook.… I took a job when I was sixteen because I couldn’t bear seeing her work her life away for me. But she did, just the same, and when she died last year at fifty-two she was an old woman. Dear Uncle Cadmus could have saved her all that—if he hadn’t been a lunatic on the subject of marriage. When mother married, and my father died, she wrote Cadmus—and I still have his reply.” Kerrie’s mouth quivered. “Now, look here, Mr. Snoop, that’s quite enough. I’ll be crying on your shoulder, next thing I know.”
    â€œCan you guarantee that?” said Beau. “Kerrie, I’ve got a confession to make.”
    â€œThis seems to be Aching Hearts night!”
    â€œI’m a heel.”
    â€œMister Queen! Thanks for the warning.”
    â€œI mean I’m a phony. I’m not an extra. I’m not in Hollywood looking for a job. I’m here for only one purpose—to find you.”
    She was puzzled. “To find me?”
    â€œI’m a private detective.”
    She said: “Oh.”
    â€œThe Queen agency was employed by your uncle before (his death. Our job was to find his heirs when he died.”
    â€œHis … heirs? You mean he died and left—me—money?”
    â€œThat’s the size of it, Kerrie.”
    Kerrie gripped the table. “Did he think he could buy me off—pay me conscience-money for having killed my mother?”
    â€œI know how you feel.” Beau put one of his paws over her icy hands, and squeezed. “But don’t do anything foolish. What’s done is done. He’s dead, and he’s left a lot of money—to you and to a cousin of yours, Margo Cole, your uncle Huntley’s daughter, if she can be found. That money belongs to the two of you.”
    She was silent.
    â€œPart of the money should have been your mother’s while she was alive, anyway. Then what’s wrong in taking it now? You can’t bring her back, but you can enjoy your own life. Do you like Hollywood?”
    â€œI hate it,” she said in a low voice. “Because this is a place where only talent counts, and I haven’t any. I might work my way up to talking bits, but