"That ought to save you from a pauper's grave.
No money now, thanks.
What does Mrs. Regan want to see me about?"
His blue eyes gave me a smooth level look.
"She has a misconception of the purpose of your visit, sir."
"Who told her anything about my visit?"
"Her windows command the greenhouse.
She saw us go in.
I was obliged to tell her who you were."
"I don't like that," I said.
His blue eyes frosted.
"Are you attempting to tell me my duties, sir?"
"No. But I'm having a lot of fun trying to guess what they are."
We stared at each other for a moment.
He gave me a blue glare and turned away.
3
This room was too big, the ceiling was too high, the doors were too tall, and the white carpet that went from wall to wall looked like a fresh fall of snow at Lake Arrowhead.
There were full-length mirrors and crystal doodads all over the place.
The ivory furniture had chromium on it, and the enormous ivory drapes lay tumbled on the white carpet a yard from the windows.
The white made the ivory look dirty and the ivory made the white look bled out.
The windows stared towards the darkening foothills.
It was going to rain soon.
There was pressure in the air already. I sat down on the edge of a deep soft chair and looked at Mrs. Regan.
She was worth a stare.
She was trouble.
She was stretched out on a modernistic chaise-longue with her slippers off, so I stared at her legs in the sheerest silk stockings.
They seemed to be arranged to stare at.
They were visible to the knee and one of them well beyond.
The knees were dimpled, not bony and sharp. The calves were beautiful, the ankles long and slim and with enough melodic line for a tone poem.
She was tall and rangy and strong-looking.
Her head was against an ivory satin cushion.
Her hair was black and wiry and parted in the middle and she had the hot black eyes of the portrait in the hall.
She had a good mouth and a good chin. There was a sulky droop to her lips and the lower lip was full.
She had a drink.
She took a swallow from it and gave me a cool level stare over the rim of the glass.
"So you're a private detective," she said.
"I didn't know they really existed, except in books.
Or else they were greasy little men snooping around hotels."
There was nothing in that for me, so I let it drift with the current.
She put her glass down on the flat arm of the chaise-longue and flashed an emerald and touched her hair.
She said slowly: "How did you like Dad?"
"I liked him," I said.
"He liked Rusty.
I suppose you know who Rusty is?"
"Uh-huh."
"Rusty was earthy and vulgar at times, but he was very real. And he was a lot of fun for Dad.
Rusty shouldn't have gone off like that.
Dad feels very badly about it, although he won't say so.
Or did he?"
"He said something about it."