1

She swung out in a slow arc, leaning forward, arms at her side. Gathering momentum through the air she cut through the lights and they reflected off her in a golden haze. Then she landed with a soft, funny thud... as if somebody had dropped a sack of jelly out of a high window. Not a hard sound, not a brittle noise... soft. She lay stretched out, her body golden and nearly nude. It was a beautiful body.

One hell of a beautiful body.

In her back the hilt of a big skivvy projected. Her blood was bright and red and crimson, against the gold of her back.

Then pandemonium broke loose.

And I kept remembering a lot of things. My mind was dredging up memories of the first night I’d seen her. It was late and I’d stopped in Gibby’s for a drink. Gibby’s is a bar and restaurant on the second floor of a building in the Loop. There’s a big room with a round bar in the center of it, and a lot of other rooms branch off it with tables in them. It’s neither any better nor any worse than most spots, but you see a lot of people there you know. Show business and newspaper people hang out there a lot. I stopped in because it was near where I’d parked my car. I was sitting at the bar having a drink, when Benny Adams crawled up on a stool next to me. Benny handles plenty of publicity and I’d known him for a long time.

“Hi, Barr,” he said. He was pretty tight. We sat and talked about this and that for a while and had a few drinks. Then Benny looked at his watch and gulped his drink down fast

“I got a date,” he said. “I got a date with a babe at the Marlowe Theater. Brother, is she sumphin’!” Benny is a tall, skinny guy who walks with a stoop as if he’s carrying a million dollars’ worth of Chinese pennies on his shoulders. He’s got a long, skinny beak banked on both sides by big, brown eyes... stuffed chocolate nougats. And always they look sad. He became expansive.

“Come on,” he said and slapped me on the back with a skinny hand, “I’ll get Rusty to fix you up with a gal, too....”

“Rusty who?” I asked.

“My babe,” he said, “Rusty Greer. There’re plenty gals in the show. She’ll pick you a honey!”

“I heard that before,” I said. “I don’t trust picking ’em blind. If there’s one babe in the show with two heads that stutter— that’s the one who always shows up!”

“Naw, naw!” said Benny. He shook his head from side to side solemnly. “Rusty’ll get you a knockout!” He grabbed my arm and started tugging me away from the bar.

What the hell did I have to lose? Nothing. I wasn’t doing anything. So if I didn’t like her, I could always blow. I shrugged. “Okay,” I said, “I’ll string along for a drink or two.”

“Sure,” agreed Benny. We took off for the Marlowe Theater. The show had broken by the time we arrived. The marquee lights were out and the crowd was gone. We walked down the long, narrow alley toward the stage entrance. The alley was paved with ancient cobblestones that had settled and sunk to different levels, and in the darkness we stumbled along. At the far end of the building a single light popped out of a goose-necked pipe over a metal door. Above the door a square of white had been painted on the brick wall, and black lettering said stage entrance. A small laundry truck was parked in front of it, and a guy was carrying out big bags of laundry. Members of the cast were leaving in twos and threes and their voices carried down the dark alley as they called good nights.

Benny and I stood by the door in a little circle of light under the hanging bulb. It was cold and I turned my coat collar up. I began to feel like a damned fool standing there. “Stage door John,” I said to myself.

“Huh?” asked Benny. Before I could say anything, the door swung open and a tall gal walked out. She had deep mahogany hair which leaped into little flames under the light.

“Did I keep you waiting?” she asked Benny.

“No,” lied Benny, “we just got here. Rusty, I want you to meet a friend of mine—Barr Breed.”

She looked at me slowly, then smiled. “Hello,” she said. She had a deep husky voice. I said hello, then didn’t pay much more attention. My drinks were wearing off, and my hands were cold.

“Look,” said Benny, “why don’t you get another girl for Barr. Then we’ll all go out, huh?”

She considered it. “Most of the gals have gone by now,” she said. “The ones who are still around all probably have dates.”

“Nuts!” said Benny, “they can’t all be busy!”

“Remember what I said about two heads,” I told Benny.

“Coffee doesn’t have a date,” said Rusty slowly, “but then Coffee never does have one.”

“What’s she got? Rickets?” I asked. I lit a cigarette and turned to Benny. “Forget it, pal,” I told him, “I’m going home,” I started to turn away.

Rusty shrugged. The metal door swung open again. Out walked the most gorgeous dame I ever saw. She nodded to Rusty.

“We were just talking about you,” Rusty said to her. “Coffee Stearns this is Benny Adams, the publicity man. And this is his friend Barr Breed. We were all going out for a few laughs and thought you might like to come with us.”

I stood there in that dark cold alley like a new boy. The cigarette was hanging to the end of my tongue. And believe me my tongue was hanging out. Maybe I still had one foot raised in the air. I don’t know.

“Thanks,” said Coffee coolly and shook her head. “I’ve got things to do at home this evening.”

“Such as washing out hose?” I asked.

“Maybe,” she replied indifferently. She pulled her white fox jacket around her and started down the alley toward the street.

“Someday you ought to write your memoirs. I bet they’d be interesting,” said Rusty.

Coffee stopped in her tracks and turned around quickly. “What do you mean?” she snapped at Rusty.

“Absolutely nothing, dear,” said Rusty, “but what could you write about? You never go out. You never have dates. Don’t you like men?”

“Maybe she’s queer,” I said. I was getting burned up.

Coffee flicked her eyes at me, but she kept talking to Rusty. “Is that what they say about me in the show?” she asked her.

“If they talk about you at all... that’s what they wonder,” said Rusty. She didn’t have red hair for nothing.

“It’s none of their damned business,” replied Coffee.

‘To hell with it,” I told Rusty. “Let her go home. Maybe she wants to lock up some skeletons.”

Coffee bit her lip angrily. Then she smiled and it was like somebody turned on a light. First her face had been a cold mask of indifference, then suddenly it was like a ten-dollar valentine. It was warm, and lovely, and very, very beautiful. “Come on,” she said, “let’s go get that drink.” She walked back toward me and put her arm through mine.

We walked over to the Palmer House only a block away. Seated at a table Coffee and Rusty kept up a casual line of chatter about the show, Golden Girls. The mask of coolness and indifference gradually slipped down over Coffee again. She was a tall girl, maybe five feet eight or nine, with a delicate face and fine features. But it was as if the features had been molded in wax, and then the sculptor had taken a sensitive finger and by delicately touching—through the heat of his hand— had rounded off the features. It gave her face an odd feeling of youth and loveliness—of innocence which you knew wasn’t there. Her hair was black—blue, gun-metal black. And she had the bluest eyes I’d ever seen.

“How about a dance?” I asked her.

“Do you mind?” she asked. “I’m really awfully tired tonight.” I knew she wasn’t that tired. I knew she knew I knew she wasn’t that tired. I also knew she didn’t give a damn whether I liked it or not.

“Sure,” I said, “I mind—I mind like hell. But what can I do about it?” I picked up my drink and finished it. She waited politely for a few minutes afterward, then gathered her purse and coat together.

“I must be going,” she said. “Really.”

I helped her on with her coat. “I’ll take you home,” I told her.

She shook her head, no, emphatically. “Please don’t,” she said, “just put me in a cab.” I don’t like being treated like a store dummy. As far as she was concerned I could take my pick of being animal, vegetable, or mineral. She didn’t care which, and I was plenty sore.

“Okay,” I told her, “maybe you’d prefer to match the jockey for the fare.” We walked down to the front of the hotel and I put her in the cab. She drove off and I didn’t hear the address she gave the driver.

I called it a night and started home myself. I live in an apartment on the near North Side of Chicago and it is close enough to walk—if you don’t mind a damned long walk. I didn’t mind because I was still sore. I left my car downtown and started hiking it all the way down Wabash, across the bridge, and on to the north side, I kept talking to myself. ‘To hell with her,” I said. “There’re a million dames in this world. She’s only one!”

But I knew I was kidding myself. I knew it as soon as I found myself cussing her and remembering how her lashes shadowed her eyes all at the same time. So maybe she’s hard to get, I started to compromise. Anything worth getting, you got to work for. She’s no pushover. I was a goddamned fool and knew it. By the time I got home, I found myself saying “I’ll make that dame if it’s the last thing I do!” Then, I knew I was a dead one.

That next week I played it cagey. I worked through Rusty. Sometimes I thought maybe Rusty was taking too big an interest in the whole matter, but she backed me up plenty. She managed to nag, bully, or bribe Coffee into making up a foursome with her, Benny, and me three different nights.

But I kept batting .000 in the league. I was doing strictly from hunger. Each time it was the same. Coffee was aloof, indifferent and entirely collected. She would have three drinks. That was all. Period. She never danced. Most of the time she’d talk with Rusty about the show; she didn’t know Benny was alive; she was waiting for me to pick out a corner and drop dead.

So there I was dancing with Rusty, while Benny and Coffee sat staring at their drinks on the table.

“What the goddamn hell is wrong with me?” I asked Rusty.

Rusty squeezed my shoulder sympathetically. “I think you’re all right,” she said.

“Yeah,” I replied, “and thanks for the boost. But Coffee doesn’t!”

“Don’t worry,” said Rusty, “give her time. She will. As a matter of fact, consider yourself lucky. In all the time we’ve been with the show, you’re the only guy she’s ever gone out with.”

“As far as she’s concerned,” I said, “she still hasn’t gone out with anybody. Me included.”

Rusty laid her cheek against mine, patted my arm, and we finished the dance. On the way back to the table I said, “Only thing she wants to talk about is the show. Maybe if I could get her by herself I could do better.”

“Why don’t you ask her to go with you and leave us out?” asked Rusty coldly.

“I’ve tried,” I said, “but no dice.”

Rusty raised her shoulders and dropped them. “Leave it to me,” she said, “I’ll feex it.”

The next day I talked to Rusty on the phone. “It’s all set,” she told me. “Coffee agreed to go out with us tonight. I told her we were going to your place for a few drinks. Meet her after the show tonight and I’ll sidetrack Benny. We won’t show up. That’ll give you a chance to do some talking... huh?”

After the show, I met Coffee and told her Benny was going to be a little late, and he and Rusty would meet us in about half an hour. We’d all meet at my place.

Going to my apartment alone didn’t seem to make the slightest difference to her. We arrived and got settled. I put some records on the phonograph, switched it to automatic, mixed some drinks, and we sat down. Coffee looked around the living room.

“You have a nice place here,” she said conversationally.

“You like it?”

“Yes,” she said, “I do. Why don’t you light the fire?”

“Okay,” I said. I lit it.

“What do you do for a living?” she asked me.

“I got an agency,” I told her.

“Insurance?”

“No. Detective.”

The room was very quiet, except for the music. Maybe I was imagining things, but I could swear she’d been surprised by my answer.

“You must be successful,” she said, “you spend a lot of money.”

“I do all right,” I told her.

She sat and thought awhile. I got up and mixed another drink. “You ever killed anyone?” she asked me when I returned.

“Yeah,” I told her.

‘Tell me about it,” she said.

“I point a gun and pull a trigger. A cartridge goes off, and a slub does the rest. It’s simple. Anyone can do it.”

She looked me over carefully. “I never particularly cared for big men,” she said slowly, “they’re too arrogant—too damned possessive. I don’t think you’re any different.”

We sat and drank awhile and watched the fire. Finally I stood up and went over to change the records. Coffee sat in a low circular sofa in front of the fire, staring into it. The light played on her face and danced in her hair. Just looking at her made me tighten up all over. I wanted to walk over and take her in my arms, and to hell with everything. But I didn’t dare. Christ, I thought, I’m really getting soft.

She turned her head and looked at me. She stretched out her hand with the glass in it. “Another, please...”

I was surprised. She’d already had her quota of three for the evening. I said so.

“Maybe I’m just beginning to know you better?” she said and gave me that old ten-thousand-volt smile. I mixed her drink and handed the glass back. She sipped at it and I went over and sat down.

She put her hand on my arm and squeezed gently. “Do you like to fight?” she asked. “Not particularly,” I said.

“But you will?” she asked. I looked at her puzzled. “Will fight... I mean,” she added.

“If I can’t get out of it, or it’s my job... or it’s worth my time,” I told her.

“You’re a funny guy,” she said, “and I think I’ve been wrong about you...” she leaned over and slid her hand down my sleeve so it covered mine. My eyes followed the lovely sweep of her throat down to her breasts where I could see the blue shadows between them, and I wanted her worse than I wanted anything in this world. And she knew it!

She stood up and I stood with her. She lifted her hand and gently touched my cheek. I put my arms around her and found that her hands were braced against my chest.

“No,” she said softly, “not tonight. Rusty and Benny will be here soon.” I couldn’t tell her they weren’t going to show up at all, but I did the best I could. “We’ll go someplace else,” I said.

“No!” she shook her head. “Besides you must do something for me first.”

“What?” I asked. I’d do anything. Maybe I was being played for a sucker. Then I didn’t care! Maybe she was bargaining with me. Maybe she wasn’t. All I wanted was her.

“I’ll tell you later,” she said. She picked up her gloves and started toward the hall for her coat. I helped her on with it.

“Tomorrow night?” I asked. She smiled at me and suddenly stood on her toes. Her lips brushed mine briefly... coolly... and tauntingly.

“Tomorrow night...” she half whispered, half promised, “tomorrow night, I may be very nice to you....” She moved away from me and opened the door. I started to follow her. “Don’t bother to come downstairs,” she said, “I’ll get a cab.” The door closed.

She was gone.

2

The next day didn’t go so well, time dragged, I thought the night would never arrive. When evening finally did come around, I decided I’d see Golden Girls—before meeting Coffee after the show. I hadn’t seen the show, and I hadn’t seen Coffee on the stage.

The Marlowe Theater, where Golden Girls was playing, is an old trap that was remodeled a few years ago. It’s more horseshoe shaped than modern theaters. When it was remodeled, they stuck in new maroon carpeting, and hung the back walls of the theater with heavy drapes to match. The entrances and exits are located on two sides of the building. The original gingerbread decorating of the boxes and balconies was painted over in a dull, flat white with just a little gold leaf and maroon to fancy it up. The original joint which had looked like a rich Dago wedding cake had been replaced with a fairly smooth, modern job.

When I arrived the main floor was packed, and the three balconies were jammed. It was a full house. The ticket I had, which set me back $12.40, was for third row center. It was about halfway between aisle two and the center aisle. I managed to squeeze into a damned small and highly uncomfortable seat. Two big dames sitting on each side of me overflowed the arms of my seat. We glared at each other and I wished they’d stayed home. They wished I’d go home. I shifted around a couple of times as the pit orchestra finished the overture. The house lights completely dimmed and the foots flared. The curtain went up and the opening number was on.

It was a big stage and was a mass of gold light. Twenty gals were dancing downstage dressed in golden costumes with short, ballet-like skirts. The costumes were covered with little gadgets like sequins which sparkled and flashed as the gals danced. It looked good.

In a little while, twenty guys paraded from the left and right wings to join the girls. The guys were wearing white ties and full dress clothes, and carried tall silk opera hats. Then all forty of them started singing the song about “Only a Bird in a Gilded Cage,” but they changed the words to the effect it was okay if there was enough gold in the cages.

About the third wing back, six big gold-painted bird cages started to rise from the floor of the stage. Each cage was lifted by a gold-painted cable that had rosebuds wrapped around it. The cages were open in front, and seated in each cage was a gal completely covered with gold paint. Each wore a long golden wig and carried an oversized muff made out of gold feathers. As far as I could see that was all they were wearing.

I tried to recognize Coffee, but all the dames looked alike. I didn’t know for sure if she was one of the dames in the cages. She’d never said what she did, but I thought she might be.

When the cages got about fifteen feet in the air, they started swinging back and forth... very slow at first. Miami Winters, the star of the show, walked out in a blaze of spotlights and a very low-cut dress and got a big hand. She was giving her opening number everything she had... and she had plenty. And then one of the swinging cages caught my attention for a minute.

From the right wing of the stage, a gleam of light shot out and flashed up to the bird cage which was the third from the right end, the cage which was nearly in front of me. The gleam touched the cage and disappeared. That was all.

Miami Winters had started the last chorus of her song, when the cage reached the outward arc of its swing. The gal seated in it leaned forward... and kept right on leaning forward as the cage started back.

And she didn’t go with it.

She started a curious flopping dive into the air; her golden body twisting as it cut through the spotlight. It cleared the outer edge of the stage and landed in the orchestra pit with that soft, funny thud followed by a hell of a crash of a breaking chair and a musician landing in the drums.

There was a silence heard clear across town. The cast stood frozen in their positions on the stage. The orchestra stopped in the middle of a beat.

Then the audience took over, and I found myself crawling wildly over the backs of the seats trying to get to the orchestra pit. Here and there, women started to scream, and plenty others thought it was a good idea to join in. So they did.

The orchestra pit was sunk to a level of two feet below the seats in the front row. A small iron railing, covered with red velvet or plush, ran around it. The musicians were crowding around the gold body sprawled on the floor, and the guy who had landed in the drums was moaning and cussing, and holding his shoulder. Jumping over the rail, I shoved my way through to take a look.

The body had landed partly on its side and partly on its stomach. I didn’t touch it. It wasn’t necessary. From the middle of her back, I could see a great big old skivvy sticking out.

Then, for the first time, I felt the hair begin to rise on the back of my neck. The bottom of my stomach dropped right out. I felt sick. But very sick.

Coffee?

I couldn’t tell! With all the make-up on, the face resembled a metal casting, and it was partly covered by one arm. I grabbed the orchestra conductor. “Don’t let nobody touch her,” I told him. “Nobody. Got it?”

He nodded.

I reached up and grabbed the stage which was on the level with my head and pulled myself over the edge. I burned a wrist on a metal plate protecting a red hot footlight. The audience was churning around and had started crowding toward the exits. I stepped out on the apron of the stage and held up my hands.

“Hey! Wait a minute!” I shouted.

Nobody paid any attention. People were crawling over the seats and shoving up the aisles.

“Goddamnit!!!” I shouted. I kicked at a footlight and it exploded with a loud bang.

At the explosion, everyone stopped and looked at the stage. It was quiet again.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I said, “will you please return to your seats. No one will be permitted to leave the theater for a few minutes!”

“Who’re you?” somebody yelled.

“I’m the police!” I yelled back. I’m not, but they didn’t know the difference. “The ushers will not allow anyone to leave this building for the next half hour,” I said. “Understand?”

The crowd started to edge its way back to the seats.

I headed backstage, and a white-haired guy I took to be the stage manager came busting up.

“You the stage manager?” I asked him.

“Yeah,” he said, “my name’s Ryan.”

“Call Sergeant Cheenan at Homicide right away!” I told him.

He nodded.

“Pull the curtains on the stage and see that everyone in the cast is accounted for.”

He nodded again and left to make the phone call, yelling for a guy named Clements on his way. I beat it over to the stage entrance. Just inside the door was a battered old desk, with a battered old guy sitting at it. He had a mashed gray hat, watery boozy eyes, and plenty years of hard knocks to lug around.

“You on the door?” I asked him.

“Yes.”

“Anyone leave in the last five minutes?”

“Nope.”

“You been sitting here all the time?”

“Yep.”

“Even when you heard that goddamn commotion out there, you just sat here?”

He started to pick at the end of his large, overripe nose. “I got up to take a squint,” he finally admitted.

“How long you gone?”

“Minute or so. I couldn’t see nuthin’”

“Somebody coulda lammed out of here in that minute?”

“I dunno. Maybe...”

“Was anyone hanging around here with you, when you got up to go see?”

“No, not with me,” he looked at me sadly.

“Did you see anyone over by that wing?” I nodded to the right wing of the stage.

“Just members of the cast...” he said.

“Who?”

“I don’t rightly remember. I didn’t pay no attention to ’em. Besides the light ain’t very good over there.”

He was right. The wing was in a heavy shadow. “Okay,” I said, “don’t let anyone leave till I tell you.”

“Sure! Won’t nobody leave.”

“And don’t you move away from this desk!”

“Okay,” he said.

I went back to the stage manager who was standing in the middle of a flock of dames. I pushed my way through and he was reading off names from a couple of sheets of paper.

“I see you got the curtain down,” I said. “Did you call Cheenan?”

“Huh? Oh... sure, sure. Toby Birch?”

“Here...” said a dreamy voice.

“Monte Keith?”

“Heeaaah...” that one had a swell southern accent.

“Keep right on checking,” I said. “I want to look around.”

“Right!” he said. “Betty Carson?”

I walked over to the control switchboard where a group of operators and grips were gathered.

“Who’s the boss stagehand?” I asked.

“Me,” said a guy standing slightly to my left. I looked him over. He was in his early fifties. He had on a pair of shiny blue pants, a gray shirt open at the neck, and a heavy pair of hornrimmed glasses.

“I wanta talk to you,” I said and motioned him to one side. He moved over to join me and we walked a couple of steps away. “What’s your name?” I asked.

“Weaver.”

“Okay, Weaver. How many men you got on the job?”

“Sixteen, including flymen, grips and clearers.”

“You better talk to your men. Each one. Find out where he was from the time before the show started to when that babe pitched out of that bird cage. See if they heard or saw anything unusual. And make each man account for himself.”

Weaver looked at me solemnly. “You don’t think any of us guys were responsible for her falling out?”

“Hell, no!” I said. “It’s just good, clean fun asking questions. But the cops are going to wanta find out what happened. So get busy!”

“Okay,” he said, but he didn’t like it.

I walked back over by the stage manager. He was still checking names.

“Marilyn Devoe?” he called.

“Here...”

I took him by the arm and edged him out of the crowd of dames. “Do you know who the gal was that got herself killed?” I asked him.

“The gal in the third cage was Coffee Stearns.”

“You sure it was Coffee Stearns?” my stomach taut and aching.

“I think so,” he said. “She was supposed to be in that cage during the number... and she didn’t answer her name when I called it a few minutes ago.”

“Are all the gals there?” I nodded toward the crowd of them.

“So far... with the exception of Stearns. All the men in the chorus are accounted for. Miami Winters is upstairs in her dressing room, and the rest of the supporting roles are around.”

“Keep going till you get ’em all checked,” I said. The heavy iron stage door opened with a loud wham and Sergeant Cheenan walked on the stage with a crowd of Homicide dicks and uniformed cops following him.

He made me first off. “Jesus love us,” he said, “Barr Breed, himself.”

“Hello, Cheenan,” I said. “I’m going to send you a bill in the morning for all the work I been doing for you.” I tried to make it sound like I didn’t have anything on my mind. But I had plenty.

“Sure,” said Cheenan. “If there’s a buck to be made, you’ll make it.” He carefully stepped over cables on the floor and came up to where I was standing. “What gives?” he asked.

I told him a gal in the show had fallen out of a bird cage with a knife in her back. Then he asked me the question I didn’t want to hear. “You know this babe that was killed?” he said.

I was on a spot. If I admitted knowing her now, Cheenan would spend the night questioning me. I wanted to get away, to get away fast. Some place where I could maybe shake the cobwebs out of my mind and do a little thinking. He hadn’t asked me her name yet, so there was still a chance I could do some hedging. I took it.

“You know this babe?” he repeated.

“I don’t know if I know her or not,” I replied.

“Ever hear of her?”

“I don’t know that either.”

“What do you know?”

“Let’s take a look at her,” I said.

“Okay,” said Cheenan. He called a couple dicks over and told ‘em to start checking the audience out. “Make ‘em show their stubs,” he said, “and get the names and addresses of the first four rows on the main floor and all the front boxes. Also tell the house help and musicians to stick around. Find out what you can from ’em.”

“Check,” said the dick and motioned to his partner. Cheenan and I walked out in front of the curtain. On left stage was a small stairway which ran from the stage to the main floor. We stepped down it, and walked into the orchestra pit. The orchestra leader had mounted guard over the body. He kept turning his head around and around like a mechanical owl— expecting somebody to swipe it from under his nose.

“Thanks, maestro,” I told him, “now gather up your men, but stick around. Cheenan, here, wants to talk with you later.” Cheenan jerked his head toward the small passage which connected the pit to the orchestra room under the stage. The conductor started for it, and the rest of the orchestra followed him.

Cheenan squatted down beside the body and looked it over. A couple of police photographers started to set up their equipment.

The body, as I’d told Cheenan, was lying partly on its side and partly on its stomach. One arm was stretched along the floor above her head, and her face seemed to be resting on it. The other arm, her right, was thrown back of her, forcing her breast to stand nearly straight out. I looked around for the muff and saw it resting on the edge of the stage. Brief, skintight pants, the same gold color as her body make-up, had pulled away slightly from the small of her back. You could see the clear, white skin where the make-up hadn’t reached.

Light bulbs started popping and Cheenan stood up. We moved to one side. The knife in her back had a long, smooth, metal handle and very short guard. The inch or two of blade visible between the guard and where it disappeared in the wound was nearly two inches wide.

“Well, Breed, do you know her?” asked Cheenan.

I tried to shrug. Nonchalant-like, because I couldn’t talk. My throat was tight, and my head hurt and my guts ached. There she was... what was left of her. She didn’t belong to me any more. She’d never belong to me. She’d never belong to anyone else, either. Wouldn’t she? Sure she would. I was just dumb, that’s all. She’d belong to the coroner in a few minutes.

“How the hell do I know,” I finally managed to reply to Cheenan.

“You ever seen this girl before?”

“That I can’t say either, Cheenan.” I needed time, plenty of time to think. Tomorrow I could talk to Cheenan, but not tonight. So I waltzed him along. “With all that gold paint on her face, I wouldn’t know her if I just got through talking with her,” I told him.

“We can fix that,” he said. “When we get her down for the autopsy, the doc will remove the make-up. Maybe you’ll know her then.”

“Maybe,” I said. There was a sound of hurrying footsteps and Cheenan turned around. The coroner’s physician was descending the stairs by the stage and approaching the orchestra pit.

“I’ll call you in the morning,” said Cheenan.

“Do that,” I told him. I dusted off the sides of my trousers and climbed back up on the stage. On my way to the stage door, I walked by the master control board again. A tall, lanky guy with close-cropped gray hair reached over and flipped off a switch.

“You the electrician?” I asked him. He nodded. “You remember the show tonight where Miami Winters makes her first entrance?”

“Yeah,” he grunted.”

“Is there a light cue there for a body spot or a pencil light? Any kinda light... to flash on the bird cage Coffee Stearns was in?”

“Nah.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. I been doing this show for six months.”

That was that. I crossed the stage over near the right proscenium where I thought I’d seen the gleam originate. That was on the prompt side of the stage by the main station of the p.a. system used by the stage manager. There wasn’t a sign of any kind of light there. I knew it hadn’t been a flashlight... it was too sharp, too fast, and too bright for that.

Out front the audience had all cleared out. Plain-clothes men were talking to the ushers. Cheenan, the photographers, the coroner’s physician were still looking over the body. Backstage, detectives were interviewing members of the cast. I figured it was a good time to blow. By the stage door, the old man was arguing with a tall, willowy redhead, who was dressed in street clothes and wore a coat slung across her shoulders.

“Orders are nobody can’t leave!” he was repeating.

“Right, pop,” I said. “Anybody left yet?”

“No, sir!” he said. “Not a single, solitary soul. But this here young lady is trying to get out.”

“That’s okay,” I told him. “I know her. She’s an old friend of mine.” I looped her arm inside mine and we walked to the stage door. I opened it. At its clang, one of the detectives looked up and started over.

“Hey, you!” he shouted. “You can’t do that!”

“The hell I can’t!” I shouted back, “Cheenan’s orders!” I slammed the door.

Outside, the girl looked at me and said, “Thanks, Barr.” It was Rusty.

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