brown eyes, a plump painted mouth and the general air of an expensive doll in a toy-store window.
Bruno Gungen explained to her at some length that I was connected with the Continental Detective Agency, and that he had employed me to help the police find Jeffrey Main’s murderers and recover the stolen twenty thousand dollars.
She murmured, “Oh, yes!” in a tone that said she was not the least bit interested, and stood up, saying, “Then I’ll leave you to—”
“No, no, my dear!” Her husband was waving his pink fingers at her. “I would have no secrets from you.”
His ridiculous little face jerked around to me, cocked itself sidewise, and he asked, with a little giggle:
“Is not that so? That between husband and wife there should be no secrets?”
I pretended I agreed with him.
“You, I know, my dear,” he addressed his wife, who had sat down again, “are as much interested in this as I, for did we not have an equal affection for dear Jeffrey? Is it not so?”
She repeated, “Oh, yes!” with the same lack of interest.
Her husband turned to me and said, “Now?” encouragingly.
“I’ve seen the police,” I told him. “Is there anything you can add to their story? Anything new? Anything you didn’t tell them?”
He whisked his face around toward his wife.
“Is there, Enid, dear?”