The doll face frowned, and the plump painted lips pressed themselves together. I waited, giving her time to say something. She didn’t say it. I took Weel’s and Dahl’s pictures out and held them out to her.
“The thin-faced one is your Rose’s friend. The other’s a pal of his—also a crook.”
She took the photographs with a tiny hand that was as steady as mine, and looked at them carefully. Her mouth became smaller and tighter, her brown eyes darker. Then, slowly, her face cleared, she murmured, “Oh, yes,” and returned the pictures to me.
“When I told your husband about it”—I spoke deliberately—“he said, ‘She’s my wife’s maid,’ and laughed.”
Enid Gungen said nothing.
“Well?” I asked. “What did he mean by that?”
“How should I know?” she sighed.
“You know your handkerchief was found with Main’s empty wallet.” I dropped this in a by-the-way tone, pretending to be chiefly occupied putting cigarette ash in a jasper tray that was carved in the form of a lidless coffin.
“Oh, yes,” she said wearily, “I’ve been told that.”
“How do you think it happened?”
“I can’t imagine.”
“I can,” I said, “but I’d rather know positively. Mrs. Gungen, it would save a lot of time if we could talk plain language.”
“Why not?” she asked listlessly. “You are in my husband’s confidence, have his permission to question me. If it happens to be humiliating to