“Did he ever say anything to you about his life being threatened?”
“No.”
She shook her head decisively.
“Do you know Emil Bonfils?”
“No.”
“Ever hear Mr. Gantvoort speak of him?”
“No.”
“At what hotel is your brother staying in New York?”
The restless black pupils spread out abruptly, as if they were about to overflow into the white areas of her eyes. That was the first clear indication of fear I had seen. But, outside of those telltale pupils, her composure was undisturbed.
“I don’t know.”
“When did he leave San Francisco?”
“Thursday—four days ago.”
O’Gar and I walked six or seven blocks in thoughtful silence after we left Creda Dexter’s apartment, and then he spoke.
“A sleek kitten—that dame! Rub her the right way, and she’ll purr pretty. Rub her the wrong way—and look out for the claws!”
“What did that flash of her eyes when I asked about her brother tell you?” I asked.
“Something—but I don’t know what! It wouldn’t hurt to look him up and see if he’s really in New York. If he is there today it’s a cinch he