had been short and the color of fire. She and an older woman and three men and I had played hide-and-seek one evening in a house in Turk Street over a matter of the murder of a bank messenger and the theft of a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of Liberty Bonds. Through her intriguing three of her accomplices had died that evening, and the fourth—the Chinese—had eventually gone to the gallows at Folsom prison. Her name had been Elvira then, and since her escape from the house that night we had been fruitlessly hunting her from border to border, and beyond.
Recognition must have shown in my eyes in spite of the effort I made to keep them blank, for, swift as a snake, she had left the arm of the chair and was coming forward, her eyes more steel than silver.
I put my gun in sight.
Joplin took a half-step toward me.
“What’s the idea?” he barked.
Kilcourse slid off the table, and one of his thin dark hands hovered over his necktie.
“This is the idea,” I told them. “I want the girl for a murder a couple months back, and maybe—I’m not sure—for tonight’s. Anyway, I’m—”
The snapping of a light-switch behind me, and the room went black.
I moved, not caring where I went so long as I got away from where I had been when the lights went out.
My back touched a wall and I stopped, crouching low.
“Quick, kid!” A hoarse whisper that came from where I thought the door should be.