In the vestibule of the Garford Apartments, I pressed the button tagged Miss Cara Kenbrook several times before the door clicked open. Then I mounted a flight of stairs and walked down a hall to her door. It was opened presently by a tall girl of twenty-three or -four in a black and white crepe dress.
“Miss Cara Kenbrook?”
“Yes.”
I gave her a card—one of those that tell the truth about me.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions; may I come in?”
“Do.”
Languidly she stepped aside for me to enter, closed the door behind me, and led me back into a living-room that was littered with newspapers, cigarettes in all stages of consumption from unlighted freshness to cold ash, and miscellaneous articles of feminine clothing. She made room for me on a chair by dumping off a pair of pink silk stockings and a hat, and herself sat on some magazines that occupied another chair.
“I’m interested in Bernard Gilmore’s death,” I said, watching her face.
It wasn’t a beautiful face, although it should have been. Everything was there—perfect features; smooth, white skin; big, almost enormous, brown eyes—but the eyes were dead-dull, and the face was as empty of expression as a china doorknob, and what I said didn’t change it.
“Bernard Gilmore,” she said without interest. “Oh, yes.”