Dean, standing off to one side, looked over the woman’s shoulder at me. His lips framed the name: “Whitacre.”
“Now how about Mrs. Quirk—what does she look like?” I went on.
“She’s got light hair, is short and chunky, and maybe under thirty.”
Dean and I nodded our satisfaction at each other; that sounded like Mae Landis, right enough.
“Are they home much?” I continued.
“I don’t know,” the gaunt woman snarled sullenly, and I knew she did know, so I waited, looking at her, and presently she added grudgingly: “I think they’re away a lot, but I ain’t sure.”
“I know,” I ventured, “they are home very seldom, and then only in the daytime—and you know it.”
She didn’t deny it, so I asked: “Are they in now?”
“I don’t think so, but they might be.”
“Let’s take a look at the joint,” I suggested to Dean.
He nodded and told the woman: “Take us up to their apartment an’ unlock the door for us.”
“I won’t!” she said with sharp emphasis. “You got no right goin’ into folks’ homes unless you got a search-warrant. You got one?”
“We got nothin’,” Dean grinned at her, “but we can get plenty if you want to put us to the trouble. You run this house; you can go into any of the flats any time you want, an’ you can take us in. Take us up, an’ we’ll lay off you: but if you’re going to put us to a lot of trouble, then you’ll take your chances of bein’ tied up with the Quirks, an’ maybe sharin’ a cell with ’em. Think that over.”