“Few people are so happily named, Madame Velasquez. Tell me—let me rely upon your woman’s intuition—just what did Marge expect from Endicott?”
Madame Velasquez leaned forward confidentially. An atmosphere as of frenzied heliotropes clung thickly about her.
“Every last damn nickel she could get,” she said.
Lieutenant Valcour assumed his most winning smile. “Scarcely an affaire du cœur , Madame Velasquez.” If he had had a moustache, he would have twirled it. “I suppose her early marriage embittered her, rather hardened her against men?”
“Well, if it did I ain’t noticed it none.”
“Perhaps Endicott came under the heading of business rather than pleasure?”
“Well, yes, and then no.”
“A happy combination?”
“Just a combination. Not so damn happy.”
“A little bickering now and then?”
“A lot.”
“Indeed? Marge was on the stage, wasn’t she?”
“If you can call it the stage nowadays, Lieutenant.”
“In the chorus, wasn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“And Harry Myles saw her and carried her off.”