The police went away. I had my stuff moved into another room, one into which bullets couldn’t be so easily funneled. Then I changed my clothes and set out for Hurricane Street, to keep my date with the whispering gambler.

Dinah Brand opened the door for me. Her big ripe mouth was rouged evenly this evening, but her brown hair still needed trimming, was parted haphazardly, and there were spots down the front of her orange silk dress.

“So you’re still alive,” she said. “I suppose nothing can be done about it. Come on in.”

We went into her cluttered-up living room. Dan Rolff and Max Thaler were playing pinochle there. Rolff nodded to me. Thaler got up to shake hands.

His hoarse whispering voice said:

“I hear you’ve declared war on Poisonville.”

“Don’t blame me. I’ve got a client who wants the place ventilated.”