“You mean—?”
“Noonan went down tonight, according to Reno. Haven’t you got any gin? Or do you like making me ask for it?”
“You know where it is. Been up to some of your cute tricks?”
I went back into the kitchen, opened the top of the refrigerator, and attacked the ice with an ice pick that had a six-inch awl-sharp blade set in a round blue and white handle. The girl stood in the doorway and asked questions. I didn’t answer them while I put ice, gin, lemon juice and seltzer together in two glasses.
“What have you been doing?” she demanded as we carried our drinks into the dining room. “You look ghastly.”
I put my glass on the table, sat down facing it, and complained:
“This damned burg’s getting me. If I don’t get away soon I’ll be going blood-simple like the natives. There’s been what? A dozen and a half murders since I’ve been here. Donald Willsson; Ike Bush; the four wops and the dick at Cedar Hill; Jerry; Lew Yard; Dutch Jake, Blackie Whalen and Put Collings at the Silver Arrow; Big Nick, the copper I potted; the blond kid Whisper dropped here; Yakima Shorty, old Elihu’s prowler; and now Noonan. That’s sixteen of them in less than a week, and more coming up.”
She frowned at me and said sharply:
“Don’t look like that.”
I laughed and went on:
“I’ve arranged a killing or two in my time, when they were necessary. But this is the first time I’ve ever got the fever. It’s this damned burg. You