The chief dumped the ash off his cigar in the center of his desk, flourished the cigar in his fat hand, and said:

“A soiled dove, as the fellow says, a deluxe hustler, a big-league gold-digger.”

“Gone up against her yet?”

“No. There’s a couple of slants to be taken care of first. We’re keeping an eye on her and waiting. This I’ve told you is under the hat.”

“Yeah. Now listen to this,” and I told him what I had seen and heard while waiting in Donald Willsson’s house the previous night.

When I had finished the chief bunched his fat mouth, whistled softly, and exclaimed:

“Man, that’s an interesting thing you’ve been telling me! So it was blood on her slipper? And she said her husband wouldn’t be home?”