She chewed a piece of lemon peel and said for the thirtieth or fortieth time:
“It won’t come out of your pocket. What do you care?”
“It’s not the money,” I said, “it’s the principle of the thing.”
She made a face at me and put her glass where she thought the table was. She was eight inches wrong. I don’t remember if the glass broke when it hit the floor, or what happened to it. I do remember that I was encouraged by her missing the table.
“Another thing,” I opened up a new argumentative line, “I’m not sure I really need whatever you can tell me. If I have to get along without it, I think I can.”
“It’ll be nice if you can, but don’t forget I’m the last person who saw him alive, except whoever killed him.”
“Wrong,” I said. “His wife saw him come out, walk away, and fall.”
“His wife!”
“She was sitting in a coupé down the street.”
“How did she know he was here?”
“She says Thaler phoned her that her husband had come here with the check.”
“You’re trying to kid me,” the girl said. “Max couldn’t have known it.”
“I’m telling you what Mrs. Willsson told Noonan and me.”
The girl spit what was left of the lemon peel out on the floor, further disarranged her hair by running her fingers through it, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and slapped the table.