Hurricane Street
My destination was a gray frame cottage. When I rang the bell the door was opened by a thin man with a tired face that had no color in it except a red spot the size of a half-dollar high on each cheek. This, I thought, is the lunger Dan Rolff.
“I’d like to see Miss Brand,” I told him.
“What name shall I tell her?” His voice was a sick man’s and an educated man’s.
“It wouldn’t mean anything to her. I want to see her about Willsson’s death.”
He looked at me with level tired dark eyes and said:
“Yes?”
“I’m from the San Francisco office of the Continental Detective Agency. We’re interested in the murder.”
“That’s nice of you,” he said ironically. “Come in.”