“Mm-m-m-that’s the general idea. Have you got it?”
“I think I have. Wait a minute.” She opened her purse, in turn opened a zippered compartment, and felt in it. “Yes, it’s here. Pretty green bills. Let’s take that vacation, Teddy. I don’t know why we stay in Chicago, anyway.”
“Because the business is here,” he said practically. “Coffee and cakes. Which reminds me, slaphappy or not, I’d better see what calls have come in.” He reached across her desk for the phone; his eye fell on a sheet of paper in her typewriter. He was silent for a moment, then said in a strained voice, “Come here, Cyn. Take a look at this.”
She got up at once, came around and looked over his shoulder. What she saw was one of their letterheads, rolled into the typewriter; on it was a single line of typing:
CURIOSITY KILLED THE CAT.
She said nothing at all and tried to control the quivering at the pit of her stomach.
Randall asked, “Cyn, did you write that?”
“No.”
“Positive?”
“Yes.” She reached out to take it out of the machine; he checked her.
“Don’t touch it. Fingerprints.”
“All right. But I have a notion,” she said, “that you won’t find any fingerprints on that.”
“Maybe not.”
Nevertheless, he took his outfit out of the lower drawer of his desk and dusted the paper and the machine-with negative results on each. There were not even prints of Cynthia to confuse the matter; she had a business-college neatness in her office habits and made a practice of brushing and wiping her typewriter at the end of each day.
While watching him work she remarked, “Looks as if you saw him getting out rather than in.”
“Huh? How?”
“Picked the lock, I suppose.”
“Not that lock. You forget, baby, that that lock is one of Mr. Yale’s proudest achievements. You could break it, maybe, but you couldn’t pick it.”
She made no answer-she could think of none. He stared moodily at the typewriter as if it should tell him what had happened, then straightened up, gathered up his gear, and returned it to its proper drawer. “The whole thing stinks,” he said, and commenced to pace the room.
Cynthia took a rag from her own desk and wiped the print powder from the machine, then sat down and watched him. She held her tongue while he fretted with the matter. Her expression was troubled but she was not worried for herself-nor was it entirely maternal. Rather was she worried for them.
“Cyn,” he said suddenly, “this has got to stop!”
“All right,” she agreed. “Let’s stop it.”
“How?”
“Let’s take that vacation.”
He shook his head. “I can’t run away from it. I’ve got to know.”
She sighed. “I’d rather not know. What’s wrong with running away from something too big for us to fight?”
He stopped and looked at her. “What’s come over you, Cyn? You never went chicken before.”
“No,” she answered slowly, “I never did. But I never had reason to. Look at me, Teddy-you know I’m not a female female. I don’t expect you to pick fights in restaurants when some lug tries to pick me up. I don’t scream at the sight of blood and I don’t expect you to clean up your language to fit my ladylike ears. As for the job, did I ever let you down on a case? Through timidity, I mean. Did I ever?”
“Hell, no. I didn’t say you did.”
“But this is a different case. I had a gun in my bag a few minutes ago, but I couldn’t use it. Don’t ask me why. I couldn’t.”
He swore, with emphasis and considerable detail. “I wish I had seen him then. I would have used mine!”
“Would you have, Teddy?” Seeing his expression, she jumped up and kissed him suddenly, on the end of his nose. “I don’t mean you would have been afraid. You know I didn’t mean that. You’re brave and you’re strong and I think you’re brainy. But look, dear-yesterday he led you around by the nose and made you believe you were seeing things that weren’t there. Why didn’t you use your gun then?”