"Burned, please," she said, smiling weakly at me for my intention. I
smiled back.
On my way to Rambaugh's bedroom I dug the rest of the thug's safe but
there wasn't anything there that would give me an inkling of why he was
gunning for me. I came back with one of his needle-rays and burned the
contents of the safe to a black char. I stirred up the ashes with the nose
of the needier and then left it in the safe after wiping it clean on my
handkerchief.
"Thank you, Mr. Hammond," she said quietly. "Maybe I can answer your
question. Rambaugh was probably after you because of me."
"Huh?"
"I've been paying Rambaugh blackmail for about four years. This morning I
decided to stop it, and looked your name up in the telephone book.
Rambaugh must have read me do it."
"Ever think of the police?" I suggested.
"Of course. But that is just as bad as not paying off. You end up all over
the front pages anyway. You know that."
"There's a lot of argument on both sides," I supposed. "But let's finish
this one over a bar. We're crowding our luck here. In the eyes of the law
we're just a couple of nasty break-ins."
"Yes," she said simply.
We left Rambaugh's apartment together and I handed Martha into my car and
took off.
It struck me as we were driving that mental sensitivity was a good thing
in spite of its limitations. A woman without mental training might have
every right to object to visiting a bachelor apartment at two o'clock in
the morning. But I had no firm plans for playing up to Martha Franklin; I
really wanted to talk this mess out and get it squared away. This she
could read, so I was saved the almost-impossible task of trying to
convince an attractive woman that I really had no designs upon her
beautiful white body. I was not at all cold to the idea, but Martha did
not seem to be the pushover type.
"Thank you, Steve," she said.
"Thanks for nothing," I told her with a short laugh. "Them's my
sentiments."
"I like your sentiments. That's why I'm here, and maybe we can get our
heads together and figure something out."