The door opened and the girl who called herself Vern Engdahl came in
slowly, looking around. I stayed quiet and out of sight until she was
all the way in. She didn't seem to be armed; there wasn't anyone with
her.
I stepped out, holding the gun on her. Her eyes opened wide and she
seemed about to turn.
"Hold it! Come on in, you. Close the door!"
She did. She looked as though she were expecting me. I looked her
over--medium pretty, not very tall, not very plump, not very old. I'd
have guessed twenty or so, but that's not my line of work; she could
have been almost any age from seventeen on.
The typewriter switched itself on and began to pound agitatedly. I
crossed over toward her and paused to peer at what Arthur was yacking
about: SEARCH HER YOU DAMN FOOL MAYBE SHES GOT A GUN
I ordered: "Shut up, Arthur. I'm _going_ to search her. You! Turn
around!"
* * * * *
She shrugged and turned around, her hands in the air. Over her
shoulder, she said: "You're taking this all wrong, Sam. I came here to
make a deal with you."
"Sure you did."
But her knowing my name was a blow, too. I mean what was the use of
all that sneaking around if people in New York were going to know we
were here?
I walked up close behind her and patted what there was to pat. There
didn't seem to be a gun.
"You tickle," she complained.
I took her pocketbook away from her and went through it. No gun. A lot
of money--an _awful_ lot of money. I mean there must have been two or
three hundred thousand dollars. There was nothing with a name on it in
the pocketbook.