Free Murderers' Row by Donald Hamilton

might as well take the bait and see what happened next. “Let’s start with why you lied to the cops for me, doll,” I said.
    â€œDon’t call me that.”
    I made her a sweeping bow. “I humbly apologize for the familiarity, Miss Michaelis, ma’am.”
    â€œPapa used to call me doll,” she said, still standing there watching me, unmoving. “That’s why—” She stopped.
    â€œThat’s why you don’t want to hear it from my degenerate lips?”
    She smiled slowly. She was gaining confidence, I saw. She hadn’t known just what to expect when I first came in: a hoodlum, a murderer. Now she was realizing that, depraved and wicked though Petroni might be, he was fundamentally just another male.
    â€œYou said that,” she murmured. “I didn’t.”
    â€œYour meaning got through, honey,” I said. “Loud and clear. Any objection to honey?”
    Her smile remained. “If you have to call me something, why not try Teddy?”
    â€œTeddy,” I said. “Like in bear. Okay, Teddy.” I frowned at her. “So Papa used to call you doll?” She nodded. I said, “And Papa is Dr. Norman Michaelis, scientist, electronics expert, and Washington big-shot. Widower. One daughter and a private income from his inventions. I like that private income, Teddy. Folks with private incomes can afford to pay for their notions, even the crazy ones. What’s your notion in getting me out of jail and asking me here?”
    She didn’t answer the direct question. She was frowning right back at me. “You checked up on me?”
    â€œDid you think I wouldn’t? A mouse I’ve never seen before saves me from the cops and asks me to a conference in her motel room. Would I walk in cold?”
    She hesitated, and asked curiously, “What’s a mouse, Jim?”
    â€œDon’t act dumb. A mouse is a broad.”
    â€œI mean,” she persisted, “is it good or bad? Like dream-boat? Or like bitch?”
    â€œA mouse,” I said, “is something small and cuddly. Like a doll, which is what your daddy used to call you. Let’s stick with that. Let’s brush it hard and see where the dandruff falls. Used to? What made him stop?” She looked at me and didn’t answer. I said, as if quoting from memory, which I was, “Dr. Norman Michaelis is currently resting and relaxing aboard a seagoing yacht belonging to friends. That’s the official scoop. Don’t ask me how I got it. I’ve got connections.”
    Actually, I’d got it from the dope given me by Mac during the preliminary briefing. Michaelis’ disappearance had been temporarily covered up, to avoid embarrassing questions while the search was in progress.
    The little girl said quickly, “It isn’t true. I suppose they mean the Freya, but she’s anchored up a creek not twenty miles from here, where she can’t be seen unless you’re right on top of her. Nobody’s aboard except Nick, the paid hand. They’ve painted out the name and home port, but how many jib-headed, eighty-foot schooners are there on the Bay? I got that much for my money, anyway, before somebody got to the man I’d hired and bought him off. Or scared him off. Anyway, he turned in one report and quit.”
    I said, “You’re throwing it at me fast. Is it supposed to make sense? What’s a jib-headed schooner?”
    â€œA schooner is a two-masted sailing vessel, fore-and-aft rigged, with the taller mast aft. If it has a Marconi mainsail, it’s jib-headed. Because it comes to a point at the top like a jib, get it? Or do I have to tell you what a jib is, Jim?”
    I hadn’t reacted the first time she used my name, so this time she called attention to it with a little smile; she was treating me just like a human being. She wasn’t scared a bit, even if I did go around killing people, her smile said. She found a