She reached into her pocket. “You trusted me, so I’m going to trust you. Here’s the key to my house. It’s 1117 Gay Street. You can remember that, can’t you? The light switch is just to the right of the door, and the library is just to the left of the hall. There’s a desk in the library and my diary is in the middle drawer, under an old telephone book. You’ve got to read it. And please don’t mind there being a little dust everywhere because I’ve been too busy to do any dusting myself, and my housekeeper had to go to Clinton, Iowa, because her daughter-in-law had a baby.”

Malone blinked. Doris Dawn, radio singing star, had spent agonizing hours on a window ledge twenty-two stories up from the street. She was in danger of being hustled into a psychopathic ward and if she were turned loose, she was probably in danger of being murdered. But she worried for fear he’d think her house needed dusting. It didn’t make sense. But then, neither did Doris.

“Tell me,” he said, “about this mysterious ‘he’—”

“Honest,” she said, “I never got a look at him. That first time—” The car was pulling up in front of headquarters. “It’s all in the diary.”

He squeezed her hand, tight. “Look. Don’t answer any questions. Don’t talk to any reporters. Refer everything to your lawyer. That’s me. And don’t be afraid.”

A big sob of pity rose in his throat. She was so lovely, and so frightened. He wanted to put a comforting arm around her for just one moment. But Klutchetsky was already pulling open the car door.

“You’ll be safe,” he promised her. “I’ll raise a little hell.”

He raised so much hell that Doris Dawn was taken from headquarters in a police ambulance, two jumps ahead of the reporters, placed in a private hospital under an assumed name and with a police guard at the door. Indeed he was so efficient about his hell-raising that it was not until he was out on the sidewalk, in the cold spring rain, that he remembered overlooking a number of very important details.

One, he had neglected to tell Doris Dawn the name of her self-appointed lawyer. Two, he had neglected to learn the name of the private hospital, and the name under which she’d been registered.

He reflected that he’d probably have more trouble finding his client than she would have finding her lawyer. But those were the minor details.

The more important items were that, while appointing himself her lawyer, he’d forgotten to mention the delicate matter of a retainer. And worse than that, the original client he’d been on his way to see had certainly located another mouthpiece by this time.