Mrs. Cool, perfectly at ease, continued to hold down the desk with her elbows. She had that motionless immobility which characterizes the very fat. Thin people are constantly making jerky motions to alleviate the nervous pressure which possesses them. Mrs. Cool didn’t have a fidget in her system. When she sat down, she was placed. She had the majesty of a snow-capped mountain, the assurance of a steam roller.

“Sit down, Donald,” she said.

I sat down, taking a professional interest in Miss Hunter’s profile—long, straight nose, fine chin, smooth, delicately shaped forehead, framed by glossy waves of chestnut hair. Her mind was occupied with some thought which drained all of her attention away from her present surroundings.

Mrs. Cool said to me, “You read the newspapers, Donald?”

I nodded.

“You’ve read about Morgan Birks?”

“A little,” I said, fascinated by Miss Hunter’s abstraction. “Wasn’t he the one who was indicted by the grand jury in that slot-machine scandal?”

“There wasn’t any scandal about it,” Mrs. Cool said in a matter-of-fact tone of voice. “They had a lot of illegal slot-machines placed where they’d do the most good and naturally there was a pay-off to the police department. Morgan did the paying. The grand jury didn’t indict him. They can’t get enough evidence to indict him. They subpoenaed him as a witness. He didn’t show up. They’re trying to find him. There’s some sort of a warrant out for him. That’s all. If they get him, they can do something about the police department. If they don’t get him, they can’t. Why the hell anybody wants to call it a scandal is more than I know. It’s just ordinary, routine business.”

“I was quoting the newspapers,” I said.

“Don’t do it, Donald. It’s a bad habit.”

“What about Morgan Birks?” I asked, noticing that Miss Hunter was still very much occupied with her own thoughts.

“Morgan Birks has a wife,” Mrs. Cool said. “Her name is—is—” She said to Miss Hunter, “Let’s have those papers, dearie,” and had to ask the second time before Miss Hunter suddenly snapped to attention, opened her purse, took out some folded, legal-looking documents, and handed them across the desk. Mrs. Cool picked up the papers and calmly resumed her conversation at the point where she’d interrupted herself, “—Sandra Birks. Sandra Birks wants a divorce. She’s been figuring on it for some time. Morgan played into her hands by getting mixed up in this grand jury business. It’s a swell time to get a divorce except for one thing. She can’t find him to serve the papers.”

“He’s classed as a fugitive from justice?” I asked.

“I don’t know how much justice there is about it,” she said, “but he’s sure as hell a fugitive from something. He can’t be found.”