She kept on walking right through the living room and across to a bedroom. “Come in here, Mr. Lam,” she invited.

There were twin beds, pictures on the walls. The furniture was expensive, with plate-glass mirrors at various angles of the room. She said, “I have a photograph album here in my dresser drawer. Sit down over there—maybe you’d better sit on the bed because I’ll want to sit beside you. We’ll go over the photographs together, and you can pick out the ones you want.”

I sat down on the bed. She opened a drawer in the dresser, took out a photograph album, and came over and sat down beside me.

“What was my brother telling you about me?” she asked, holding the album unopened.

“Nothing much.”

“Yes he did. He—he has a nasty mind. I don’t care if he is my own brother.”

“We,” I reminded, “were to get a picture of your husband. Is it here?”

She made a little face by wrinkling her nose, and said, “Don’t, by any chance, forget whom you’re working for.”

“I won’t.”

“Well?” she asked.

I raised my eyebrows in a silent question.

“I’m waiting to hear what Bleatie had to say about me.”

“Nothing much.”

“Did he say I was selfish?”

“I don’t remember exactly how he expressed it.”

“Did he say that I was sex-crazy?”

“No.”

“Well,” she said, bitterly, “he’s improving. He usually has that idea about me. My God, I wouldn’t put it past him to even claim Dr. Holoman was a lover.”

When I didn’t say anything, she let her eyes glitter at me from under half-lowered lids. “Well,” she asked, “did he?”

“Was that what you really wanted to know?” I inquired.

“Of course I want to know.”

“Just what is it you want to know?”

“What did Bleatie suspect—did he accuse me of being friendly with Dr. Holoman?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Your memory isn’t very good, is it?”

“No.”

“Perhaps you wouldn’t make a good detective.”

“Perhaps.”

“You’re working for me, you know.”

“I’m working for a woman by the name of Bertha L. Cool,” I said. “I make my reports directly to her. As I understand it, I’m employed to serve papers on Morgan Birks; and I gather that you brought me in here to show me some photographs of your husband.”

“You’re being impertinent.”

“I’m sorry.

“Oh well,” she said, “I don’t know why I’m so crazy as to want an answer. I know what the answer is. Of course, he panned me. We never did care for each other as brother and sister are supposed to care. But I didn’t think that even he would drag Dr. Holoman into it.”

“I’d prefer snapshots,” I said, “that show the face with some sort of expression, laughing or smiling.”