“Good evenin’, ma’am,” he said in a flat, expressionless voice that carried a slight lisp and was colored by a definite Yankee accent. “Sorry to bother you, but I’m lookin’ for a lady friend who’s visitin’ in your fine little town.” He reached into the breast pocket of his suit and produced a small black-and-white snapshot with a white, wavy-edged border. “A real looker, she is. A blonde. I been askin’ around, tryin’ to find somebody who knows where she’s stayin’.”

It was Miss Jamison. She was turned half away from the camera, smiling coyly over her shoulder, her chin buried in the luxurious fur stole that was thrown over the shoulder of her elegant wool coat. Her pale hair, marcelled, could be seen beneath a stylish, narrow-brimmed dark felt hat with a single pheasant feather. She looked confident, sure of herself, and slyly flirtatious. In the background of the photograph was a redbrick building. It bore the street number 4823.

Verna felt a cold shiver across her shoulder blades, but something told her that it wouldn’t be smart to let on that she recognized the woman in the photograph or the street number on the building. “Pretty,” she said, pretending to study it. “Nice fur, too. What did you say her name is?”

The man’s hard gray eyes were as flat and expressionless as his voice. “Well, sometimes it’s one name, sometimes another. Could be she’s usin’ the name LaMotte. Lorelei LaMotte.”

With a shake of her head, Verna handed the photo back to the man. “Haven’t seen her. I’m sure I’d remember if I had. You say she’s a friend?”

He nodded curtly and pocketed the photograph. “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep an eye out. I’ve got something to give her—a repayment on a loan. She’d sure as shootin’ hate to miss out on that, so you’ll be doing her a big favor to help me find her.”

“Sure thing,” Verna replied in a careless tone. “If I see her, I’ll let you know. Where are you staying?”

“Where else?” His harsh laugh turned into a harsher cough. “The only hotel in town. If I ain’t around, leave a message for Mr. Gold—that’s me. I’ll be here through tomorrow, at least. Maybe longer. Good evenin’, ma’am.”

He tipped his hat politely and went down the path to the street. As she watched from behind the lace curtain on the door, Verna saw a bulge under his suit coat. She had never seen one, but she had read enough descriptions of such a thing to know exactly what she was looking at. A shoulder holster.