“My name is Lorna Clayton,” the child said pleasantly, as she started to climb back into the flower bed. “What’s yours?”

“Ned Lowry,” Lowry said. He grinned broadly at the pretty little child. “See you again sometime, Lorna. And thanks for the flowers.”

She waved a white, dainty hand to him as he swung down the walk toward his car. Her mother was bending over the plants again.

Lowry got into the car, frowning thoughtfully. The visit to Clayton had not been very fruitful, but perhaps some unexpected good would come out of an avenue he did not fully appreciate now. It was worth keeping in mind, at any rate. With so little to go on, every scrap of information was precious.

He drove downtown and quickly found the address that the nurse had given him. The place was less than a quarter of a mile from Ramirez’ shack and the empty lot.

It was dismal. The house was slate gray, a wooden shack, sooty and decrepit and dingy, exuding the sour stink of grinding poverty. Lowry looked up and down the street, estimating. Clayton’s car would have been parked there, about thirty feet from the lamp post.

He knocked at the door.

After a long pause, a young woman opened the door. She was a pretty woman, but with the ordinary prettiness of the country girl. Her face was badly made up with cheap rouge and her hair was dry and brittle. She wore a coarse linen blouse. Her breasts were big and full, almost abnormally so, leading Lowry to conclude that she was either astonishingly well developed or else nursing a child. More likely the latter, he thought.

Lowry went through the process of introducing himself once again. He was beginning to feel like a brush salesman, he thought, going through the same fruitless questionings. What had he accomplished so far? Not a thing. Not a single thing. He had used up a lot of gasoline and a lot of time and a lot of shoe leather, but Bob McKay was just as thoroughly under suspicion of murder as he had ever been, and no opening was presenting itself.

“Mrs. Lawrence, I believe?”

“That’s right,” she said suspiciously.

He smiled. “My name is Lowry, Ned Lowry. I’m from the Gazette.”

The woman was looking at him in puzzled surprise.

“It’s about Bob McKay,” he went on.

She looked as though she understood why he was here now.

“Yes,” she said. “Dr. Clayton’s car was stolen right in front of the door here. The police have already been here.”

“I know,” he said. “Do you mind if I come in and talk with you for a while?”

“Yes, come in.”