six or eight inches too large in all dimensions. Johnny grabbed an ankle and hauled and she hit the floor rump first. “Oww!” she squealed. Shocked surprise was in the face. “What kind of a square are you, anyway?”
“Out,” Johnny said grimly. “On your feet and out.” She sat up straight in the middle of the floor, the picture of outraged indignation. “You unadulterated square,” she said bitterly. “I should have known you-”
He reached down for an arm and lifted her to her feet. She tried to hit him with her free hand and stumbled as she stepped on the trailing edge of the nightgown. A bare shoulder and a strawberry-tipped, pear-shaped little breast popped into view as the top portion sagged. Jingle grabbed at the billowing material.
“Out,” Johnny insisted. With her left arm in his grip he boosted her toward the door with a knee behind her, fending off her wild swings with his other hand. He heard her gasp as she went limp in his clutch and he looked over her shoulder at Valerie Peterson in the doorway.
“Look, Val,” the girl said immediately in a rapid recovery. “I can explain everything. I was just-”
Her mother didn't even look at her. “Thanks,” she said to Johnny. “I'll take over from here.” She reached for Jingle with her left hand. In her right was a hairbrush.
“No, no, no!” the girl exclaimed. She darted around behind Johnny who discreetly stepped out of the way. With the skill born of long practice, Valerie Peterson stepped in behind her daughter and took a firm grip on her left ear. “You've got to listen to me, Val! Val!”
“March!” Mrs. Peterson commanded, and the hairbrush spatted sharply against the fullest part of the nightgown. Jingle yelped and bounded into the air only to be hauled down by the grip on her ear. At the doorway there was another crisp smack, another yip, and another troutlike leap. The ballet was repeated at the head of the stairs and on every third step on the way down. Jingle and her mother disappeared from sight through the living- room door. But not from sound.
In seconds shrill, piercing yells drifted upward with metronomic regularity. Johnny snatched up his jacket and ran down the stairs. In the lower hall the girl's howls were intensified; if he hadn't seen the flatbacked brush in her mother's hand he would have suspected something far more lethal.
Outside on the stone steps with the front door closed he could still hear her, although not as plainly. Miss Jingle Peterson left the neighborhood in small doubt as to her immediate circumstances.
Johnny shook his head in mute admiration for the audible testimony to Mrs. Peterson's undiminished vigor, grinned slightly and set off up the street.
He sat opposite the richly polished outsized desk of Mayor Richard Lowell and considered the man behind it. Dick Lowell fidgeted under the inspection, shooting his cuffs nervously and sweeping back his white mane with quick-brushing motions of a flattened palm. His swivel chair creaked as he leaned forward in it to plant his elbows on the desk top. His eyes were bloodshot and his clean-shaven face looked haggard. “Killain, I-”
“You're beltin' at that brandy too much, Dickie,” Johnnyinterrupted him.
“Don't call me Dickie!” the mayor snapped back. He sat up straighter. “And as for the brandy, I believe I'm of age.”
“The dangerous age, maybe. When you up for re-election again, Your Honor?”
Richard Lowell winced at the question, Johnny's ironic salutation passing unnoticed.
“Not till next year, fortunately.”
“Fortunately, indeed,” Johnny said. “A mayor who shows himself to the voters in wide open gamblin' joints is on a downhill slide. A mayor who takes off his shoes at night in the company of a married woman is on a greased downhill slide.”
“So you heard about that, too.” Richard Lowell pushed back his chair. He looked at his well-manicured nails and buffed them on the lapel of his jacket. “That much at least is settled now.”
“Settled like how?” Johnny asked.
“She's getting a divorce.” Dick Lowell said it somberly, with no trace of triumph. “Quietly. He's finally agreed. It cost me-” He flung his arms wide and jumped nervously to his feet. “Never mind what it cost me. It's worth it.” He began to pace up and down behind his desk in short, choppy strides. “Dorothy and I will be married after a decent interval. After I'm re-elected. People forget. In the meantime, I'll be more-careful.” He stopped and looked at Johnny, the beautiful speaking voice picking up power and intensity. “I know I've slipped with the people, but I've got a year. In a year I can rebuild my image. All I need is a good issue to distract them, and I've got a dandy. I can kick off a campaign and in three weeks I'll have everyone back who ever voted for me and a lot more beside. I'll get up on a platform and lay it on the line: 'Citizens of Jefferson-'”
“'-we must throw the rascals out,'“ Johnny cut in.
“Well, yes.” Lowell's voice dropped from the rolling boom into which it had ascended. “Exactly.”
“An' what happens if the rascals point a finger back at the man on the platform?”
“They have no proo-” Richard Lowell closed his lips tightly. “The voters will know whom to believe. I'm going to clean up this town. I'm going to clean it up one hundred per cent. I'll start-”
“The last man I heard talkin' like that wound up on a hotel-room floor with a knife in his back,” Johnny said softly.
Dick Lowell sat down suddenly. He swallowed visibly. “I'm not-they can't intimidate me,” he said feebly.
Johnny looked at him. “They can't? Congratulations, Your Honor.” His voice turned hard. “I haven't found Micheline Thompson. Would you have any idea why?”
“I?” Lowell looked confused. “What do you mean?”
“Could it be that Micheline Thompson knows enough about Mayor Richard Lowell to warrant his keepin' her out of sight, rather than Daddario?”
“You're-you couldn't be more wrong.” The mayor's voice was shaky. “I desperately want to find her. She-she can be of the greatest assistance. You must find her.”
“How would it be if I looked in Dorothy's apartment?”
“Dorothy?” Richard Lowell looked stunned. “You would accuse Dorothy of-of lending herself to such a deception?” He sounded outraged.
“I don't know Dorothy,” Johnny pointed out. “I'm beginnin' to know you.”
“Why don't you ask Jessamyn Burger, your great and good friend?” Mayor Lowell thrust back with sudden viciousness.
“I already have. She claims Daddario never told her anything.”
The mayor's snort was explosive. “That woman is no schoolgirl. I'm not saying she has to know where Micheline is but never believe she knows nothing about Jim's activities. She's a shrewd one.”
“She says the brushoff was complete.” Johnny watched the man behind the desk.
“I'll never believe that.” Richard Lowell was emphatic. “For one thing, has she cut down on her scale of living?”
“I've been in her place. I wouldn't say she's equipped to run off Roman orgies three times a week. What've you got against her?”
“Her ambition. When she was the bright star in Daddario's crown I was just something in their way. She never had a good word for me or about me. I don't forget things like that.”
“How come Daddario cut her loose?”
“I've never been completely convinced that he has.” Dick Lowell scowled. “In politics you have to look beneath the surface. There was beginning to be some talk about their long 'engagement.' At a time when I was something less than discreet, myself, their separation gave them an opportunity to point a moralistic finger at me.”
“You don't think you went all around Robin Hood's barn to dredge that one up?”
“It's a possibility,” Lowell insisted stubbornly. “I trust neither of them.”
“What was Carl Thompson doin' for you when he was in the saddle in the chief's office?”
The mayor was silent for a count of three. “Protecting my interests,” he said at length. He hurried on before Johnny could speak. “Not trusting Daddario, I needed to be kept informed.”
“I figured you an' Daddario for partners.” Johnny made the statement in a deliberate manner.
“We-might have had an understanding. Once. That's water over the dam. He's out to get me. I intend to get him first.” Again richness of purpose firmed and deepened Lowell's voice. “If I can count on your help you won't be sorry, Killain.”
“The other day you thought this room might be bugged,” Johnny said. “How come you're such a popoff now?”
