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hat on, so I knew he must be an officer.”

The woman who entered the room after about three minutes was tired to the point of being mentally numb.

She wore a simple, dark-colored dress that had a V in front low enough to emphasize the creamy smoothness of her skin. She was brunette, slate-eyed, nice-figured, in the mid-twenties, and ready to drop in her tracks.

“What is it?” she said, without even bothering to look at me.

“I want to check up on some of your husband’s associates.”

“That’s been done already a dozen times.”

“Did he know anyone by the name of Meredith?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I haven’t heard him speak of any — Man or woman?”

“Man.”

“I haven’t heard him speak of any Meredith.”

“Billings?” I asked.

For a swift instant I felt there was a startled flicker of expression in her eyes, then she said in the same flat, weary voice, “Billings — That name is familiar. I may have heard George use it.”

“Can you tell me a little something about his trip?”

“But we’ve gone over this, over and over and over.”

“Not with me, you haven’t.”

“Well, what’s your interest in it?”

I said, “I’m trying to solve the case. I’m going to save you a little trouble.”

“We don’t know there is any case yet,” she said. “They haven’t found — found anything to justify their conclusions. George may be working on some sort of a secret deal and he might go to almost any lengths to conceal what he was doing.”

I waited for her to look up from the carpet; then I said, “Do you seriously believe that, Mrs. Bishop?”

“No,” she said.

Her eyes started to lower, then she raised them to mine once more. “Go on,” she said, and this time I could see that her brain was coming out of the mental fog of weariness in which it had been wrapped.

“He has a mine up north?”

“Siskiyou County.”

“A paying mine?”

“I don’t know much about his business affairs.”

“And he left Tuesday?”

“That’s right. Along about seven o’clock in the evening.”

“Wasn’t that rather late?”

“He planned to drive most of the night.”

“Did he make a habit of picking up hitchhikers?” She said, “You keep going over and over the same things. Who are you, anyway?”

“The name,” I told her, “is Lam,” and threw another question at her quick before she had a chance to think that over. “Just what did he say to you prior to his departure?”

She didn’t fall for it. Her eyes kept fastened on me. “Just what’s your capacity, Mr. Lam?” she asked.

“Sometimes a quart. The results are usually disastrous. I take it your husband was away a good deal of the time?”

“I mean what’s your capacity with the police force?”

“Zero-zero-point-zero. If you’ll answer my questions, Mrs. Bishop, instead of asking questions, we’ll get finished a lot faster.”

“If you’ll answer my questions instead of throwing more questions at me, we may terminate the interview a lot faster,” she said, angry now and very much alert. “Just who are you?”

I saw then she was going after it until she had an answer. I didn’t want to appear to dodge around the bushes. I said, “I’m Donald Lam. I’m a private detective from Los Angeles. I’m working on a case that I think may have some angles to it that will be of some assistance.”

“Assistance to whom?”

“To me.”

“I thought so.”

“And,” I said, “perhaps to you.”

“In what way?”

I said, “Just because you’re beautiful is no sign you’re dumb.”

“Thank you. But you can skip all that stuff.”

I said, “Your husband was wealthy.”

“What if he was?”

“The newspaper gave his age as fifty-six.”

“That’s right.”

“You’re evidently a second wife.”

“I’ll put up with just about so much of this,” she said, “and then I’ll have you thrown out.”

“There was probably insurance,” I went on. “If you’re dumb enough to think that the police haven’t suspected you of having a young lover, and planning to get rid of your stodgy, middle-aged husband so you could inherit his money and go places with the boy you really like, you’re ivory from the ears up.”

“I suppose, Mr. Lam, that the ultimate purpose of all this is to frighten me into retaining you at a handsome salary?”

“Wrong again.”

“What is the purpose?”

“I’m working on another case. I think the solution to it may have a great deal to do with your husband and what may have happened to him. Are you interested?”

She said, “No,” but didn’t make any move to leave the room.

I said, “If you’re guilty of anything at all, don’t stick around and answer my questions. There’s a phone over there. If you have anything on your conscience go call a good lawyer, tell your story to him and to no one else.”

“And if I’m not guilty of anything?”

“If you’re not guilty of anything at all, if there’s nothing you’re afraid to have the police find out, talk with me and I may be able to help you.”

“If I’m not guilty of anything I don’t need any help.”

“That shows what an optimist you are. Sometime when you haven’t anything else to do, get Professor Borchard’s book Convicting the Innocent, and read the sixty-five cases of authenticated wrongful convictions that are set forth in that book. And, believe me, that’s just scratching the surface.”

“I don’t have time to read.”

“You will.”

“What do you mean by that?”

I said, “Unless you show a little savvy you may be spending the long afternoon hours in a cell.”

“That’s a cheap, shoddy attempt to frighten me.”

“It is,” I admitted.

“Why are you doing it if you don’t want money?”

“I want information.”

“Yet you tell me that I shouldn’t give out information, that I should see a lawyer.”

“If you’re guilty.”

“What else do you want to know, Mr. Lam?”

“Garvanza,” I said. “Ever hear your husband mention that name?”

This time there could be no mistaking the little start that she gave; then her face was a poker face once more. “Garvanza,” she said slowly. “I’ve heard that name somewhere.”