Ritter fumbled a Camel out of his shirt pocket and made a beeline for the
desk, appropriating Rand's lighter and sharing the flame with Kathie.
"You know, Jeff," he said, "one of the reasons why this agency never made
any money while you were away was that I never had the unadulterated
insolence to ask the kind of fees you do. I was listening in on the
extension in the file-room; I could hear Kathie damn near faint when
you said five grand."
"Yes; five thousand dollars for appraising a collection they've been
offered ten for, and she only has a third-interest," Kathie said,
retracting herself into the chair lately vacated by Gladys Fleming.
"If that makes sense, now ..."
"Ah, don't you get it, Kathleen Mavourneen?" Ritter asked. "She doesn't
care about the pistols; she wants Jeff to find out who fixed up that
accident for Fleming. You heard that big, long shaggy-dog story about
exactly what happened and where everybody was supposed to have been at
the time. I hope you got all that recorded; it was all told for a
purpose."
Rand had picked up the outside phone and was dialing. In a moment, a
girl's voice answered.
"Carter Tipton's law-office; good afternoon."
"Hello, Rheba; is Tip available?"
"Oh, hello, Jeff.
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