She didn't answer the direct question. She was frowning right back at me. "You checked up on me?"
"Did you think I wouldn't? A mouse I've never seen before saves me from the cops and asks me to a conference in her motel room. Would I walk in cold?"
She hesitated, and asked curiously, "What's a mouse, Jim?"
"Don't act dumb. A mouse is a broad."
"I mean," she persisted, "is it good or bad? Like dream-boat? Or like bitch?"
"A mouse," I said, "is something small and cuddly. Like a doll, which is what your daddy used to call you. Let's stick with that. Let's brush it hard and see where the dandruff falls. Used to? What made him stop?" She looked at me and didn't answer. I said, as if quoting from memory, which I was, "Dr. Norman Michaelis is currently resting and relaxing aboard a seagoing yacht belonging to friends. That's the official scoop. Don't ask me how I got it. I've got connections."
Actually, I'd got it from the dope given me by Mac during the preliminary briefing. Michaelis' disappearance had been temporarily covered up, to avoid embarrassing questions while the search was in progress.
The little girl said quickly, "It isn't true. I suppose they mean the Freya, but she's anchored up a creek not twenty miles from here, where she can't be seen unless you're right on top of her. Nobody's aboard except Nick, the paid hand. They've painted out the name and home port, but how many jib-headed, eighty-foot schooners are there on the Bay? I got that much for my money, anyway, before somebody got to the man I'd hired and bought him off. Or scared him off. Anyway, he turned in one report and quit."
I said, "You're throwing it at me fast. Is it supposed to make sense? What's a jib-headed schooner?"
"A schooner is a two-masted sailing vessel, fore-and-aft rigged, with the taller mast aft. If it has a Marconi mainsail, it's jib-headed. Because it comes to a point at the top like a jib, get it? Or do I have to tell you what a jib is, Jim?"
I hadn't reacted the first time she used my name, so this time she called attention to it with a little smile; she was treating me just like a human being. She wasn't scared a bit, even if I did go around killing people, her smile said. She found a cigarette on the dresser, lit it, and sat down on the bed facing me, smoking bravely.
"The jib's the little triangular sail up front. I know that much," I said. "And Freya was the Norse goddess of love and beauty. And an eighty-footer is a lot of boat, for a private yacht. And who did you hire to do what, Teddy?"
"A private detective from a New York agency. I've been working in New York. When Papa disappeared-"
"Disappeared?"
"His letters stopped coming. I called his lab in Washington and they said he was taking a vacation, but he hadn't written me anything about it. They said he'd come down here. They sounded-well, funny. So I called her long distance-"
"Who?"
"You know. You met her. The horsy aristocratic lady with the sharp, sharp eye."
"Mrs. Rosten?"
Teddy nodded. "And she said he was off cruising somewhere, like you just told me. She'd lent him the schooner, she said."
"I see. Well, I wish I had a handsome lady friend who lent me eighty-foot yachts. So your daddy used to call you doll, but he doesn't any more, because he's off cruising the seven seas in a schooner that's tied up in a creek twenty miles from here with the name painted out. An4 you sent a New York private eye to investigate, and he came back with his tail between his legs. And just where the hell does this Rosten dame come into the act, anyway?"
Teddy hesitated. "Papa-well, Papa was crazy about her," she said reluctantly.
"Tsk, tsk," I said. "A married woman? How did she feel about it?"
"Feel?" There was sudden viciousness in the little girl's voice. "What makes you think she's got feelings, that female vampire? Don't flatter her, Jim!"
"In other words," I said, "you don't like her very much."
"She's a monster!" the girl said fiercely. "Who was that ancient character who turned men into swine?"
"Circe, I think," I said. "She wasn't ancient at the time, as I recall."
"Well, this one is," Teddy said. "God, she must be almost forty, and she had Papa making a fool of himself like they were both kids in their teens!"
"Think of it," I said, "an old hag like that. Almost forty!"
She glanced up quickly. I don't exactly qualify as a dewy juvenile myself. She had the grace to look embarrassed.
"I didn't mean-anyway, it's different with a man."
"Sure. Men age better."
"Well, they do. I-I just couldn't understand it. What he saw in her, I mean. It wasn't as if she were pretty or anything, or even very bright. I mean, all she can talk about is horses and dogs and boats, real sexy conversation. The only thing I can figure is, she must be good in bed, but she doesn't look it."
I said, "And you don't like the idea of her being good in bed with your papa, anyway."
"Well, should I?" she snapped. "I tried to tell him, to warn him. Somebody had to tell him he was making himself utterly ridiculous! We had a terrible fight about it, and I packed my things and moved to New York and said I wasn't going to set foot in the house again until he'd made a clean break with that woman."
"That's known as polite blackmail," I said. "Impolite blackmail is when you ask for money."
She flushed. "I had to do something! I couldn't just stand by and let him ruin everything. I didn't even answer his letters. He made me so mad! He kept writing to me as if I were a child who just didn't understand. I understood, all right. I just thought it was disgusting!" She drew a long, ragged breath. "And now-and now he's gone." She paused. "I think he's dead, Jim. Murdered!"
"Murdered?"
"Yes, and it's her fault. I know it is!"
"Mrs. Rosten? Why would she kill him?"
"I didn't say she killed him. I said it was her fault." Teddy glanced at me, somewhat hesitantly, and went on, "I think-I think her husband killed him in a fit of jealousy. Don't laugh. That's the way it must have happened!" She drew on her cigarette defiantly.
I studied her for a moment. I was realizing, rather belatedly, that I was dealing with a screwball. It changed the situation somewhat.
"I'm not laughing," I said. "I'm just panting, trying to catch up. You're leaving me way behind."
She said, "Well, it's logical, isn't it? She's beat on that poor man for years. He's definitely unstable, anyway. Anybody can see that. She's flaunted her lovers in his face, time and again. Everybody knows it around here. I think it finally just got too much for him and he went off his trolley."
"Have you got any evidence for all this?" I asked. "Or are you making it up as you go along? Half freshman psychology and half TV?"
She said, "Well, if Papa isn't dead, where is he? I think there was a dreadful scene of some kind, and Louis Rosten went haywire and killed him. Then she helped her husband cover up to avoid the scandal of a murder trial that would have crucified her. Why is the Freya hidden in that creek? Why is Louis absolutely terrified of his wife? Why did that private detective drop the case after coming down here? She either bought him off or threatened him with political influence; her family's been big stuff in this state since Lord Calvert founded Baltimore."