A Bullet for Cinderella by John D. MacDonald

said. “Tal, I—” Her voice was throaty and unfocused.
    “I know,” I said. “I know.”
    She turned away abruptly and walked slowly to the window and looked out across the lake. I followed her and put my hands lightly on her shoulders. I felt shamed by all this, shamed by my lies, and afraid of what would happen when she found out about me.
    I felt new tension in her body and she leaned closer to the window and seemed to peer more intently.
    “What’s the matter?”
    “Look. Isn’t that some kind of animal over there? Directly across. That was the Warden camp before George sold it. The one with the green roof. Now look just to the right of the porch.” I looked and saw something bulky, partially screened by brush. It looked as if it could be a bear. She brushed by me and came back with a pair of binoculars. She focused them and said, “It’s a man. Here. You look.”
    I adjusted them to my eyes. The man was getting to hisfeet. He was a big man in a brown suit. He was hatless and his hair was thin on top and he had a wide, hard-looking face. It was the man who had driven by Fitz and me in the blue sedan, the man who had come into the bar at the Inn. He brushed the knees of his brown suit and dusted his hands together. He bent over and picked up what looked to be a long dowel or a piece of reinforcing rod.
    “Let me look,” she said and took the binoculars again. “I know the people who bought the camp from George. That isn’t the man.”
    “Maybe he’s a service man of some kind.”
    “I don’t think so. I know most of them. Now he’s going up on the porch. He’s trying the door. Hey! He broke a window right next to the door. Now he’s getting it up. Now he’s stepping in over the sill.” She turned to me, her eyes wide. “How about that? Tal, he’s a thief! We better go over there.”
    “Anything you say. But how about the law?”
    “Wait a minute.” She hurried into the bedroom. She came back with a .22 target pistol and a box of shells. It was a long-barreled automatic. She thumbed the clip out and loaded it expertly, snapped the clip back in and handed me the gun. “You’ll be more impressive with it than I would. Come on.”
    There was no road that led directly around the lake. We had to go about four miles out of our way to get to the road on the other side of the lake. A dark blue sedan was parked at the head of the driveway, facing out. There wasn’t room to drive by. I parked and we went down the trail toward the camp. I turned and motioned her to stay back. I went ahead but I heard her right behind me. The man came walking around the corner of the camp, frowning. He stopped short when he saw me, his eyes flicking toward the gun and then toward Ruth.
    “Why did you break into that camp?” Ruth demanded angrily.
    “Take it easy, lady. Put the gun away, friend.”
    “Answer the question,” I said, keeping the gun on him.He acted so unimpressed that I felt ridiculous holding the gun.
    “I’m a licensed private investigator, friend. Don’t put any hole in me while I’m getting my wallet. I’ll show you.”
    He took the wallet out. He took out a card encased in plastic and flipped it toward us. Ruth picked it up. It had his picture and a thumb print and two official looking countersignatures and it said he was licensed by the State of Illinois. His name was Milton D. Grassman. The card said he was forty-one years old, six foot one, and weighed two hundred and five.
    “But what are you investigating?” Ruth asked.
    He smiled. “Just investigating. And who are you, lady? Maybe you’re trespassing.” His smile was half good humor, half contempt.
    “You’re working for Rose Fulton, aren’t you?” I asked.
    The smile was gone instantly. He didn’t seem to move or breathe. I had the impression that a very good mind behind that flat, tough face was working rapidly.
    “I’m afraid I don’t know the name,” he said. But he had waited too long. “Who are you,