The Blonde Died Dancing by Kelley Roos

sprawling. As I turned the nearest corner, I saw him in the rear view mirror. He was on his feet again, his hands on his hips, watching me disappear.
    I had got away from Jack Walston. I had learned a thing or two about him and Dottie Harris. I was doing better this evening than I had all day. But I didn’t feel better for it.
    The Barton family was going rapidly to seed. Mr. Barton was the Waltzer, that maniac killer that the police of the world’s largest city were seeking. Mrs. Barton was, at the moment, driving the streets of Kew Gardens in a car she had stolen.
    I abandoned it at the subway station. I parked it within sight of an honest looking cop and headed for home. I didn’t duck under the turnstile. I paid my fare and that returned to me a little of my self-respect. I wasn’t completely unregenerate yet.

10
    The lights were on up there in our living room. As I went through the vestibule, I played “shave-and-a-haircut” on our bell. When I got to our landing, Steve was standing in the doorway. There was a look of warning on his face. He took me in his arms and gave me the least satisfactory kiss of our career.
    “Bolling,” he whispered. “Inside.”
    He stepped back from me and said loudly, heartily, “How’s your cousin Marie?”
    “Improving,” I said. “The swelling’s gone down.” We walked into our living room. Detective Lieutenant Bolling put a beer down on our coffee table, rose and greeted me. I was disappointed in the way he looked. He looked fine, not the least bit worried. Apparently this was a policeman without any pressing worries at all, including the capture of the Waltzer. “The swelling’s gone down?” he said to me.
    “What? Oh, Cousin Marie. Yes, perceptibly. Thank you.”
    “Steve says she has anemia. I didn’t know there was ever any swelling involved in anemia.”
    “You’re quite right, there isn’t. Cousin Marie got in a fight with her doctor and he belted her one in the eye.”
    “You’re kidding,” Bolling said.
    “Yes, stop kidding, Connie,” Steve said. “Bolling was in the neighborhood and he just dropped in.”
    “Lovely. Anytime you’re in the neighborhood, Mr. Bolling, just drop in.”
    “Thanks.”
    “Any news about the Waltzer?”
    “He was seen tonight in a joint in the Village, the Feather Club.”
    “No!” I said. “Really?”
    “Yeah. We got a description of him from a Crescent pupil who was there, name of Kipp. Wendell Kipp. The bartender saw him, too, and a waiter and a couple of other people.”
    “What was he doing, the Waltzer?”
    “Annoying some blonde.”
    “Any blonde,” I said, “who would frequent the Feather Club could hardly be annoyed.” I had to ask the question and I did, bravely. “What does the Waltzer look like?”
    “Well, this Kipp didn’t give much of a description. He didn’t impress me as the type that ever noticed very accurately what a man looked like. Then he was still pretty upset by the slugging the Waltzer handed him. His description didn’t tally very well with the other people’s descriptions.”
    “What,” I asked, “was his description?”
    “He said he was a big man, powerfully built.”
    Steve smiled, rather proudly, pleased.
    “Almost ape-like,” Bolling said.
    “Ape-like?” There was a trace of indignation in Steve’s voice which, fortunately, Bolling missed. “You can’t believe this Kipp. He’s probably sore about the Waltzer knocking him down.”
    “Yeah. Well, Kipp said he had a low forehead and very long arms.”
    Steve’s indignation was boiling into anger. I spoke quickly. “What did the other people say about him?”
    “The bartender said he was an ordinary guy, dark, maybe six feet.”
    Steve was somewhat mollified.
    “A waitress said he was good looking.”
    Steve was smiling again.
    “Well, anyway,” Bolling said, “the description doesn’t help us much. But that doesn’t bother me. When we round up the last of Anita Farrell’s pupils, then I’ll be able