The Blonde Cried Murder

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Evelyn Thompson yawned not too prettily as she lounged in front of the switchboard at the Hibiscus Hotel. Normally she was quite a pretty girl, but tonight her face was sullen, her lips poutiAg with discontent.

Still two and a half hours until midnight I Roger wouldn't wait. She knew darned well he wouldn't. Not for two whole hours. And there wasn't a chance in the world to get in touch with him and explain that things had gone haywire, that the other operator, who'd promised faithfully just that afternoon to relieve Evelyn at ten, so she could keep her date, had called up a while ago to say she had a headache and couldn't make it tonight.

A headache? Haw! And her voice all blurry with gin. Wait until she asked Evelyn for a similar favor. Just waiti That's all.

Evelyn yawned again and patted her open mouth delicately with flame-tipped fingers. Wouldn't be so bad if there was anything doing, but after nine o'clock at night at the Hibiscus in the off-season it was like running a switchboard in a morgue. Maybe there'd be half a dozen calls from partying rooms upstairs for more ice and soda before she went off at midnight. And that'd be all. For that, Evelyn had to sit here and miss her date with Roger.

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