Collection of Stories

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When Gil Vine laid three cents on the cigar stand in the lobby of his office building and said: “Times,” he noticed a pair of legs. Good-looking’ legs they were, encased in sheer chiffon, standing by the elevator bank. He glanced up, but the fur collar of her coat was pulled up around her face so he could only see a pair of hazel-green eyes watching him intently.

When the tobacconist gave him his morning paper with the greeting, “Looks like a real snowstorm, Mister Vine,” the proprietor of the Vine Investigating Agency saw the girl start violently. And after he’d entered the up-car and the girl followed, there was no further doubt in his mind. This girl was waiting for him and she didn’t want anyone else to know about it

He got off at the fourth. The girl tagged along a few feet behind, all the way down the corridor.

“Come on in,” he said without turning his head. “Nobody around.”

She gasped. “Gilbert Vine?” she said, softly.

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