The Galloping Corpses

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The waitress leaned close. “Dessert, Mister Madden?”

He stared up, startled. All the waitresses in their jockey costumes here at the Stirrup and Saddle were worth looking at, but the one who’d brought Madden his sirloin was something extra — small-boned, suggestively plump, with a pert elfin face under the long-billed jockey cap. Very cute indeed, in her scarlet satin blouse and shiny black riding boots. Under other circumstances, he might have patted the white, skin-tight breeches where they fitted most snugly.

“I’ll have apple pie,” he said. “Did I meet you somewhere?”

She inspected him nervously, but didn’t move away. “You really are a fast operator, aren’t you!”

Keene shook his head. “I’m just asking where we met before, ’s all.”

“I never saw you until tonight, Mister Madden.”

“How did you know my name?”

She glanced across the dance floor toward a smartly dressed young couple at a ringside table that must have set somebody back a tenspot to the head waiter. “One of the other girls heard Mister Larmin say things would begin to pop here at Saratoga now that they’d called you in.”

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