Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. ’ ‘Who’s bleeding to death?’ demanded Trodger. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. If not, I have plenty to think about,” she answered, leaning back in her chair, and watching the smoke from her own cigarette curl upwards. Just what in the world was that about? Before he could hazard a guess, Lucy looked back at him. CHAPTER I. ‘I suppose he isn’t this Leonardo you spoke of?’ ‘Certainly he is not Leonardo. .
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