"Men," she spat in her strange clipped accent. "Bloody lice! They only come when they're hungry. What are you after, Lennox?" "Trouble," Lennox said. "We'll pickle it first. What's your brew?" Before he could answer she made a couple of drinks, handed him one and finished hers. "When was the last time you were here, Lennox?" "This is the first." "They keep passing through. I lose count." She opened a window, then closed the drapes with a savage flick. She blew dust off pewter tankards and opened and slammed drawers. "I've been asked for plenty in my life but they never called it trouble." She shuffled a deck of cards once. "They've had it but never asked for it." "I'm not asking, Kay." "No? You're here, aren't you?" She cupped his chin in her hand, smiled contemptuously, then slapped him. "We'll pickle it." She went to the bar. "Christ, it's bloody hot. D'you want ice?" "No thanks." "There isn't any anyway." She pulled irritably at the dressing gown until it opened, displaying a black bra and black panties. She fretted around the room, the green gown trailing behind her. "Are you English?" Lennox asked. "Are you starting something?" "I want to know." "I'm English. Now you know." "The dialect bothers me." "Not dialect, Lennox." Her speech became more clipped and more English. "It's called an accent, darling. I have most unfortunately acquired a dreadful American accent. Mummy and Daddy will be terribly amused when I come home from the States." She dropped the English. "We'll pickle it." She made another pair of drinks. "Jesus, Kay!" Lennox protested. She finished both, came to him and sat on his lap. Lennox was startled when he noticed her eyes were terrified. She was desperate. "Make a pass, Lennox," she said. "Are you putting me on?" "No. You're putting me off." She got up. Lennox caught her wrist and pulled her down alongside him. "Do you know why I'm here?" he asked. "I don't give a bloody bug why you're here." "What's eating you out?" "You don't give a bloody bug what's eating me out. We'll pickle it." "Not now, we won't. There's something else first." "I've changed my mind." "I haven't." Lennox drew out the photostats and handed them to her. "Read these." "What?" "Read them." She began to shriek with laughter. "Read these, he says." She rocked around the room, neighing hysterically. Lennox went after her, took her by the shoulders and slammed her into a chair. "You're petrified," he growled, "and I think I know why. Read those letters, damn you, and we'll find out." She wiped her eyes with the hem of the dressing gown and read the photostats. Lennox watched her closely. Her face reflected every word she was reading. Her body reflected her face. She was savage, sick, vicious, threatening. For the length of all six letters she was the writer of those letters. She was completely identified. When she came to the end she looked at Lennox. "Who's writing them, Kay?" "How should I know?"