CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Closing UpNot wishing to raise the echoes of this desert neighborhood by shouting, Gamadge waited until the cleaning woman shuffled up to join him under the portico. Several patrons might have contributed to her wardrobe—the well-worn ulster that was too short for her, the brown cloth skirt that was too long, the large felt hat perched on top of her gray hair. From her grimy paper shopping-bag the heels of working shoes protruded.
“Well, Mrs. Keate,” said Gamadge, “here you are on the dot. Glad you turned up.”
“Turned up? It’s my time for Miss Paxton.”
“I mean I was afraid you might have seen the papers and stayed away.”
“Papers?” The instant reaction of cleaning women to the unexpected—in any form—is defiance. Anything may be a threat, a threat of oppression, to the t
