“Shoot.”
A knock came at the door, but before either of us could respond to it, Joe—the houseman—leaned in and said, “Miss DeCarrie—Mr. Putnam and Mr. Miller pull in drive.”
“But they’re not due yet!”
“Mr. Putnam pull in drive. Mr. Miller with him.”
And then Joe shut the door and was gone.
“Criminey,” she said. “He wasn’t supposed to come back till tomorrow…”
“We got nothing to hide,” I said. “I’m not going out a window or anything.”
I walked her into the living room, where Putnam—impeccable as always in a double-breasted gray worsted and black and white tie—was just coming in, saying, “What do you expect me to do, Miller? Indulge in public sobbing?”
And the man coming in behind him said, “All I’m saying is, you came off cold-blooded to that reporter. ‘I have confidence in my wife’s ability to handle any situation…’”
Putnam stopped his companion’s conversation with the raised hand of a traffic cop, nodding toward Margot and me.
“We have company,” Putnam said. Behind the rimless glasses, his cold dark eyes were fixed on me in that unblinking gaze of his.
William Miller—looking like an undertaker in a black worsted suit and a black silk tie whose small red polka dots were like drops of blood—formed an immediate smile, a small noncommittal smile developed no doubt as a reflex. He was fairly tall, medium build, his hair prematurely gray and receding on an egg-shaped skull, complexion ashen, eyes dark and intense under dark ridges of eyebrow, his mouth rather full, even sensual, the only hint of emotional content in an otherwise cold countenance.
“Who have we here?” he asked, in a pleasant, even soothing baritone.
“Heller?” Putnam said, answering Miller as if he weren’t sure he was really recognizing me.
“G. P.,” I said. “You weren’t expected.”
“Neither were you,” he said. “What the hell’s this about?”
We were standing near the entryway, facing each other awkwardly like gunfighters who forgot their six- shooters.
“I’m concerned about your wife,” I said. “I came out here to offer my sympathy and help.”
“Mr. Heller called,” Margot said, with a smile as tellingly strained as Miller’s was ominously casual, “and I invited him over. I hope I wasn’t out of line, Mr. Putnam, but I knew he was a friend of A. E.’s…”
“Why don’t you leave us alone, Margot,” Putnam said. “Go to your quarters.”
She nodded and said, “Yes sir,” flashed me a pained smile, and was gone.
“You want something to drink?” Putnam asked me. He was slipping out of his suitcoat.
“Why not?” The Zombie had pretty well worn off.
“Joe!” he called, and the houseman appeared and took Putnam’s jacket. Miller made no move to remove his, nor did he move to take a seat; just stood there with that small meaningless smile, his arms folded, his weight evenly distributed on both Florsheimed feet.
“Bring Mr. Heller a rum and Coke,” Putnam told Joe. “Manhattans for Mr. Miller and myself.”
Miller gestured, no. “I’ll pass, tonight, thank you, Joe.”
Joe nodded, disappeared, while Putnam loosened his tie, unbuttoned his cuffs, rolled up his sleeves, saying, “Nate Heller, this is William T. Miller. He’s with, uh…”
He left it for Miller to fill in, which he did: “Bureau of Air Commerce.”
We shook hands; his grip was cool, also firm but he didn’t show off.
“Mr. Heller runs the A-1 Detective Agency in Chicago,” Putnam told Miller. “He did some work for me, a year or two ago. Accompanied A. E. on one of her lecture swings.”
The tiny smile settled in one cheek; like Putnam, Miller rarely blinked. With these two standing staring at me, it was like having a conversation with a wax museum exhibit. “You’re a little off your beat, aren’t you, Mr. Heller?”
“Every time I leave Chicago,” I said pleasantly, “somebody says that. Do you think I should be staying in my own back yard?”
Miller’s shrug was barely perceptible. “There’s something to be said for home team advantage.”
A phone rang in the nearby hallway, and Putnam called, “I’ll get that, Joe! Just concentrate on those drinks!”
Miller and I stood facing each other, and I worked at giving him just as unconvincing a smile as he was giving me, while Putnam dealt with the phone call. We didn’t speak; we eavesdropped—not that we had any choice. Putnam was on a long-distance call and was working his voice up to an even more obnoxious level than usual.
“Well, Beatrice,” he was saying, “I know what you’re going through. Who could know better than I?…Yes…. Yes, I know, dear….”
I asked Miller, “Do you know who he’s talking to?”
“Yes.”
