“Have I said anything about money?”
“You will,” she said. “And keep your voice down.”
“The cottage is all yours, honey. I walked around it before I came in. Doors closed, windows shut, blinds drawn, carports empty. I can check with the office, if you’re nervous. I’ve got friends around here—people you need to know, people who can make life pleasant for you. Socially this is a tough town to break into. And it’s a damn dull town if you’re on the outside looking in.”
“How did you get in, Mr. Mitchell?”
“My old man is a big shot in Toronto. We don’t get on and he won’t have me around home. But he’s still my old man and he’s still the real thing, even if he does pay me to stay away.”
She didn’t answer him. Her steps went away. I heard her in the kitchen making the usual sounds connected with getting ice out of a tray of cubes. The water ran, the steps came back.
“I’d like one myself,” she said. “Perhaps I’ve been rude to you. I’m tired.”
“Sure,” he said equably. “You’re tired.” A pause. “Well, here’s to when you’re not tired. Say about seven-thirty this evening at The Glass Room. I’ll pick you up. Nice place for dinner. Dancing. Quiet. Exclusive, if that means anything any more. Belongs to the Beach Club. They don’t have a table unless they know you. I’m among friends there.”
“Expensive?” she asked.
“A little. Oh yes—and that reminds me. Until my monthly check comes in, you could let me have a couple of dollars.” He laughed. “I’m surprised at myself. I did mention money after all.”
“A couple of dollars?”
“A couple of hundred would be better.”
“Sixty dollars is all I have—until I can open an account or cash some traveler’s checks.”
“You can do that at the office, baby.”
“So I can. Here’s fifty. I don’t want to spoil you, Mr. Mitchell.”
“Call me Larry. Be human.”
“Should I?” Her voice had changed. There was a hint of invitation in it. I could imagine the slow smile of pleasure on his face. Then I guess from the silence that he had grabbed her and she had let him. Finally her voice was a little muffled, saying: “That’s enough, Larry. Be nice now and run along. I’ll be ready at seven-thirty.”
“One more for the road.”
In a moment the door opened and he said something I didn’t catch. I got up and went to the window and took a careful look through the slats of the blind. A floodlight was turned on in one of the tall trees. Under it I saw him stroll off up the slope and disappear. I went back to the heater panel and for a while I heard nothing and wasn’t sure what I was listening for. But I knew soon enough.
There was quick movement back and forth, the sound of drawers being pulled open, the snap of a lock, the bump of a lifted lid against something.
She was packing up to leave.
I screwed the long frosted bulbs back into the heater and replaced the grille and put the stethoscope back in my suitcase. The evening was getting chilly. I slipped my jacket on and stood in the middle of the floor. It was getting dark and no light on. I just stood there and thought it over. I could go to the phone and make a report and by that time she could be on her way in another cab to another train or plane to another destination. She could go anywhere she liked, but there would always be a dick to meet the train if it meant enough to the big important people back in Washington. There would always be a Larry Mitchell or a reporter with a good memory. There would always be the little oddness to be noticed and there would always be somebody to notice it. You can’t run away from yourself.
I was doing a cheap sneaky job for people I didn’t like, but—that’s what you hire out for, chum. They pay the bills, you dig the dirt. Only this time I could taste it. She didn’t look like a tramp and she didn’t look like a crook. Which meant only that she could be both with more success than if she had.
5
I opened the door and went along to the next and pushed the little buzzer. Nothing moved inside. There was no sound of steps. Then came the click of a chain set in the groove and the door opened a couple of inches on light and emptiness. The voice said from behind the door: “Who is it?”
“Could I borrow a cup of sugar?”
“I haven’t any sugar.”
“Well how about a couple of dollars until my check comes in?”
More silence. Then the door opened to the limit of the chain and her face edged into the opening and shadowed eyes stared out at me. They were just pools in the dark. The floodlight set high in the tree glinted on them obliquely.
“Who are you?”
“I’m your next door neighbor. I was having a nap and voices woke me. The voices spoke words. I was intrigued.”
“Go somewhere else and be intrigued.”
“I could do that, Mrs. King—pardon me, Miss Mayfield—but I’m not sure you’d want me to.”
She didn’t move and her eyes didn’t waver. I shook a cigarette out of a pack and tried to push up the top of my Zippo with my thumb and rotate the wheel. You should be able to do it one-handed. You can too, but it’s an awkward process. I made it at last and got the cigarette going, yawned, and blew smoke out through my nose.
