other for a moment, his glance resting on my black eye, then he said softly, “You work too hard at your job, Ranzino. The case is solved, closed.”
“After a fashion.”
“What do you mean, after a fashion?”
“Exactly what you said, the case is over. I'm not working for you any longer. Any other questions, Willie Saxton, the third?”
“You're rather peppy tonight. Weren't like that yesterday, or this...”
“I delivered, you got what you paid for—a body. Now if you want me to do some more work on the case... I can think of a few angles that haven't been touched.”
He didn't say anything, merely stared at me, and I was getting cold. I said, “Good night, Willie,” and shut the door and he boomed, “You tell Madeline to call me in the morning!”
I stood behind the door, shivering a little and he knocked again, said, “Matt, open the door, want to talk to you.”
When I opened the door he said, “No hard feelings. You know, all's fair in love and war and gal-chasing.” He held out his hand.
I wasn't completely fooled, only I thought he was going to swing on me and I was watching his feet as I shook hands. My left was faster than his any time. I should have watched his shoulders—this strong ox suddenly yanked on my hand and I went sailing past him, off the steps, on my shoulders and face in the cold damp grass. It took me a moment to get my bearings and Saxton walked by, chuckling, said, “A little something to go with that eye.”
I'm a damn fool, I thought. Playing hero, lying out here like a fallen statue. Cold grass will fix me, but fast.
When my head stopped spinning, I dashed back into the house. I tried to wipe the green grass stain from my shoulders, and shoved a thermometer iii my chattering mouth as I put on long woolen underwear and climbed into bed, waiting for the cold to come. I didn't have any temperature, but I was too worried to be angry at Saxton. I was mad at myself for being a prize patsy, risking my health by sticking my fool nose in other people's business.
I turned off the table light and lay there, worried stiff and when I opened my eyes again it was daylight and 8 a.m.
WEDNESDAY
I dressed without washing and was on the bus to town in ten minutes flat. I was at the VA shortly after nine, waiting for Doc Kent. He asked, “What's the matter? That's a right colorful eye you're sporting.”
“Got into a fight yesterday—case of mistaken identity, on the other guy's part, but I got a pounding around the chest. And later in the night I was walking around the house in the nude and... eh... there was an open door and I was in a draft for quite a long time.” I realized how stupid it all sounded.
Kent looked at me as though I was making it all up. “Coughing?”
“No.”
He stuck a thermometer in my mouth, took my pulse. Then he read the thermometer, said, “Normal. So is your pulse. What was wrong?”
“Well, nothing was wrong, but, after all that I thought...?”
“Thought what? How do you feel?”
“Okay, I guess... But I...”
“Then what are you running to me for? Get this Ranzino, I know all about your case—interested me so I made a point of studying it. I'm here to help you, but don't make a pest of yourself. Remember, there's nothing wrong with you
“Okay, Doc, cut the lecture. Sorry I disturbed you.”
“It isn't a question of disturbing me. Frankly, you're as big and healthy as a horse. While I wouldn't advise you to go in for marathon running at the moment, or anything that places an
“So long, Doc, you should use slides with your talks,” I said, walking out of his office. I cashed Saxton's check and the teller said, “See they solved the murder. Can't believe Mr. Wilson would do something like that, but got to hand it to the police—fast work!”
“They been great since Buck Rogers joined the force.”
“Who?”
“Hopalong Cassidy,” I said, counting the money on the way out. I felt better on the bus back to White Beach, felt I really must be getting healthy if I didn't show anything after last night. Of course I didn't pay any attention to the doc's pep line about me being well, normal, that was a standard pitch.
By half past ten I was back in my room, undressed, and in bed, resting as I read the morning papers. Wilson's suicide was all over the headlines but I only read the comics and the sports page. After a while I heard Mady get up, the flush of water in the bathroom, and then she was in the kitchen and in my doorway. She had a light red housecoat on and looked fresh for a babe who must be well hung over. There was a kind of Mona Lisa, cat-like expression on her face, the large mouth forming a real smile as she said, “Good morning, lazy. Where'd you get the papers?”
“I've been up and into town and back. Didn't you hear me?”
“I could sleep through an air raid, especially when I'm sleeping off a gutful.”
“What time did you wake up Sunday, morning or afternoon?”
She stared at me, her eyes suspicious. “Why?”
“Forget it, the detective in me slips out now—and then. Seen the papers?” I spread the front page out for her and she sat on the edge of the bed, read the headlines.
“Doesn't seem possible. Mr. Wilson was always so lively and gay— nothing phony about him. And here he murdered his wife and killed himself. I can't believe it.”
“Neither can I. Did Wilson and Saxton get along okay?”
“Far as I knew. Mr. Saxton always spoke highly of him and...”
“You're right, no point in talking about a dead case. Skip it. You look very pretty.”
“Do I? Didn't I look pretty yesterday?”
“Not as pretty as you do now.”
She stared at me, an amused expression on her face, then she giggled like a kid. “Did I give you that shiner?”
“Nope.”
She stood up. “Tell you what I will give you, roomer, a whopping breakfast—on the house. A deal?”
“You've sold me.”
She went back to the kitchen and I put on the blue army robe I'd swiped from the hospital, the only thing about the hospital I'd liked. She had orange juice on the table, was whipping up some eggs. I sat down and she said, “You're lucky that I have eggs. Way prices are, nobody has to worry about dieting.”
She gave me some whole-wheat toast to butter and I went to work. She put the eggs in the frying pan, said, “We make a cozy little scene. By the way, I gather I was potted last night. How did I get to bed?”
“I walked you there.”
“That explains my dream—I dreamed you were making love to me.”
“Why don't you stop it?”
“Stop what?”
“Those double-meaning cracks, the sexy chatter. You don't have to prove anything to me I...”
“Who the hell's proving anything?” she asked, voice high with anger. “You men and your lousy conceit! Let a man tell a girl she has a nice shape, that he dreamed he was laying her... he's supposed to be manly. But if a woman says that, she isn't being womanly, only a slut! That's bull—”
“And you don't have to prove how tough you are either,” I added.
She strode over to the table and I watched the graceful movements of her body under the robe as she walked. “Will you stop telling me I have to prove anything to you! And if I want to be tough—hard as any man—what about it?”
“Look, baby, don't give me a pitch on women's rights. I agree with you, but...”
“But what?”
“Cork the tough talk, it's...”
“Maybe I
“Okay, okay, but in some things women aren't the equal of men, or men the equal of women. For instance, you have more vulnerable parts to your body than I have. But more desirable parts.”
“Cut the coy bunk. The average man is as soft as a woman, is tough only because he assumes he's tough, born to believe it, or he packs a gun or a knife or...”
“Why don't you stop talking like a dope?” I asked. “Maybe I'm nuts, but America is becoming tough-punchy. In the movies a guy can't romance a gal without slapping her around; in the so-called comic books, violence is a big laugh. Even kids—little ones—go around packing toy guns. Toughness has become a... a... a virtue, like honesty. When we going back to normal? Think of peace and love between people, stop trying so hard to be a nation of Humphrey Bogarts!”
“Who puts on the tough act—you men! You big big heroes going off to war, to glory and adventure, while we're supposed to stay home and keep the home fires burning. Let me tell you something: you give us the worst
