“Let me,” I said.
She was wearing a tan dress with a pink scarf. At first it looked kind of like a uniform, but on inspection you could see that the material of both articles was of a finer make than any employer or service would spend. She carried a woven straw purse. This too was a higher quality than it at first seemed.
“Are you Paris Minton?”
She had medium brown skin and eyes a brown so light that they were disconcerting. Those orbs seemed to belong not simply to some other race but to a whole other species of animal.
“Are you?” she asked again.
“Who are you?”
“Leora. Leora Hartman.”
“Where’s Son?”
“He’s with his great-uncle,” she said, at once answering my question and telling me that my secret knowledge wasn’t of the least concern to her.
“Would that be Kit’s uncle or yours?”
“Son is not related to Kit Mitchell.”
We were still standing in the doorway. Leora’s figure was slight but her bones weren’t thin or fragile. She wore tan shoes that were exactly the same hue as her dress.
“Can I have a seat?”
“Sure. Why not?”
We sat across from each other. She put her knees together and let them recline to the side. Her calf was very presentable. She was as composed and elegant as the wife of a diplomat, except for those eyes; they were wild and fearful, watching for the slightest aggression.
“Fearless tell you about me?” I asked.
“He said if I needed to get in touch with him that I should come here.”
“Hot day, huh?” I asked this to put her off some, but it didn’t seem to work, at least not at first.
“Yes it is,” she said. “But at least it’s dry. It’s the humidity I can’t stand.”
I smiled and nodded but didn’t say anything.
“Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m here?” she asked, finally.
“You like my store?” I replied.
She stood up and walked down the right aisle. Looking over the shorter center shelf to the books on the wall, she said, “I see you have a lot of the Balzac oeuvre.”
“Eighty-one of his books,” I said, coming up next to her. “I got them from a woman in Tarzana. She advertised in a book-buyers’ newsletter I subscribe to.”
“It really is a lovely store.” She looked around a bit more.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Do you have a science section?”
“Down there, in the far corner.”
Our eyes locked on each other.
“I’m very interested in physics.”
“Really? What kind?”
“Theoretical. Theoretical physics, theology, and theater. My mother always says that it’s only the first three letters that get to me.” Her laugh was nice.
“Why’d you lie to Fearless?”
“It was the only way I could think of to be sure that he’d look for Kit for me.”
“What do you want with Kit Mitchell?”
Leora walked back to the front, reclaiming her seat and her composure.
I followed.
“Where is Fearless?” she asked.
“In jail.”
“What for?” She didn’t even blink.
“I don’t even know. Do you?”
This time she didn’t respond.
“Two cops, Morrain and Rawlway, were after him. So he turned himself in. They were looking for a young man named Bartholomew Perry.” I was wondering if she knew BB too.
There was a momentary tightening of Leora’s face.
