In a moment or two I heard the water running. She was in the shower for quite a while. I heard her squeal when she turned on the cold. Then, the water stopped.
“Hey, do I have to bring my own towel?”
I went into the bedroom and got a towel out of the closet. I stood in the bathroom door. She was peering out of the shower holding the curtain in front of her.
I handed her the towel. “You still look like a drowned puppy.”
This time she laughed.
The first time I’d told her that she’d gotten mad. But that had been a long time ago.
I started to leave but I didn’t. Instead I reached in, put my arms around her and kissed her.
“Dick, please!”
It seemed perfectly natural. The ten years disappeared.
“Darling, I love you. Nothing’s changed.”
“Oh, darling.”
I picked her up and carried her into the bedroom.
I put the towel over her head and rubbed her hair dry. Then I reached up and turned out the light.
I touched her gently, running my hand over her body. She caught my hand at the wrist and sat up.
“Darling.”
“Yes?”
“We can’t…”
“I love you, darling.”
“Dick. There’s somebody else.”
“Oh.”
“I’m sorry. I’m so awfully sorry.”
I got up and found cigarettes. I lit one. Then I handed her one and lit it for her.
“I’m going to marry him, darling, when his divorce is final. He’s a wonderful guy.”
“O.K.,” I said tonelessly. “Congratulations.”
“I’m sorry, Dick.”
“I know.”
I went out to the living room and mixed a drink.
When she came out of the bedroom she was dressed again.
“You’ve still got a drink coming.”
“No, thanks, Dick. I don’t feel like one.”
“I do,” I said. “Come on, I’ll get you a cab.”
“That’s all right.”
“No, I’ll get a cab for you. It’s late.”
“I’d rather walk a little while.”
“All right. Who is it, darling?”
“He’s in love with me. And I love him. He’s done everything for me.”
“Who is he?”
“You don’t know him.”
“I know the damnedest people.”
“My agent. A man named Max Shriber. I’m sorry, Dick.”
“Forget it. Thanks for the house cleaning.”
“Goodbye, Dick.”
“So long, darling.”
After she was gone I thought of taking a shower but I didn’t. Instead I lay down on the couch with the whisky bottle on the floor beside me.
The lights were still on and I didn’t bother to take off my shoes.
I kept pulling at the bottle until I didn’t remember anything any more.
Chapter Six
It felt late.
I was sick and shaky. I was thirsty and needed a shave. My head ached. My hands were dirty. My mouth felt furry. I lit a cigarette and coughed so hard that I threw it away after the first puff.
My watch said it was a quarter of ten.
The room was dust-laden and airless. I pulled up the blind and opened the window and stood in front of it breathing the fresh cold air.
I couldn’t decide whether to have coffee or another drink. To study the situation more thoroughly, I went to the kitchenette. We’d put everything back in place. So coffee was easy enough. Just a matter of filling a pan with water, putting pan of water on stove, finding match, lighting gas, finding cup, finding powdered coffee, finding spoon, getting lid off powdered coffee, getting spoonful of powdered coffee into cup, pouring hot water over coffee, stirring, and drinking. Nothing to it.
So I went back to the couch, found the bottle of bourbon on the floor. It was about one-third full. I unscrewed the cap, tilted it and drank. I did this several times.
Then I shaved. Brushed my teeth. Showered. Tilted the bourbon bottle. Got dressed. Then I was ready to make coffee. By that time the coffee tasted wonderful and I had stopped shaking.
So far I had been moving in a kind of daze. I was standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom combing my hair when the comb hit the lump above my temple.
It hurt so much that it brought tears to my eyes. Then the haze began to clear. I went over to my pants. There was a gun in one back pocket. The towel Janis had used was lying on the bed. It was still damp and there were lipstick stains on it. The hell with you, Janis Whitney. The hell with you.
I had two more drinks. I was feeling considerably better. I was actually jaunty. I finished dressing.
I put the gun into my jacket pocket. It made a bulge. But I was getting used to that by now. I read somewhere that detectives, gangsters and other gun-toting types have their suits tailored so that the gun in the shoulder holster won’t show.
I grinned and wondered what the fitter at Brooks Brothers would say if I asked him to fix my next suit so that the rod wouldn’t show.
I blinked at the bright sunlight on the street. I stopped at the newsstand across the street. From the front page of the Daily News a familiar face stared up at me.
Jean Dahl.
I picked up the paper.
“Falls to Death” was the headline on the front page. The story was continued on page three.
“A gay party in a Fifth Avenue mansion ended in tragedy here tonight when a guest, model Jean Dahl, 25, fell to her death down a long flight of stairs. The lights had been extinguished for a party game of hide and seek…”
There was quite a long story. It described Walter’s parties in some detail. It suggested that this particular party had been more of an orgy than the previous ones.
It said two things that interested me.
It said that Jean Dahl had been killed instantly, her skull fractured by the fall.
And it said that her body had been found at the foot of the stairs by Walter Heinemann and a guest, literary agent Max Shriber.
Max Shriber.
The hell with you, Maxie. The hell with you. And Walter, my good friend Walter. A great little fixer, Walter. With nice friends.
It isn’t everyone who can give a party where there are two attempted murders and one completed one and still have the whole thing called an unfortunate accident.
The News story implied that the names of all sorts of celebrated guests were being withheld. It hinted at all
