I waited for a startled expression to appear on her face, but her expression did not change. She continued to stare directly at me. Her lips moved as she counted strokes.
I am not very quick about things like this.
It took me about that long to figure out why her expression did not change. As far as she was concerned she was all alone in the next room, brushing her hair before a large, conveniently placed mirror.
I’d read about one-way glass.
They use it at places like the Yale Nursery when they want to study the behavior of the infant and child in the culture of today without the infant and child tumbling to the fact that the culture is watching him.
They use it at Klein’s to keep an eye on shoplifters.
And Walter used it.
I wondered how many of Hollywood’s most beautiful female stars had, at one time or another, admired themselves in the mirror of Walter’s number one guest room.
Janis Whitney reached one hundred and stopped brushing.
She looked down and examined the fastenings of her swimming suit. They were held in place by a knot on her right hip. She began to loosen the knot.
I reached for the red button. I reached for it, but I didn’t push it.
Janis Whitney stood for a long time admiring herself in the mirror.
She was something to admire. Soft dark hair, cut short, framing her head. Green eyes and a wide mouth with perfect teeth.
Her skin was very white. She had firm, full breasts, and her body, while it was slim, was not a boyish, dancer’s body. It was softer, and more feminine. Her hands and feet, I noticed, were extremely small.
She smiled at her reflection in the mirror.
So did I.
Then, abruptly, she turned and in a second was out of range of the mirror.
When she returned she was wearing a green linen dress.
She stood close to the mirror with her mouth open, examining her perfect teeth. Then, using her little finger and a brush, she began to put on her lipstick.
I’d had enough.
I pushed the red button again and watched as the picture slid back into place.
I got up out of the chair.
There were no push buttons on Walter’s liquor cabinet. It worked manually. What you did was reach in, pull out a brandy bottle, pour the brandy into a glass and drink.
I did all those things.
Walter was still in the shower. I could hear the sound of spraying water.
Suddenly a recurrence of the feeling I’d had when I read about Jean Dahl’s accident swept over me.
Someone had killed her here in Walter’s house not twelve hours before.
And no one seemed to give a damn.
Least of all Walter.
Suddenly, Walter’s dawdling in the shower offended me.
I stood listening to the sound of the shower and the sound drove me into a frenzy.
I turned and almost ran through the bedroom and toward the bathroom.
Chapter Seven
The bathroom door was ajar and steam was billowing out.
Walter’s bathroom was enormous. It was done in black and white marble. There were long rows of thick, soft black towels with fancy white monograms.
The stall shower was at the far end. I crossed to it and jerked open the door. I reached in, found the hot water tap and turned it off with three or four fast twists.
Walter bellowed when the ice-cold water hit him.
He leaped out of the shower splattering water on the gleaming marble floor. He sputtered angrily. I grabbed his wet, skinny shoulder and shook him.
“I’ve had enough,” I said. “I’ve absolutely had enough.”
“This is an outrage!” Walter squealed.
“I’m sick of this,” I said. “I’m sick of this crummy fake mansion. I’m sick of cheap dirty tricks like that sliding picture. Walter, I swear I’m going to find out what’s going on if I have to beat you to a bloody pulp right here in this marble outhouse.”
Then Walter stopped sputtering and began to giggle.
“Richard,” Walter said, “you’re making yourself perfectly ridiculous. Now let go of me and hand me a towel. Please.”
I handed him a towel and with as much dignity as a bald, skinny, naked man can muster, he turned on his heel and walked out of the bathroom. I followed him back into the bedroom.
“I’m sorry, Walter,” I said. “But I’ve got to talk to you.”
Walter pulled on his silk robe, tied it with its thick black silk rope, then sat down in the armchair and looked up at me with an amused expression on his face.
“Walter,” I said, “I’m going to find out what’s going on here, and I’m going to find out right now.”
Walter sighed. “I have already told you, Richard, that I know very little about any of this. When the lights went on last night, I was standing at the top of the stairs.
“Several people had gone down the stairs in spite of my protests. As it was pitch black, however, I had no way of knowing who they were. Then, about thirty seconds after the lights went on, I heard Max calling me from the foot of the stairs.
“As I came down I saw Max leaning over Miss Dahl’s body. It was a shocking sight. There was blood on the side of her head. I said, ‘Max, what is it?’ And he said, ‘Walter, I think the kid is dead.’ That’s all there was to it. From the way she was lying, it seemed perfectly obvious that she had fallen down the stairs, hitting her head on something as she fell.
“I had no reason to doubt that she had fallen. Now, Richard, as I understand it, you say you saw her the instant the lights went on. And that she was lying on the far side of the hall by the door.”
“That’s right,” I said. “I saw her and so did Janis Whitney. I’m going to ask you about her in a minute. But first, I want to ask you about your friend Max Shriber.”
Walter giggled nervously. “Hardly my friend, Richard. My associate. My business associate. As a matter of fact, Max is handling some of the details of the little business matter I mentioned to you a few moments ago.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” I said. “I’d never even heard of Max Shriber until the other day, when I got a registered letter from him. The letter said he had been engaged by Anstruther’s literary executors to represent a new Anstruther novel.”
“That is correct.”
“And where do you come in?”
Walter smiled. It was a modest, self-effacing smile. “Before he died, Charles was kind enough to appoint me his literary executor.”
“Oh,” I said. “Well, I guess I have come to the right place. You’re behind all this.”
“If you mean that I, in effect, am the one who offered the book to you, you are absolutely correct.”
I shook my head. “I don’t understand,” I said. “I don’t understand anything. Most of all I don’t understand where Jean Dahl fits into this.”
“What makes you think she fits into this at all? So far as I can see, we are dealing with two separate problems. A girl has an unfortunate accident at a party…”
I tried to interrupt but he refused to be interrupted.
“…Oh, I know you have some hysterical idea that she was murdered. And, for that matter, maybe she was. But why on earth should that have any connection with the matter we are talking about?”
