Maisky chuckled.
'Impressive, isn't it? I suggest you keep this place cleaner in the future. Is that understood?'
She stared at him, unnerved, but furious. All right, you sonofabitch, she thought, you hold the cards now, but wait until it's my turn.
'Yes,' she said.
'Good.' Maisky dropped his gun into his pocket. 'Let us now consider the situation. The police are hunting for me. This is an excellent hiding place. You are here to take care of me and the money is here . . . it is ideal. Now . . . you must have friends. Will they think it odd that you have a clergyman staying with you?'
'Yes.'
'Of course. . . so we will have to find a reason why I am staying here. Now tell me, is your mother dead?'
'What has my mother to do with this?' Sheila demanded, startled.
'Come now, my pretty . . . I ask the questions . . . you answer them. That way we won't waste time. Is your mother dead?'
'Yes.'
'Did she die here?'
'No . . . in New Orleans.'
'Well, then, suppose I am the clergyman who buried her? I arrive here . . . you remember your dear mother . . . offer me hospitality . . . I accept. What could be simpler?'
'My bitch of a mother dumped me when I was twelve!' Sheila said viciously. 'I only know she died because a guy she two-timed too often cut her throat. It was in the paper!'
Maisky looked shocked.
'Who else knows this sordid tale?'
Sheila hesitated, then shrugged.
'Well . . . no one. If you think you can get away with it . . .'
'Then that's settled.' Maisky looked at his watch. 'It is nearly twelve. I am hungry. What have you to eat in this place?'
'Nothing.'
He regarded her, his head slightly to one side.
'I had an idea you would say that. Well, then, go and buy something. A nice steak, a green salad and French fried potatoes would do very well.'
'I can't cook,' Sheila said sullenly.
His eyes moved over her body.
'That again doesn't surprise me, but I can. Go and get the food.' He settled more comfortably in the armchair. 'Are you good at anything, my pretty? Do you give your husband pleasure in bed?'
'Oh, go to hell!' Sheila went into the bedroom. She paused, then moved into the bathroom, shutting and locking the door. She took the three $500 bills from the Kleenex box and pushed them down the top of her stocking. Then she flushed the toilet, unlocked the door and, moving into the bedroom, she put on her coat.
Maisky was standing in the passage as she came out of the bedroom.
'Don't be long, my pretty. I'm hungry.'
'I'll need some money. I have only five dollars.'
'Let me have your bag.'
She handed it to him, thankful she hadn't put the three big bills in there. He opened it, looked inside, then closed it. He took a fat wallet from his pocket and gave her ten dollars.
'A nice steak. . . the best . . . do you understand?'
She moved past him, opened the front door and walked down the path.
* * *
Tom Whiteside was trying without success, to sell a Buick Sportswagon to an elderly client. They were in the G.M. showroom, surrounded by cars and Tom was saying, 'Look, Mr. Waine, you can't beat this model. Look at the size of it. With your family, it's dead right for the job.'
Waine had listened to all Tom's sales talk and he was still unconvinced. Now, Tom was beginning to bore him.
'All right, Mr. Whiteside, thanks for your time. I'll think it over.' He shook hands. 'I'll talk to the wife.'
Tom watched him walk out of the showroom and he swore under his breath. This is always happening, he was thinking. I get the jerks right up the dotted line and then they walk out on me.
Miss Slattery, who ran the office, called to him.
'You're wanted on the phone, Tom . . . your wife.'
Tom stiffened. Now, what the hell? Was something wrong?
