were over and done with. Ralph was the latest, but that could scarcely be called an affair. There was just that one night which she didn’t even remember. And Ralph certainly didn’t seem to be the jealous type. Only last night he had consoled himself with Doris after she, Aline, had refused to let him come in with her. Besides, he had driven away thinking she was going straight up to her own apartment. He hadn’t known about the call she made to Torn until he talked to the bartender much later.
There was no one else in her life who could possibly care enough about whom she slept with to commit murder.
No. It had to be someone in Torn’s own life. That, or pure accident. A prowler, who entered the room by chance, who was discovered by Torn and who killed him in the ensuing struggle. That would explain the absence of Torn’s wallet. But it hardly explained the two-dollar bill. What chance prowler would pause after murder to add that macabre touch?
It always came back to Torn himself. To his personal character and associates. And she knew absolutely nothing about him. He was merely a name to her. The name of a nondescript man who had evidently possessed enough sexual attraction for her to phone him at midnight and go to a hotel room with him.
Who would know about him? Neither Ralph nor Doris knew who he was. Ralph had mentioned hearing him introduced at the party, and had difficulty recalling his name.
Bart, of course. He was the host and must have invited Torn. Did she dare ask Bart about him? Would Bart wonder why she wanted to know? Would he suspect something?
Certainly not until he learned that Torn was dead and how he died. Then he would recall that Aline had asked about him. But it wouldn’t matter then. Sooner or later the police were sure to piece together the events of the evening and place her in the death room at the correct time.
She got up decisively and called Bart’s number. The phone rang several times before his lazy, cultivated voice drawled, “Hello.”
“Bart. How are you this morning?”
“Excruciating, my love. Simply excruciating. Tell me, why do I give parties? All sorts of rowdy people come and drink my liquor and make love to my girls and have a perfectly lovely time, and all I get out of it is a lousy hangover. By the way, how are you feeling this morning, Aline?”
“I have felt worse,” she told him as lightly as she could manage. “I think,” she added doubtfully, “though I really can’t remember when.”
Bart laughed indulgently. “But you did have a wonderful time. Don’t try to deny that.”
“It was a lovely party,” she assured him. “So many… interesting people. Some I’d never met before.”
“And some I hope I never meet again,” he told her dolefully. “What sort of dank rocks do they spring from under when word gets around that I’m throwing a whindig?”
She chuckled, then said archly, “I hope you don’t include Vincent in that group.”
“Vincent? Was there actually a Vincent? Ah, yes. It all comes back to me now. Shame on you. What has that gauche fellow got that I haven’t?”
“I… rather liked him,” she said delicately.
“And made it quite evident, my love. Yes, indeed. None of us doubted that your intentions toward him were strictly dishonorable. Tell me, frankly, how was it?”
Aline’s cheeks flamed and she strove to keep her voice casual. “Didn’t you know? Ralph brought me home. All perfectly safe and proper.”
“I never knew any homecoming with Ralph to be safe and proper,” he chuckled. “And I didn’t know he snatched you away at the last. You and the Vincent slug disappeared about the same time, and I confess I had shameful thoughts about you two.”
“You can forget them,” she told him lightly, “and that’s really why I’m calling. Who is Vincent Torn, Bart? Where does he live?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea, my love. Gerry dragged him along. Gerry Howard, you know.”
“No. I don’t believe I do.”
“Writing chap. Books and things like that. I thought you knew Gerry. I have his phone number if you want to call up and pump him.”
“I’d like to, Bart.”
“Just a minute until I find my book. But why in the name of sweet Jesus an entrancing trollop like you wants to track down a specimen like Vincent Torn is utterly beyond my feeble comprehension. Hold it a minute.”
Aline waited with the receiver at her ear. In a moment Bart’s voice came through again.
“Here it is.” And he repeated a Butterfield number which was etched on Aline’s memory from the preceding evening.
She thanked Bart for the help, and hung up.
So it must have been Gerry Howard who had answered when she tried to call Torn. A “writing chap,” according to Bart. They had the same telephone number.
Her buzzer from the lobby entrance sounded as she turned away from the phone. Her heart beat violently against her ribs as she walked to the small entrance and lifted the mouthpiece. The police? Could they have traced her so quickly?
She said, “Yes?” and a man’s voice responded formally, “Miss Aline Ferris?”
“Y-yes.”
“You probably don’t remember me, but I met you last night at Bart’s party. Gerry Howard. May I see you?”
She said helplessly, “I… guess so,” and pressed the button that would admit him to the building.
What could he want with her? What did he know about last night? A thousand questions tore at her mind while she waited at the door listening for the elevator to stop at her floor. When she heard footsteps in the corridor, she turned the knob slowly and opened the door.
Gerry Howard was slender and dark and dapper. He wore a loose tweed jacket and fawn-colored slacks and a tan sports shirt, and was bareheaded. There was a knowing smile on his face as he approached Aline. Something like a smirk, yet not exactly that. A smile that shared understanding with her, that said without words: You and I know things that are hidden from ordinary mortals. We know them because we are kindred souls, because we are numbered among the initiates.
The implication of his expression repelled Aline, yet frightened and fascinated her. She stood aside as he entered, then closed the door. He paused close beside her, appraising her sexually, with his eyes, nodded his sleek black head approvingly and pursed his thin lips.
He said, “I must have been pretty tight last night. God forgive me, I asked Vinnie what the hell he saw in you when he raved about his new conquest. Now I see, damn it. I was a fool not to see it last night.”
He moved against her abruptly, pinning her against the door, his chest against her breasts, his pelvic bone pressed to hers. He was no taller than she, and his eyes were level with hers, his pouting lips brazenly waiting a quarter of an inch from her mouth.
Aline Ferris wriggled aside and slapped him hard on the left cheek. She was panting violently, and her response was purely automatic.
His expression changed to one of speculation when she slapped him. His lips parted and the tip of his tongue flicked out to move from left to right. He nodded and said dispassionately:
“Much, much too good for Vinnie. He’d never know what to do with a hellcat like you. I shall put you in my next book.”
He turned away from her with seeming lack of interest, strolled over to the couch and dropped down on it. A single lock of black hair fell aslant his forehead, giving him a rakish look, and Aline had a feeling that he had carefully trained it to lie there.
She went over to a chair across the room from him and sat down. “What do you want here?” she demanded angrily.
He looked at her with speculative amusement. “Do I have to say it in four-letter words?”
“No. But I don’t even know you.”
“Does that make a difference?”
“Of course.”
“It didn’t make much last night with Vinnie.”
