At last, near dawn, she slept. Holmes, who had spent most of his life in complete disregard of the hours of light and dark, wondered if age was beginning to slip up on him, for the long hours they'd kept the past few days had left him feeling light-headed with exhaustion. So he, too, slept, so deeply he did not hear her rise, dress, and go out.
It was past ten o'clock when the door opened again. This time, he came awake swiftly.
“Russell?”
“Good heavens,” she said. “Are you still asleep? Sorry, I felt sure you'd gone out and I missed seeing you.”
“How long have you been up?” A faint heaviness at the edges of his voice gave away his sleep-clogged state, and he cleared his throat to rid himself of it.
“Oh, two or three hours,” she answered cheerfully: If that was true, she had slept for less than three hours, in spite of which she showed no signs of hang-over. She was probably still intoxicated. “It's a lovely morning, a bit of fog earlier but it looks to be warm today. I'll just fetch what I came for and leave you.”
“That is not necessary, I was on the edge of waking. Have you had your breakfast?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Six cups of black coffee.”
“Two, and toast,” she protested.
“Then you'll be ready for a proper breakfast. I shall meet you in the restaurant after I have shaved. Unless your current task cannot wait.”
“Oh no, that's fine. I was just coming for the key, I thought I'd go up to the house this morning, but it can wait. I'll order coffee.” And so saying she left. Holmes rubbed his face, grimacing at the stubble, and swung his long legs to the floor.
The restaurant was nearly deserted at that hour, and Russell was at a window table, the bright sunlight turning her into the silhouette of a young woman bent over her morning paper. She looked sleek and alien in her bobbed haircut and new clothes, and the arm that stretched across the paper had something of the modern fashion for bone without muscle: In another few days, her thinness would become alarming.
She looked up when he came to the table, and permitted the waiter to fill her cup along with Holmes'.
“Have you ordered?” he asked.
“I'll just have a piece of toast. I had an omelette at Flo's house.”
“Seven hours ago. You will have a breakfast,” he said flatly, and turned to the waiter to order two large meals. She raised an eyebrow at his tone and his action, and when the waiter had left, Holmes addressed himself to her again. “Occasional periods of self-starvation benefit the mental processes; over the long term, it can be destructive. The body is a machine, and needs fuel. Think of your porridge and eggs as petrol.”
“They will have about as much savour.”
“The body cares not what the palate thinks. What is in the news today?”
He listened with half an ear as she read to him a number of political and criminological stories that concerned him not in the least—“3 FLUNG TO ROAD FROM CABLE-CAR” was one admittedly evocative headline, less so the lengthy tale of a woman who came home from filing for divorce to find her three children and the husband shot to death by his hand. When their food came, he waited until she had begun before he picked up his fork, and felt he was nearly counting the number of times her own rose and fell. After a time, the habits of her own physicality took over, and he relaxed his vigil, and paid closer attention to her words.
By the end of the meal, he couldn't have said precisely where his wife had been the night before or recalled the peculiar names of the dances she had assayed, but two things were clear: She had eaten enough for the moment and, although she had not expected to do so when she'd left the hotel the night before, she had in truth enjoyed the company of Flo Greenfield. Holmes commented on the latter fact.
Russell looked mildly surprised. “Yes, I suppose so. She's not exactly my sort, and hasn't much of an interest in anything but fashion and decorating, but she does have a brain beneath the flutter. Sooner or later she's going to get tired of night-clubs and hang-overs, and when she does, I have a feeling she'll make something of herself. Are you asking for a reason?”
Holmes was not altogether pleased to see the evidence of Russell's quick common sense—it was good to see a flash of normality, but it meant that he'd have to proceed cautiously. He took out his cigarette case. “I don't suppose you've any meetings with Norbert until Monday?”
“I do have a brief appointment this morning, just to sign a few papers. The manager of the Sacramento property wanted to meet today, but unfortunately his mother's been taken ill and he's cancelled it until Tuesday or Wednesday.”
“I see.”
“What are you up to, Holmes?”
“Me? Why do you imagine—”
“You're asking far too many innocent questions.”
“Ah. I was simply concerned . . . well, never mind. We shall plan an outing for the week-end.”
“Concerned that what?”
“Russell, I don't know that it's good for you to be without something to employ your mind,” he replied bluntly. “You're dwelling too much on the past. We shall hire a motor and take the Sausalito ferry to—”
“
“Good, fine. You've no doubt made plans for parties with your friend. In town, I take it?”
“Why?”
“I don't . . . I would hate . . .” Holmes took a deep breath and began again. “I rather trust you won't do something foolish such as going to see your parents' summer house on your own.”
“‘Foolish'?” Russell's chin came up and her eyes flashed; with the raised colour in her face, she looked nearly herself. “Holmes, I should appreciate it if you would not try to tell me what I am and am not to do. If I choose to drive down the coast and look at the Lodge
“Russell, I merely request—”
But the heat of her response was only fed by placation. “You think it ‘foolish' when
It was as well she did not look back. She might have seen Holmes, leaning back to tap his cigarette into the ash-tray, smiling gently at the rising smoke.
An hour later, while Russell was grappling with legal terminology in Norbert's office, Holmes presented himself at the Greenfield mansion. He took off his hat and handed it to the man who opened the door, saying, “You must be Mr Jeeves? My wife was here the other day. I had hoped to find Miss Greenfield at home, Miss Flo Greenfield?”
“Yes, sir, I shall see if she is at home. If you'd like to wait in here?”
“In here” was a room whose purpose could only have been the temporary parking of callers, as the seats were too far apart to be of any use for conversation and the decor was intended to impress rather than to please or entertain. It was, in the end, more pleasing than a room more lived in, for the cool, sparse furnishings set off the modern sculpture and fireplace tile as a more cluttered room would not. It reminded Holmes somewhat of the Japanese rooms they had seen on the other side of the ocean, rich materials used in an austere fashion. Restful.
After a quarter of an hour, he was shown into a warmer, more lived-in room. The young woman seated before the fire with a coffee service put out her hand to greet him, her dark eyes alive with interest although she showed all the signs of hasty dressing.
“Mr Holmes? Mary's husband? It's fantastic to meet you. Mary said you wouldn't like our kind of fun or I'd have had her drag you along. But I'm glad you tracked me down at home. Is she coming, too? Oh, manners, Flo!” She pulled together a mock-formal face and manner. “Sir, would you care for a cup of coffee?”
