The Man Who Killed

“Why not?”

“Do you know what it is? I can’t stand the way people complain about the weather here.”

“It gets pretty cold in the winter, doesn’t it?” she asked.

I started to warm up.

“Yes, but they’ve known that for four hundred years. It isn’t as if it’s a surprise every autumn when the mercury drops. The ’papers are always full of it as though winter’s an unusual hardship or some blasted thing.”

“People like to gripe,” she said. “It’s the way of human nature.”

“Like I’m doing right now. Would you care for a drink?” I asked.

“How nice.”

I snapped my fingers, showed the waiter part of my breadroll and beckoned him to follow us as we floated deeper into the room. The steward came and filled the lady’s glass, as though by telepathy. The power of money. The woman settled into the velveteen of a quiet settee.

“Why are you here if you dislike it so much?” she asked.

“War in heaven, evolution—take your pick.”

I was perched on the edge of my seat, a dry vermouth in a cool glass in my dirty hands.

“Clever fellow, aren’t you?” she mocked.

“I failed charm school,” I said, and lit a smoke.

She touched her hair. A tell, primping for me? Or was she on the job, signalling a watcher? What we had here was no randy young widow looking for kicks, that was for certain. She drew on her long, thin, perfumed cigarette. I became interested.

“And a lovely young lady such as yourself, what brings you unchaperoned to this church bee?”

She laughed and threw her head back. Her bosom swelled.

“I’m working.”

My eyebrow raised itself.

“No, not like that. I’m in town for a show at the Palace,” she said.

“Which one?”

“So This Is Paris. We’re here ’til next Thursday.”

“And they put you up in this dump? Why not somewhere decent, like the Windsor?”

“This isn’t such a bad place. You’re staying here, aren’t you?”

“How’d you know that?” I asked.

“It’s raining out. You’re dry. Besides, staying here I can save a little money and get away from the rest of the company. When you travel in a group it’s nice to be on your own once in awhile.”

“And no show tonight?” I asked.

“The house is dark on Monday.”

“Well then. Do you know Montreal?”

“A little. I’ve been here on other tours. It’s changed. New buildings, new life.”

“It’s all the liquor money. Do you like jazz?”

“I play a character who does,” she said.

“My name’s Michael, by the way, but for some reason everyone calls me Mick.”

My hand moved to hers. The bar was now deserted. A moustached bartender wiped a glass with a white cloth. It could be anywhere on earth.

“Lilyan,” she said. “Lilyan Tashman.”

“Charmed,” I replied.

“Enchantee,” she returned.

“So your character likes jazz but you don’t?”

“No. I mean, yes, I do, of course, but not as much. She’s a flapper, a real minx.”

“That must be quite a stretch for you.”

She narrowed her eyes and wrinkled her nose fetchingly. “Sauce. Buy me another drink and you can get away with that.”

I bought her a drink and sat with her in our cozy nook, drawing in hints of her perfume. The low light favoured her features and I pegged her in her late twenties, early thirties. She was well put together and smiled ever so slightly as her eyes met mine—blue-green, I could now see, flecked with flaws. There was an amber spark as one facet refracted a mote of light. Lilyan opened her soft scarlet lips.

“Michael, what type of business are you in?”

“Wholesale freight.”

“Meaning what?”

“Export trade, mostly.”

“Anything in particular?”

“This and that. What the market wants.”

“How evasive,” she said.

“Do you like to dance?” I asked.

“I sing and dance for a living.”

“I mean for your own amusement.”

“From time to time.”

“What’s your next stop?”

“Detroit.”

The minion poured another drink, and I purchased Sportsmans off a young girl walking past our table. Lilyan had slipped one shoe off and had her stockinged foot resting on a seat. I began to tingle.

“There’s more to you than you’re letting on. You’re being disingenuous,” she said.

“We’ve just met,” I said.

“Don’t you trust me?”

“My amah taught me never to speak with strangers.”

“What a thoughtful woman.”

“My mother died when I was born,” I said.

“How sad.”

“So you’d think. Say, what’s that scent you’re wearing?” I asked.

“Lavender.”

“It’s lovely.”

“Listen, Michael. Are you going to invite me up to your room now or later?”

“Now, I suppose.”

“Bring a bottle,” she said.

I waved the hovering waiter over to settle the bill and ordered booze be sent up on my tab. I crushed a ten into his hand to grease the gears. Miss or Mistress or Madame Tashman gathered her things and walked to the lift without turning to see if I’d follow. I made haste to join her and we were pulled up to my floor by the machine. In the hallway she curled her arm through mine and leaned into me, her walk a trifle unsteady. Who knew how long she’d been at the bar before I arrived. I unlocked the door to my room and turned to kiss her. She responded, putting her arms around my neck, returning my embrace with sweet slow kisses. I felt her warmth and tasted her painted lips. We broke apart.

“Not bad,” she said.

She walked to the stuffed chair, trailing her fur over its shoulder, and curled up into the cushions like a little cat, her shoes kicked off to the floor.

“Music?” she asked.

I wrestled with the wireless to find some pleasant sounds. There was a knock at the door. My senses became alert. Perhaps it was the copy of Black Mask I’d been reading or just a general fear spooking me but in this part of the story the hero’s distracted by a conniving female and doesn’t keep his wits about him. It’s always a set-up, and the next thing he knows he wakes up tied to a chair, seeing stars. I took my revolver out of the dresser drawer and held a towel over it. Lilyan’s eyes widened but she sat perfectly still. I opened the door to a service cart loaded with iced Champagne and a pair of goblets. I signed for the goods and tipped the teenage porter a quarter-dollar in relief, then pulled the cart in and uncorked the wine.