“... No, nothing is wrong, I was just thinking. Captain, I have the feeling that the letter was addressed to a woman. I don't remember the first name at all, but it is my impression that it was a woman's name.”
“A woman's name?”
... And then it hit me!
Keaslo. Kelso. They were similar—too much so to bear the weight of mere coincidence. “Mrs. Foster,” I said quickly, “I want you to give this serious thought. I want you to test your faculties of recall to the utmost. This woman's name, this name on the letter that you don't remember, was it Patricia?”
There was only an instant's hesitation. “Why, Captain, I do believe it was!”
I covered the mouthpiece and whistled softly. “Thank you, Mrs. Foster, thank you very much!”
“Is that all, Captain?” She sounded disappointed now, as though she wanted to keep talking. But that memory of hers was getting a little
I said, “That is all, Mrs. Foster. Good night.” And I hung up.
So Dorris Venci had written a letter to Pat; and then, being assured that the letter would be mailed, she had put a bullet in her temple. An interesting situation, to say the very least.
I dropped to a chair and sat there thinking about it for minutes. A breath of the breeze drifted into the front room and across my face—the night air seemed to hold an exceptional chill for that time of year.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THINGS LIKE THIS, I thought, are the things that can kill you. But how could I have predicted the actions of an eccentric mind like Dorris's? How could anyone have predicted them? Anybody else, acting on the same impulse, would have mailed the incriminating letter to the district attorney, or the police department, or maybe even to a newspaper or a citizens committee. But not Dorris. Oh no, she had to send the evidence directly to Pat, overlooking the scores of simpler and more direct possibilities.
I wondered about that for a long while. What had been her motive? Jealousy? Hatred? Shame? Probably an equal amount of all three. If her aim had been to destroy me completely she needed only to point a finger of accusation in my direction—the cops would have taken care of the rest. They would have identified me and that would have been the end of Roy Surratt.
It was bad enough as it was. If Pat got hold of that letter I was as good as dead. The way she had felt about Alex Burton, maybe she would try to kill me herself...
And then I relaxed. I could even smile. This, I thought, is where brains and audacity pay off, because Pat will never see the letter. She will never know that I stood behind the gun that fired the bullet that killed her Alex, because I am going to intercept that letter.
I was going to be at the mail box the next morning when the postman arrived, and I was going to get that letter, even if I had to kill somebody else; and that would be the last of my troubles from Dorris Venci.
I felt fine once again. After a moment I picked up the phone and called Pat. The receiver came off the hook almost immediately.
“This is your neighbor,” I said.
“Well! I was beginning to wonder if I'd hear from you.”
“I've been busy. It's been quite a day—to tell the truth, I'll be just as happy if I never have another one like it.”
“It couldn't have been too bad,” she said. “You sound pretty pleased with yourself.” Then she laughed. “I'll buy ou a drink—unless you're still pouting, that is.”
“I never pout,” I said. “It's stupid. If you don't get what you want the first time around it simply means your technique is all wrong, so you change techniques.”
She laughed again and hung up.
When I stepped into her apartment a few minutes later, it hit me all over again. By God, I thought, she's beautiful, truly beautiful!
I hope you like scotch,” she said. “It's all I have.”
“Scotch will do.”
She was all wrapped up in a pale blue quilted house coat, looking about fifteen years younger than she actually was. She sat on the tweedy couch with her legs folded back, and there was a closed book in her hand and she was smiling.
“Make yourself at home,” she said, and then unfolded slowly, lazily, stood up and walked to the kitchen. There was no doubt about it, she was the most beautiful girl I had ever known or seen.
She came out of the kitchen with two drinks in old fashioned glasses.
She laughed and handed me my drink. The book was put back in its place on the bookshelf, and Pat sat beside me on the couch. We sipped our drinks. I didn't care for scotch, but I drank it, trying not to stare at her, reminding myself not to grab.
And I didn't grab. I liked it this way, just the way we were. I liked to hear her talk; I liked just being with her and looking at her. Christ, I thought, I didn't realize how exhausted I really am! This day had drained me completely, emotionally and physically, and all I wanted to do was sit still and let my muscles sag and look at Pat and think of nothing. Nothing important, anyway—such as that letter, or Calvart lying out there in a ditch on the brickyard road.
Then Pat stopped talking and looked at me. “Is there something wrong?” I said.
“No, I was just wondering about you. When you came in you looked so... vigorous. Now you look a hundred years old.”
“Thank you, ma'am, for those kind words.”
“You know what I mean,” she said. “You look as though you had been fighting the entire world single- handed.”
“Baby, I don't suppose you'll ever know just how good a guess you just made. But it's nothing, really. I'm just beat, that's all.”
She let it drop. Not one woman in ten million would have let it drop there, but Pat did. She merely shrugged, and then began talking about the scotch that we were drinking and how long she had had it. I lay back on the couch and smiled at her, and I wanted her more than I had ever wanted any woman in my life, but I didn't touch her, I didn't as much as lift a finger. When she was ready she would let me know.
I turned my thoughts inward as she talked, and I thought what a hell of a pair we could make, Pat and I. Soon I would move out of the lousy apartment building and take her with me, and I would rent the biggest damn suite in the best hotel in Lake City, and we'd start living the way people like us ought to live.
But first she had to come to me. She had to say, “Please take me with you,” and then I would take her. All I needed was patience.
She was a queer one, though. She didn't ask questions —not many, anyway. She seemed to have no ambition. She had loved Alex Burton, but she seemed to have forgotten him completely—but, then, it was hard to tell about a woman like her, what she was thinking, what she really wanted. That coat, for instance. She had been as giddy as a bobby-soxer when I had given it to her, but now she seemed to have forgotten that, too.
I don't know just how long I sat there, thinking of nothing in particular, and of everything in general. I thought of all my yesterdays as they might have been; all my tomorrows as I, with my own two hands, my brain and my guts, would make them. Several minutes must have passed before I realized that I was listening to nothing but silence.
I looked at Pat and she suddenly smiled. “You
“Was it important?”
She laughed softly. “What kind of a question is that? A lady's words are always important. To herself, at least.” Then she reached out a hand and touched my hair. I liked that very much. “Perhaps,” she said, “you should go to bed and get some sleep.”
“I like it here, just the two of us.”
“All right. But you must promise to keep up your end of the conversation.”
I grinned at her. “That sounds reasonable, shall we discuss religion, politics, or the weather?”
“What's wrong with O'Connor as a subject of conversation. Do you realize that I know absolutely nothing about you, except that you once worked your way through some college or other?”
