to say about the late J. F. Flaxford or the murderous burglar who had done him in.
I finished my soup and tidied up in the kitchen. Then I went through some more cupboards until I found Rod’s booze collection, which consisted in the main of things like a bottle of ancient blackberry brandy with perhaps an ounce of the crud left in the bottom of it. That sort of treasure. But there was, incredibly, a fifth of Scotch about two-thirds full. Now this particular Scotch was some liquor store’s private label, and it had been bottled over in Hackensack, so what we had here was not quite in the Chivas and Pinch class.
But burglars can’t be choosers. I sat up for what was probably a long time, sipping Scotch and watching the really late movies on Channel 9, switching every half hour (when I remembered) to check out the radio news. Nothing about J. Francis, nothing about me, though after a while I probably could have heard the item and not paid any attention to it.
In one of those drab hours just before dawn I managed to kill the television set (having already done as much for the bottle) and insert myself a second time between Rodney’s sheets.
The very next thing I knew there was a crashing noise and a girl’s voice saying, “Oh, shit! ”
No one ever returned more abruptly to consciousness. I had been deep in dreamless sleep and now I was jarringly awake. And there was someone in the apartment with me, someone female, and judging by her voice she was in rather close proximity to my no-longer-sleeping form.
I lay very still, trying to go on breathing as one breathes in sleep, hoping that she had not noticed my presence even as I realized that this was impossible. Who was she, anyway? And what the hell was she doing here?
And how was I going to get out of this mess?
“Shit,” she said again, taking the word right out of my mouth. This time the syllable was addressed not to the Fates but to me. “I woke you up, didn’t I? I was trying not to. I was being so quiet, just slipping around watering the plants, and then I had to go and knock the stupid thing over. I hope I didn’t hurt the plant. And I’m sorry I disturbed you.”
“It’s all right,” I told my pillow, keeping my face to it.
“I guess my plant-watering talents won’t be needed anymore,” she went on. “Will you be staying here for a while?”
“A couple of weeks.”
“Rod didn’t mention anything about anyone staying here. I guess you just got in recently, huh?”
Damn her, anyway. “Late last night,” I said.
“Well, I’m terribly sorry I woke you up. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll make us a cup of coffee.”
“There’s just soup.”
“Soup?”
I rolled reluctantly over and blinked at her. She was at the side of the bed. She had the split-leaf philodendron back on its perch and she was pouring water at its roots. The plant didn’t look any the worse for wear and she looked terrific.
Hair short and dark, a high forehead, and very precisely measured facial features with just the slightest upward tilt to her nose and just the right amount of determination in her jawline. A well-formed mouth that, if not generous, was by no means parsimonious. Little pink ears with well-defined lobes. (I’d recently read a paperback on determining character and health from ears, so I was noticing such things. Her ears, according to my source, would seem to be ideal.)
She was wearing white painter’s pants which showed good judgment by hugging her tightly. They were starting to go thin at the knees and in the seat. Her shirt was denim, one of those Western-style numbers with pearlish buttons and floral print trim. She had a red bandanna around her neck and deerskin moccasins upon her little feet.
The only thing I could think of that was wrong with her was that she was there in my apartment. (Well, Rod’s apartment.) She was watering his plants and jeopardizing my security. Yet when I thought of all the mornings I had awakened
I finished my soup and tidied up in the kitchen. Then I went through some more cupboards until I found Rod’s booze collection, which consisted in the main of things like a bottle of ancient blackberry brandy with perhaps an ounce of the crud left in the bottom of it. That sort of treasure. But there was, incredibly, a fifth of Scotch about two-thirds full. Now this particular Scotch was some liquor store’s private label, and it had been bottled over in Hackensack, so what we had here was not quite in the Chivas and Pinch class.
But burglars can’t be choosers. I sat up for what was probably a long time, sipping Scotch and watching the really late movies on Channel 9, switching every half hour (when I remembered) to check out the radio news. Nothing about J. Francis, nothing about me, though after a while I probably could have heard the item and not paid any attention to it.
In one of those drab hours just before dawn I managed to kill the television set (having already done as much for the bottle) and insert myself a second time between Rodney’s sheets.
The very next thing I knew there was a crashing noise and a girl’s voice saying, “Oh, shit! ”
No one ever returned more abruptly to consciousness. I had been deep in dreamless sleep and now I was jarringly awake. And there was someone in the apartment with me, someone female, and judging by her voice she was in rather close proximity to my no-longer-sleeping form.
I lay very still, trying to go on breathing as one breathes in sleep, hoping that she had not noticed my presence even as I realized that this was impossible. Who was she, anyway? And what the hell was she doing here?
And how was I going to get out of this mess?
“Shit,” she said again, taking the word right out of my mouth. This time the syllable was addressed not to the Fates but to me. “I woke you up, didn’t I? I was trying not to. I was being so quiet, just slipping around watering the plants, and then I had to go and knock the stupid thing over. I hope I didn’t hurt the plant. And I’m sorry I disturbed you.”
“It’s all right,” I told my pillow, keeping my face to it.
“I guess my plant-watering talents won’t be needed anymore,” she went on. “Will you be staying here for a while?”
“A couple of weeks.”
“Rod didn’t mention anything about anyone staying here. I guess you just got in recently, huh?”
Damn her, anyway. “Late last night,” I said.
“Well, I’m terribly sorry I woke you up. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll make us a cup of coffee.”
“There’s just soup.”
“Soup?”
I rolled reluctantly over and blinked at her. She was at the side of the bed. She had the split-leaf philodendron back on its perch and she was pouring water at its roots. The plant didn’t look any the worse for wear and she looked terrific.
Hair short and dark, a high forehead, and very precisely measured facial features with just the slightest upward tilt to her nose and just the right amount of determination in her jawline. A well-formed mouth that, if not generous, was by no means parsimonious. Little pink ears with well-defined lobes. (I’d recently read a paperback on determining character and health from ears, so I was noticing such things. Her ears, according to my source, would seem to be ideal.)
She was wearing white painter’s pants which showed good judgment by hugging her tightly. They were starting to go thin at the knees and in the seat. Her shirt was denim, one of those Western-style numbers with pearlish buttons and floral print trim. She had a red bandanna around her neck and deerskin moccasins upon her little feet.
The only thing I could think of that was wrong with her was that she was there in my apartment. (Well, Rod’s apartment.) She was watering his plants and jeopardizing my security. Yet when I thought of all the mornings I had awakened
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