Dead Man's Tale by Ellery Queen Page B

that first night I met T—maybe all this would have worked out differently. Not that I’m complaining. Hell, I’m beginning to feel like a man of the world—whatever that means. A mistress and everything.
    But who is keeping whom?
    After that first gaudy night it settled down to merely ( merely! ) the seven most memorable days of my life. Not to mention (stop leering, Longacre) the nights.
    I feel guilty about Steve, though. We had a sort of tacit understanding. As far as he knows, I’m busy trying to get information out of the difficult Miss O—. That suits Steve; looking for Milo Hacha has always been two steps forward and one back, as if he’s not sure he wants to find the guy …
    But Steve can’t go on living in limbo like this, which is where my guilty feelings come in. I ought to be working at it day and night, and I’m not. Not at that, anyway. Steve, meanwhile, is trying to have himself a ball. He’s really trying, but he’s too gloomy.
    We’re staying at the Hotel Montana, so he generally walks down the hill after dinner to the Kursaal to try his luck at the boule tables. So far he hasn’t dropped too much. Days, he just mopes around. Or so I gather. And at breakfast he hasn’t mentioned Milo Hacha’s name once.
    If we ever do track down Hacha—and I’d be willing to bet now that we do—I wonder what Steve will do about it.
    Lake Lucerne—which the natives call the Lake of the Four Cantons, or Vierwaldstaettersee—is one hell of a fine spot for a vacation. It’s deep and blue and clear, and all the municipal piers and mooring posts are whitewashed a dazzling white. And there are plump white swans in the water. The city is on the west shore of the lake, a labyrinth of crooked medieval streets and cobbled squares with ornate fountains gushing icy mountain water at almost every corner.
    To the east are the lower Alps, green and rounded, with the Rigi dominating them. To the south, seen distantly across the blue water and on clear days rearing impossibly high into the blue sky, are the higher snowy Alps.
    They inspire awe, sure; but there’s something serene and comforting about them, too. I tried to put it into words for T—once, but she only laughed and said her “detective” was a frustrated poet. That night she was really something in bed, but I guess there’s no connection.
    T—’s a big, lusty girl with a tremendous appetite for life. Girl—she’s probably ten years older than I am. She says, quite matter-of-factly, that love is her one talent.
    She means physical love, and we both let it go at that. Because only once in her life was there any other kind of love to go along with it, and that one time was Milo Hacha.
    The other night after dinner I asked her if she had a picture of Hacha. She smiled a little sadly and shook her head. Then she said, “You do not understand about Milo Hacha. He destroys his past. How do you say it?—he burns his bridges. I had a photograph, yes. But I no longer have it. His lives are separate. A life for the Netherlands, a life for here, a life for—where he’s gone.”
    â€œWhere did he go?”
    â€œBut if I tell you, you’ll go away, too.”
    â€œI came here looking for Hacha,” I admitted.
    â€œAnd found me.” She took my hand, and kissed the palm and placed it on her breast, so of course we stopped talking about Milo Hacha.
    It’s been like that ever since the first night. That first night was something out of a comic opera. We were asleep in bed when I heard a bang. I’m a slow waker. T—was slipping into her robe while I was still knuckling the sleep out of my eyes.
    â€œYou look just like a little boy, Andy.”
    I mumbled something.
    â€œIt’s Heinz.” She padded to the closet and brought me a robe. “Here.”
    â€œHeinz?” That woke me fast. “Don’t tell me