Whoever had slipped it to him hadn’t wanted witnesses to the transaction. There must be something important to him about it. Not for the first time, but no less poignantly for its recall, he realized that he himself might have sent Louie hurtling to death. His thumb and forefinger kneaded the revolver butt. That premise made false refugees fit, fit too well. He’d known Louie would take on any combination of gangs for his sake. He’d known Louie had never a realization of his limitations. Yet deliberately he’d invited the little guy into something that had been too much for him, the big guy. Invited him in, and walked out on him. If they killed Louie, they’d pay for it. Even if they had no hand in Louie’s death, they’d weakened Kit so that he wasn’t on deck to help out. They’d pay for that, even as the murderer would pay for his crime. He was going to avenge Louie’s death. His lungs hurt when he breathed again.
His bag wasn’t here. Not in the room or the closet or the bath. The dumb ingenue hadn’t brought it in yet. He opened the door, his left hand deep on the leather in his trouser pocket. The bag wasn’t in the foyer. His right hand was careless on the hidden gun while he searched the coat closet. It wasn’t there. He stood motionless. It didn’t matter. In his bureau was everything he needed for the night. But where was it? What had Elise done with it?
He turned on one lamp in the living-room. Fourteen floors above the street; no one could look through Venetian blinds anyway. Geoffrey’s built-in bookshelves with their arched nicety of detail. On this wall, at this angle, no one could watch through the kitchen door. He listened. There was no sound. He reached high. The top shelf—folios, firsts, rarities—no dumb maid allowed to handle; Geoffrey himself dusted here but not often. And not while in Florida. His eye caught the lettering John Donne. He opened the folder, laid it between poems, replaced the book, all in one swift gesture. He wouldn’t forget where he’d stashed it. He made noise now, put a green gum drop in his mouth, took a recent book from the table without looking at it, turned out the lamp. He listened. No sound. He’d stopped trying to hear those lurching steps for months now; he mustn’t start again. He lighted the corridor before walking to the front door to darken the hallway. He kept his hand on the gun while he moved through the prickly half-dark, back to his own rooms. As soon as he’d locked the door, he poured another stiff brandy and swallowed it.
Why would anyone here palm his grip? What would they think to find in it? They wouldn’t find what they expected. They wouldn’t expect dirty laundry, a couple of detective mags, razor and stuff.
He began to go over Content’s story while he undressed. He didn’t know if one word of it was true. She’d always dramatized, always been an unmitigated liar, an excitement eater. Even when she was a kid she’d made trouble for trouble’s sake. There could be reason to make it now. She’d always been jealous of Barby. If she could get Otto into trouble, she could kill off a lot of birds. Why should she drag Toni Donne into it? Simple, Mr. Watson. Toni and José. Living together in the Prince’s Parisian palace. Content wouldn’t care about sharing her refugee.
He’d been a fool to lap up Content’s yarn as he had. She was down there at Number 50 now laughing in the faces of the fools who believed in her songs, snickering at the fool who’d believed her wild-eyed dramatics. That was Content.
He’d see her soon, yes. He’d see her tomorrow and knock out of her what was true and what was false in what she’d told him. Two things were true. Someone had put Louie’s folder in his overcoat. Someone in this apartment had done something with his grip. He put the book on his bed table and turned out the light. He’d see Toni Donne too. He’d get her to say, “I beg your pardon.”
2
“W HERE’S MY BAG
His bag wasn’t here. Not in the room or the closet or the bath. The dumb ingenue hadn’t brought it in yet. He opened the door, his left hand deep on the leather in his trouser pocket. The bag wasn’t in the foyer. His right hand was careless on the hidden gun while he searched the coat closet. It wasn’t there. He stood motionless. It didn’t matter. In his bureau was everything he needed for the night. But where was it? What had Elise done with it?
He turned on one lamp in the living-room. Fourteen floors above the street; no one could look through Venetian blinds anyway. Geoffrey’s built-in bookshelves with their arched nicety of detail. On this wall, at this angle, no one could watch through the kitchen door. He listened. There was no sound. He reached high. The top shelf—folios, firsts, rarities—no dumb maid allowed to handle; Geoffrey himself dusted here but not often. And not while in Florida. His eye caught the lettering John Donne. He opened the folder, laid it between poems, replaced the book, all in one swift gesture. He wouldn’t forget where he’d stashed it. He made noise now, put a green gum drop in his mouth, took a recent book from the table without looking at it, turned out the lamp. He listened. No sound. He’d stopped trying to hear those lurching steps for months now; he mustn’t start again. He lighted the corridor before walking to the front door to darken the hallway. He kept his hand on the gun while he moved through the prickly half-dark, back to his own rooms. As soon as he’d locked the door, he poured another stiff brandy and swallowed it.
Why would anyone here palm his grip? What would they think to find in it? They wouldn’t find what they expected. They wouldn’t expect dirty laundry, a couple of detective mags, razor and stuff.
He began to go over Content’s story while he undressed. He didn’t know if one word of it was true. She’d always dramatized, always been an unmitigated liar, an excitement eater. Even when she was a kid she’d made trouble for trouble’s sake. There could be reason to make it now. She’d always been jealous of Barby. If she could get Otto into trouble, she could kill off a lot of birds. Why should she drag Toni Donne into it? Simple, Mr. Watson. Toni and José. Living together in the Prince’s Parisian palace. Content wouldn’t care about sharing her refugee.
He’d been a fool to lap up Content’s yarn as he had. She was down there at Number 50 now laughing in the faces of the fools who believed in her songs, snickering at the fool who’d believed her wild-eyed dramatics. That was Content.
He’d see her soon, yes. He’d see her tomorrow and knock out of her what was true and what was false in what she’d told him. Two things were true. Someone had put Louie’s folder in his overcoat. Someone in this apartment had done something with his grip. He put the book on his bed table and turned out the light. He’d see Toni Donne too. He’d get her to say, “I beg your pardon.”
2
“W HERE’S MY BAG
Similar Books
