?”
Elise didn’t look pretty this morning; she looked as if she’d had a hard night, and Geoffrey’s idea of mob cap and hairdress for servants might account for his trouble with housemaids.
The dishes on the tray rattled as she set it on his bed table. “In the hall closet, Mr. Kit.” It hadn’t been.
“Where was it last night?”
“Last night?” Her face expressed nothing but dumbness. “I put it there after you went out, sir. I’ll get it.”
He waited until she opened the blinds and departed before examining it. There was nothing missing, nothing anyone would want. Maybe things were thrown in the way he’d thrown them. Who in this house would want to examine his luggage? And why? He didn’t want his trunk examined until he’d gone through it. He didn’t want letters read. Nothing dangerous in them, not in America. It couldn’t be that they were after him now. He’d escaped more than a year ago. And what could they do here? They’d had better than two years in which to kill him. They could never do again to him what they had. He wiped the stickiness from his palms on his pyjama legs. And he returned to the bed, slipped the automatic from under his pillow. It fitted in his dry palm. That was one thing he’d learned during those hellion months of sickness, occupational therapy, how to build a gun, one you could hide in your hand but that was as deadly as a sub-machine gun. He’d learned something better during the months of convalescence, how to shoot to kill. He could plug the center of a cross on a tin can at forty yards, left hand or right. A man would be an easier target. No one would ever push him around again.
He swallowed breakfast while he dressed. It was ten o’clock. He called the bank, arranged with the trustees to borrow ahead on his allowance. He’d need money for running expenses. The apartment sounded deserted as he went into the foyer. The ubiquitous Elise materialized when he took his coat from the closet. He said, “I won’t be in to lunch.”
He’d pay a call on Toni Donne. But he wouldn’t let her know what it was all about yet. He could act the playboy fool as well as the next; he’d observed plenty of them in his years as Geoffrey Wilhite’s stepson. If she’d accept that valuation, he’d be a step further. He didn’t want her or any of her friends thinking he was tending to business. He caught a cab, paid off at 57th. Det’s was somewhere between Fifth and Sixth. He found it. No hats in the austerely elegant windows, only a bunch of purple silk flowers and some gray veily stuff. He went inside. He was alone in the mauve and gray satin mirrored box. No hats here either. Det knew how to sell them. He took off his overcoat and flung it over one gilt and gray satin chair, sat down gingerly on another. He began to whistle.
She came from behind the mauve curtain, descended the three gray velvet steps as if she were doing a number. He’d been correct. Her legs were all right.
She said, “Yes?” Her voice was husky but hard to tell with one word. She looked like a solemn school girl in the matching gray dress, the kind of girl at whom Content would have thrown ink balls at Miss Austin’s.
“Is my mother’s hat ready? Mrs. Geoffrey Wilhite.” He lighted a cigarette.
Her black brows were lifted. “Mrs. Wilhite has no hat on order, Mr. Wilhite.”
He let his smile spread slowly. “McKittrick’s the name. Kit McKittrick. Didn’t I see you at the Waldorf last night?” He knew the rules, the way to go about dating up any babe in a shop.
She folded her hands quietly together, said, “Yes.” That was all of that. Her hauteur was professional. “You must have made a mistake in the shop, Mr. McKittrick.” She spoke the name as if it were not familiar to her. She half turned to go.
He made his voice gayly intimate, “What time do you go to lunch?”
“I don’t go out to lunch.”
He laughed noisily. “You can’t tell me Det starves you.”
She said,
Elise didn’t look pretty this morning; she looked as if she’d had a hard night, and Geoffrey’s idea of mob cap and hairdress for servants might account for his trouble with housemaids.
The dishes on the tray rattled as she set it on his bed table. “In the hall closet, Mr. Kit.” It hadn’t been.
“Where was it last night?”
“Last night?” Her face expressed nothing but dumbness. “I put it there after you went out, sir. I’ll get it.”
He waited until she opened the blinds and departed before examining it. There was nothing missing, nothing anyone would want. Maybe things were thrown in the way he’d thrown them. Who in this house would want to examine his luggage? And why? He didn’t want his trunk examined until he’d gone through it. He didn’t want letters read. Nothing dangerous in them, not in America. It couldn’t be that they were after him now. He’d escaped more than a year ago. And what could they do here? They’d had better than two years in which to kill him. They could never do again to him what they had. He wiped the stickiness from his palms on his pyjama legs. And he returned to the bed, slipped the automatic from under his pillow. It fitted in his dry palm. That was one thing he’d learned during those hellion months of sickness, occupational therapy, how to build a gun, one you could hide in your hand but that was as deadly as a sub-machine gun. He’d learned something better during the months of convalescence, how to shoot to kill. He could plug the center of a cross on a tin can at forty yards, left hand or right. A man would be an easier target. No one would ever push him around again.
He swallowed breakfast while he dressed. It was ten o’clock. He called the bank, arranged with the trustees to borrow ahead on his allowance. He’d need money for running expenses. The apartment sounded deserted as he went into the foyer. The ubiquitous Elise materialized when he took his coat from the closet. He said, “I won’t be in to lunch.”
He’d pay a call on Toni Donne. But he wouldn’t let her know what it was all about yet. He could act the playboy fool as well as the next; he’d observed plenty of them in his years as Geoffrey Wilhite’s stepson. If she’d accept that valuation, he’d be a step further. He didn’t want her or any of her friends thinking he was tending to business. He caught a cab, paid off at 57th. Det’s was somewhere between Fifth and Sixth. He found it. No hats in the austerely elegant windows, only a bunch of purple silk flowers and some gray veily stuff. He went inside. He was alone in the mauve and gray satin mirrored box. No hats here either. Det knew how to sell them. He took off his overcoat and flung it over one gilt and gray satin chair, sat down gingerly on another. He began to whistle.
She came from behind the mauve curtain, descended the three gray velvet steps as if she were doing a number. He’d been correct. Her legs were all right.
She said, “Yes?” Her voice was husky but hard to tell with one word. She looked like a solemn school girl in the matching gray dress, the kind of girl at whom Content would have thrown ink balls at Miss Austin’s.
“Is my mother’s hat ready? Mrs. Geoffrey Wilhite.” He lighted a cigarette.
Her black brows were lifted. “Mrs. Wilhite has no hat on order, Mr. Wilhite.”
He let his smile spread slowly. “McKittrick’s the name. Kit McKittrick. Didn’t I see you at the Waldorf last night?” He knew the rules, the way to go about dating up any babe in a shop.
She folded her hands quietly together, said, “Yes.” That was all of that. Her hauteur was professional. “You must have made a mistake in the shop, Mr. McKittrick.” She spoke the name as if it were not familiar to her. She half turned to go.
He made his voice gayly intimate, “What time do you go to lunch?”
“I don’t go out to lunch.”
He laughed noisily. “You can’t tell me Det starves you.”
She said,
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