Make Me Rich by Peter Corris Page B

pile in which one architectural style seemed to give way to another as it went up. The entrance was a deep portico, a lousy permanent hiding place, but adequate for temporary concealment. I gambled. I ducked in, checked her name on the tenant list and nearly fractured my finger ringing the bell.
    Be home, lady, please
, I thought.
    â€œYes.” Her voice on the intercom was deep, with no sound of sleep in it.
    â€œHelen,” I croaked. “It’s Cliff Hardy—from the other night at Roberta’s. Let me in, please, urgent!”
    â€œBut …”
    â€œPlease, let me in!”
    The buzzer sounded loud enough to wake the street; I said “sshh” to it, idiotically, and went through the door and flattened myself against the wall inside.
    I waited for the running footsteps; they came and they turned into walking footsteps and lost any rhythm. My breath was a harsh pant, and my eyes suddenly started to stream from the effort I’d put in. The footsteps retreated. I eased off then, and put my hands on my hips to allow my chest to expand, the way runners do after a race. Running away from danger is hard work. Then I looked around.
    There was a deep carpet under my feet and a chandelier overhead, two chandeliers. The moisture in my eyes was blurring everything, and my gasping breath was making the images jump. I was in a wide passage which led to a wide set of stairs. The stairs and balustrades were of old wood the colour of blood, highly buffed. The place smelt of wood polish, fresh paint, and money.
    Helen Broadway appeared at the top of the last flight of stairs. She was wearing a cream-coloured garment somewhere between a nightdress and a dressing-gown. It came all the way down to her brown, bare feet.
    â€œDon’t be frightened,” I said.
    â€œYou’re talking to yourself. I’m not frightened.”
    She came down the stairs in two hops, lifting her legs and making the robe move with her—it was silk and it rustled. She looked good enough to make a full-length movie of, just her coming down the stairs.
    â€œI love this city,” she said. “Always something happening. What’s happening now?”
    â€œI’m running away from some men with guns.” I wheezed a bit as I spoke and my legs suddenly felt rubbery. “No, I’ve got that wrong. I was running, now I’m hiding.” She reached the bottom stair and came across to where I’d gone back against the wall for support. The silk rustled some more and her feet made no sound on the carpet. “How far did you run?”
    â€œI don’t know. A mile?”
    â€œYou can’t be all that fit. You don’t jog? I thought a man in your line of work would jog?”
    â€œNo, I don’t jog. Men in my line of work mostly sit around and drink. That’s what I was doing before I started running.”
    â€œWe’d better call the police.”
    That sent me back against the wall as I tried to laugh and wheeze at the same time. I bent over and convulsed for a bit, then straightened up. She looked at me coolly.
    â€œFinished? Are you going to tell me about it?”
    â€œSorry. I phoned you yesterday, or was it today? I forget. You were out.”
    â€œI do go out, yes.”
    â€œI’m bloody glad you weren’t out just now.”
    â€œWhat would’ve happened—if they’d caught you?”
    â€œI hate to think.” Saying “think” made me do it, but slowly and out loud. “They’d be gone by now. They might get to my car, though.”
    She moved back toward the stairs. “You’d better come up and do some more thinking in comfort.”
    How many invitations was I likely to get to go upstairs with beautiful graziers’ wives wearing silk robes? This was my first. I followed her up with legs so shaky I had to think about each step as a separate enterprise. When we reached the top she turned and saw me patting the pocket