Stranger At Home by George Sanders Page B

now.”
    Vickers said, “What do you want to bet?” He smiled at the butler’s stiffly retreating back and then went directly into Harry Bryce’s study and closed the door.
    Harry had been an untidy character. Vickers flicked through masses of irrelevant paper in the desk drawers, including used Christmas cards and old gin rummy scores. Vickers noticed on these latter that Harry had got blitzed with monotonous regularity. He was still pawing when Jennie Bryce came in.
    She wore a black dress now. It had rather a low V-neck and a seductive drape around the hips. Her pumps were black suede and had a very high heel. One blood-red toenail peeped through the opening of each shoe. She wore a pearl choker and matching earrings and her hair was piled smoothly on her head. She had a beautiful neck. Widowhood became her.
    She shut the door and said, “You’ve sure got your nerve with you.”
    â€œYes, haven’t I?” Vickers smiled at her pleasantly, went back to what he was doing, did a studied take, and straightened, staring at Jennie.
    She gave him plenty of time to look before she said indignantly, “What do you think you’re doing in my husband’s effects?”
    â€œLooking for something.” Vickers seemed surprised that she would not know that. “Shan’t be a moment. Suppose you sit down right over there, where I can see you, and then we can have a little chat when I’m finished.”
    â€œWell,” she said, “if you got something important to say.” She walked slowly to the indicated chair, giving him the full-length profile. “A widow has things to do, you know.”
    â€œYes,” said Vickers. “I can imagine.”
    She sat down, watching him sulkily. He could feel her watching. The jumbled papers slipped through his hands rapidly, and then he found what he wanted. The things were in a leather zipper case at the bottom of the last drawer. He swept papers onto the floor and spread the contents out. Jennie got up and stood beside him.
    â€œWhat is it?” she asked.
    â€œHarry’s memory books.” There were two of them, one a small leather-bound notebook with liquor stains on the cover, the other a big scrap book. Vickers opened the big book to cover the little one.
    â€œWhy,” said Jennie, “that’s you, isn’t it?”
    She was pointing to a picture clipped from a Los Angeles paper. It was the Vickers of four years ago. It carried a heading to the effect that Prominent Local Business Man had Disappeared. There was an article pasted beside it. It told Vickers nothing new. Only a repetition of what Angie had said. He turned the heavy pages slowly. There were pictures of Harry Bryce and Bill Saul and Job Crandall. There were pictures of Angie. There were interviews. There was one last item, very small, from a back page and unaccompanied by pictures, which said that the search for Michael Vickers, missing six months, had proved fruitless and been abandoned. Wherever the name of Harry Bryce appeared in print it was underlined in blue pencil.
    â€œHarry never showed me that,” said Jennie. “But then, we were only married three months ago.” She turned back to a picture of Angie, and studied it. “She don’t take a very good picture, does she?”
    Vickers glanced sideways and said, “I imagine you do.”
    Jennie shrugged deprecatingly and moved away, ostensibly toward a small table with cigarettes on it. Vickers got a magnificent view of her back, undulant and graceful. “I oughta. I been in show business since I was a kid. You learn the tricks.”
    â€œYes. I suppose you do.” Vickers slipped the small leather book into his pocket, and then made a last quick search of the zipper case while Jennie was giving her artistic all to the lighting of a cigarette. There was an envelope. He had no time to look at it. It followed the notebook.
    Jennie said,