The Follower by Patrick Quentin Page B

and dark; her face was well-made. He thought she probably thought she looked like Hedy Lamarr.
    ‘Kind of treacherous weather,’ he said. You don’t want to catch cold. How about a warm, refreshing drink?’
    She shrugged. ‘Why not?’ She played with the fingertips of her gloves. ‘I often drop into Twenty-One at this hour for a cocktail.’
    ‘Fine.’
    He hailed a cab. When they joined the flood of traffic on Fifth Avenue she took a cigarette from her bag and put it in her mouth. He lit it for her.
    She said: ‘Found your wife yet, Mr Liddon?’
    ‘No,’ he said. Crazy, isn’t it?’
    ‘Work around Derain’s a while. You won’t think anything’s crazy.’
    She flicked the ash from her cigarette on the cab’s floor. ‘Alone for Christmas, eh? That’s a hell of a note.’
    ‘Yes.’
    Her leg moved slightly. He could feel the faint pressure of her calf against his. The taxi drew up in front of Twenty-One Club.
    They found a table in a corner. The girl was playing it blasé. All she needed was a pair of sunglasses to be a star of stage, screen, radio and television. She dropped the coat from her shoulders and peeled off her gloves.
    ‘What’ll you have?’
    ‘I think a champagne cocktail would be bearable.’
    He thought of asking whether she always found a ‘champagne cocktail bearable’ at this hour.
    After the waiter had brought the drinks, he said: ‘It’s on the level, you know. I’m not trying to get any dirt on my wife.’
    She sipped her cocktail, watching him steadily over the glass-lip. ‘You’re not?’
    ‘It’s just a crazy accident. We crossed each other.’
    ‘Yes,’ said the girl.
    ‘Do you know her?’
    ‘Mrs Liddon? I’ve seen her a couple of times in the store and her picture’s in Harper’s Bazaar this month.’ Under the table her foot touched his and stayed there. She was looking over his shoulder as if interested in people at the next table.
    Mark said: ‘You know where she is, don’t you?’
    ‘No, I don’t.’ She picked up one of her gloves and ran it through her fingers. Mark took out his wallet, opened it, and looked intently at the thick wad of bills. She said, ‘I could find out, though.’
    ‘That’s the girl,’ said Mark. He folded the wallet and put it away.
    ‘Won’t take me a couple of seconds to run up to the shipping department now Ester’s off for lunch.’ She put down the glove and turned the big, expressionless eyes on him. ‘You’re my type, Mr Liddon.’
    ‘That’s a break for me.’
    She finished her champagne cocktail. ‘Let’s go.’
    Mark paid the check. Another taxi took them back to Derain’s.
    ‘You wait, Mr Liddon. Wait in the bookstore doorway where you were waiting before.’
    She slipped in through the employees’ entrance. Mark crossed the street to the bookstore and stood in the snow looking at the neat tower of books, festooned with their paper decorations. The girl was back in less than five minutes.
    Her voice behind him made him turn. ‘Here, Mr Liddon.’ She handed him a piece of paper. ‘I copied it out from the shipping department.’
    Written on the paper in a round, sprawling hand were the words:
     
    Mrs Mark Liddon,
    Hotel Granada,
    Madero,
    Mexico, D. F., Mexico.
     
    He put the piece of paper in his pocket. ‘Thanks,’ he said. He took out his wallet, removing two fifty-dollar bills, and handed them to her.
    She said, ‘I can take the afternoon off and I’ve got a room with a kitchenette. We can pick up some junk on the corner and I’ll fix lunch.’
    Mark grinned at her. ‘Thanks. But some other time.’ He patted her shoulder. ‘Merry Christmas, baby.’ He turned towards Fifth Avenue, leaving her alone on the sidewalk.
    He passed the Salvation Army girls again, secure in their homely godliness, clanging their bells and chanting: ‘Give for Christmas.’ Exhilaration surged up in him. It was coming out right after all. Ellie was safe in Mexico and he would be able to reach her long before