35

Duvivier remembered Carol Bradley’s progress at the publishing house of Seare and Jolly. It had been marked.

When, at Jolly’s urging, she had bid her young stockbroker friend good-bye, she traded her cubicle for an office, a real office. And then, a bigger office.

And when Mrs. Jolly decided to spend the holidays in Noroton, Carol Bradley’s L-shaped metal desk was replaced with a peachwood table. It had no drawers. And a typewriter would have affronted its glossy veneer, its long, slender legs.

Now Carol Bradley had a secretary—or, rather, an assistant. Mrs. Jolly had decided to stay in the Noroton house the year round.

The assistant consented to let Duvivier stand in the Bradley doorway and tilt inside. But he hovered in the vicinity of Duvivier’s shoulder, just in case.

“Carol,” Duvivier said, “I’ve orchestrated a little something. A joke. You’re involved in it.”

“Hiya, Jack!” Carol pushed her glasses onto the top of her head and leaned back into her chair.

The assistant relaxed, resuming his seat and his magazine.

“I met a woman,” Duvivier continued. “Her name is Lida—”

“Oh,” she interrupted, “the vermouth and lemon. So that was you.”

“She called?”

“Yup. We thought she was crazy. But then we figured that it had to be you.”

“You’ve sent her the book?”

“We called the warehouse. They’re sending it.”

“Thank you.” He heard the telephone buzz behind him and heard the assistant murmur into it.

“Himself,” the janizary announced.

Carol Bradley lifted the receiver but covered the mouthpiece. “Don’t mention it,” she said. “And, Jack?” She winked. “Would you close that door on your way out?”

Duvivier closed the door. He would walk, he thought. He needed to walk.

He had not been wrong about needing that scene. And damn! Thus far he’d managed only the opening line: “I just love your murders,” his victim would say, her blue-black hair falling prettily across her face.

Yes, he would walk. And as he walked he would decide how, when, and where Lida was to die.