Ruth Marr answered my gentle knock on the door of her apartment. “Well, for the love of Mike, look at you!” she exclaimed, her eyes sweeping up and down my full dress.
“Well, for the love of Mike, look at you,” I countered, taking in the silk dressing gown with the rose-colored mules peeping out from underneath the trousers of pajamas which seemed to be composed of black silk netting.
She modestly drew the robe more tightly about her.
I came in and closed the door. “Look here, baby,” I said, “I gave you that hundred and fifty bucks for emergency money, not to go buy a trousseau.”
“I had to have something,” she said, “a toothbrush and— You wouldn’t want me to go around in the altogether, would you?”
I passed up that lead, walked over and sat down.
“Don’t you like it?” she asked, turning slowly around so I could see the robe, and then, at the last, with a quick burst of daring, pulled the robe open so that I could see the full expanse of the black openwork pajamas with the white outlines of her form showing as a pearly-tinted background.
I felt something in the general vicinity of my heart execute antics inside my sore chest, but I remembered how deeply despondent she’d been over feeling that her love life had got out of control and burnt out the brakes. So I merely said casually, “Uh huh.”
“I don’t believe you like it at all,” she said, pouting.
“I’m tired,” I told her. “I’m too weary to appreciate beauty. I couldn’t even be bothered to look at the fan dancer at the nightclub.”
“Well,” she asked naively, “what did that fan dancer have that I haven’t got?”
“A fan,” I said, fishing a cigarette out of my pocket.
“Oh, Donald, don’t be like that, so hard and cynical and unappreciative. It’s not like you.”
She came toward me then, her hands stretched out to me, her gown trailing in the breeze behind her.
“Back,” I said, holding up my hand in a gesture of an intersection cop halting traffic. “I’m sore.”
“Donald, you’re not sore at me?” she cried, dropping to her knees and putting her arms around me.
I yelped with pain and said, “Christ, no, I mean I’m really sore. I’ve been beaten up. I think a couple of my ribs are smashed.”
“Oh, you poor, dear boy! Let me see.”
Her gentle fingers crept past the barrier of white starch that Angus had given Bertha Cool for the occasion. “Poor boy,” she said sympathetically. “Tell me about it, honey.”
I gently disengaged her hand and said, “Now listen, baby, this afternoon you were bawling all over my coat because your self-control had gone out of adjustment. Don’t start teasing the animals.”
“Donald, don’t be like the other men,” she said. “I didn’t mean anything. I was just trying to help you—just as a nurse would do.”
“A nurse,” I said, “would be wearing a starched uniform, and she’d have a fever thermometer ready to jab into a patient’s mouth at the first sign of acute convalescence.”
Ruth Marr swung around to a sitting position on the floor at my feet. She clasped her hands over my knee and looked up at me. She said, “Gosh, Donald, you have—well, guts.”
“I feel as though I had guts right now,” I said. “Tell me about what happened here.”
“Nothing,” she said. “The clerk called a couple of times to ask if I wanted anything. He explained it was because I didn’t speak good English. He thought perhaps I might be wanting to do some shopping or something or perhaps to make a telephone call.”
I frowned. “I don’t like that,” I said.
She disengaged one forefinger to trace the outline of my kneecap through the Scotchman’s rented trousers. “I fixed it all up,” she said.
“What did you tell him?”
“Oh, I gargled a lot of accent at him and told him that Monsieur Benn was attending to everything.”
“You went out to get those pajamas?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you go?”
“Two or three places. I couldn’t get just what I wanted in the smaller stores.”
“Is that what you call keeping out of circulation?”
“I didn’t go anywhere I didn’t have to go to get what I wanted.”
“Did you think they’d let you wear an outfit like that in jail?”
“No, but I thought that—well, Mademoiselle Yvonne would wear things like this, wouldn’t she?”
There was an answer to that one, but I was too tired to think of it. The chair felt comfortable. The exploring progress of the tinted fingernail around the knee of the trousers was vaguely disquieting, but the warmth of her body against my leg was comforting. She said, “Why all the glad rags?”
“It was an idea Bertha Cool had,” I said.
“Did it work?”
“Uh huh.—Her ideas usually do.”
“Where is she now, Donald?”
“Home.”
“What did you do? Have you made any progress?”
“Uh huh.”
“Donald, don’t be like that. Tell me about it. This means a lot to both of us.”
“Uh huh.”
“Well, what did you do?”
“Found the blonde,” I said.
“Donald, tell me, was it Mrs. Premmer?”
“Uh huh.”
“Well, what happened? What did you do?”
“Bertha Cool did it—Mrs. Premmer kicked through with a statement.”
“A complete statement?”
“Uh huh.”
“Did she say anything about—about you know what?”
When I didn’t answer that, Ruth Marr looked up at me and said, “Donald, I do believe you’re going to sleep sitting right there in that chair. Tell me, honey, was she—had she—you know. Were they—”
I tried to think of the answer with my eyes closed, but there didn’t seem to be any hurry about it. I didn’t know whether I should tell her the truth or whether I should stall along. She had long ceased to care anything for Cunner in the sense that she had any affection for him, but it had hurt her pride to think that the blonde had walked off with him. She—Yes, I suppose— After all, it might be better—
Her voice woke me up. “Donald, you’re asleep.”
I struggled my eyes into wakefulness, said thickly, “God, Ruth, I’ve had a night!”
Her hands moved above my knee as she hitched herself closer to me, looked at me, and said seductively, “I could wake you up, you know.”
“Nix on that blonde line,” I said. “You’re better when you’re just yourself—”
And that’s the last I remember.
Cold, hard daylight was filtering through the drapes when I opened my eyes with a start. I was lying on the floor. There was a pillow under my head, a blanket thrown over me. The floor was carpeted, but hard and uncomfortable all the same. I moved, and it felt as though every joint in my body was being pulled apart. I groaned and settled back into my original position. I turned my head. There was another pillow on the floor beside me. It bore the imprint of a head. I felt of the carpet. It was still warm. I touched the pillow. It was wet where she’d been crying.
I heard her in the bathroom splashing around, and then, after a while, she came out, wearing the same robe without the pajamas. Where it flared out in front, I caught a glimpse of peach-colored underwear. She said, “Oh, Donald, you’re awake. I didn’t know what to do. I felt so sorry for you, but you were all in, and I didn’t dare to try to get your clothes off. I only got off the tie and collar. That was the least I could do.”
She flung aside the drapes, and morning sunlight poured in to make the room seem close and stuffy. She raised the window, looked out at the sky, and said, “It’s going to be a wonderful, sunny day. What do we do for breakfast?”
“Hanged if I know,” I said thickly. “I guess we eat it.”
“Why, Donald, you have the most original ideas.”
I grinned and found I could twist my lips without making my face sore.
“How does the chassis feel by this time?” she asked.
“I think the rear axle is out of joint,” I said. “The door won’t latch, the upholstery is shot to hell, and it’s full of body squeaks.”
“How about a nice hot tub?”
I thought that over. The idea seemed good—all except getting to the bathtub.
She went into the bathroom. I heard her singing a lilting little song, then heard the sound of water running into the bathtub. After four or five minutes, she came back and said, “All ready. What do we do next?”
“Well,” I said, “I guess I try getting up.”
She stood over me and gave me a hand. I worked up to a sitting position. I felt as though I was coming apart, but found that I was still in one piece. I finally managed to get up and look down at the wrinkled remnants of what had been a very doggy suit of full dress.
Ruth Marr looked at me and burst into laughter. “For heaven’s sakes, Donald, get those clothes off! You don’t know how woebegone you look; evening clothes without a collar, a stiff, starched shirt that’s a ruin, and clothes that have been slept in.”
“Where,” I asked, “do I undress?”
She indicated the room with a gesture. “Spread ’em out any place,” she said. “I’m going out in the kitchenette and get some breakfast. I laid in some supplies. How would you like a big tomato juice with a lot of Worcestershire sauce?”
“And some lemon,” I said.
“And lemon,” she added. “Swell,” I told her.
She breezed out into the kitchenette. I draped clothes all around the place and managed to get through the bathroom door without scraping off any paint. I splashed cold water on my face, cleaned my teeth with a bath towel wrapped around my forefinger, and finally climbed into the luxury of a warm bath. I lay there letting the hot water do its stuff, feeling like a tea leaf, hard, dry, and brittle, but gradually expanding back into limp shape as the hot water soaked in.
Ruth Marr casually opened the door of the bathroom, walked in quite calmly, and stood over the bathtub, handing me a big glass of ice-cold tomato juice with Worcestershire sauce and lemon squeezed in it. She seemed as utterly casual about it as though I’d been sitting in a chair at a lunch counter.
I gulped down the tomato juice, and handed her the glass. Without a word, she walked out of the bathroom, gently closing the door behind her.
Some ten minutes later, I walked out in my underwear, and found the suitcase which Bertha Cool had loaned me. I opened it, and it was empty.
“Hey,” I yelled, “where are my clothes?”
She came out of the kitchen, calmly and competently went to the door of the closet, and brought out my suit, neatly pressed and on a hanger.
I looked at it. “For the love of Mike, when did this happen?”
“What?”
“The valet service.”
“Oh,” she said, “while you were asleep, I pressed it out a bit with an electric iron and a damp cloth. There’s an iron furnished with the apartment, and the suit looked awful, Donald.”
“Didn’t you,” I asked, “get any sleep?”
“A little,” she said.
“Where?”
She shifted her eyes for a moment, then brought them back to mine. “On the floor beside you.”
“That,” I said, “was a hell of a place.”
“I couldn’t lift you into to the bed, Donald, and you were sleeping so soundly.—Well, I thought it would be better to leave you that way.”
“I have an apartment of my own downstairs,” I pointed out.
“I know, but you were in no condition to be left alone.—And that’s the coffee boiling over.”
She whirled and ran toward the kitchen.
I dressed and went over to look at my whiskers in the mirror. They weren’t so bad. There was probably a drugstore on the corner where I could pick up a safety razor, or I might have time for a barber.
Shortly after that, Ruth called, “Breakfast’s ready, Don.”
I went into the kitchenette and sat down at the breakfast nook. She sat across from me pouring the coffee, urging me to try the scrambled eggs and bacon, as solicitous as a bride, as matter-of-fact as though our relationship was of long standing.
I felt better. The food tasted good. I ate, and she sat across from me, her eyes following every move I made. They were big, solicitous eyes, watching me with tender concern. I don’t think she ate over two or three bites herself.
After a while, when I had finished eating and was lighting my cigarette, she said, “What did Bertha Cool do to the blonde, Don?”
“Plenty,” I said.
“Did you tell her about the pants on the man who did the killing?”
“I told her about the pants,” I said. “They weren’t on the man who did the killing.”
“What do you mean?”
I looked across at her, and said, “You know what I mean, Ruth. You killed him.”
Her eyes remained calm, steady, and tender. “Donald, darling,” she asked, “do you really believe I killed him?”
“You killed him,” I said. “Anyone but a sap would have known it when you came out carrying the gun. Like the boob that I was, so far as women are concerned, I fell for it.”
She put her elbows on the table, interlocked her fingers, and placed her chin on them. The robe parted enough to show me the peach-colored slip, her firm white breasts and the long sweep of her throat. “How long,” she asked, “has it been since you—felt that I killed him, Don?”
“Ever since I talked with Bertha Cool last night, and she read me the statement the officer had made, the one who saw you coming out of the alley back of the apartment house.—Did you know he saw you, Ruth?”
“I knew some man drove up in a car. I looked at him just long enough to see that it wasn’t you. I was looking for the car you’d been driving the night before. I ran down the sidewalk. I heard him start the motor again. I knew he was going to pick me up—try to, I mean. You know how it is with things like that. A woman can tell when a man is going on the make for her.”
“Can she?” I asked.
“Of course.”
I said, “I could go for another cup of coffee, Ruth.”
She got up and poured the coffee. “More cream?” she asked.
“Please.”
She creamed the coffee, and reached over my shoulder to drop in two lumps of sugar, then she went back to the other side of the little table in the breakfast nook and sat perfectly still watching me smoke and drink the coffee. After a while, she said, “What did you tell Bertha Cool?”
“I threw Bertha Cool off the track,” I said.
“How?”
“I told her just enough to start her thinking, but not enough to let her thoughts get any place. I fixed it so she thinks the blonde dressed in her husband’s clothes and went up and killed him.”
“Why did you do that, Donald?”
“To protect you.”
“Do you want to protect me, Donald—feeling that I’ve killed a man?”
“Evidently, I do,” I said, and then, after a moment, put down the cigarette and went on irritably, “I don’t know how the hell I feel. When you told me all this line of hay about being raised in the country and thinking you were a nymphomaniac, I fell for it. When you told me Gell was the fourth man you’d been intimate with, I fell for that. I sympathized with you. I listened to what you said and knew that I was a damn fool for believing, but I believed just the same. I made up my mind that I’d never make a pass at you, that I’d try to get you back on speaking terms with your self-respect, that I’d try to see you got the necessary psychological attitude to enable you to throw your hooks into the next man who appealed to you, and lead him to the altar.”
“That was the way you felt last night?”
“Yes.”
“How do you feel now?”
I looked up at her and said, “For God’s sake, cover up your breasts and quit looking at me with that worshipful look in your eyes. Jesus, I know it’s phony, but it does things to me just the same.”
She waited a moment, and then drew the robe in around her so that it covered her breasts.
“What are you going to do this morning, Don—just wait for developments?”
“Hell, no,” I said, surprised at the rasping note that had crept into my voice. “You can’t wait for developments in this business. You have to do something.—And damned if I know what to do. I can’t pin the kill on that blonde, no matter what a little bitch she’s been. I don’t want to see you dragged into it, although what I’m doing right now is compounding a felony, making myself an accessory after the fact, and a few other things. I’m damned if I know what I am going to do.”
I scraped back my chair, started for the door, then turned and said, “One thing I’m going to do is get shaved. Another thing is go see how far Bertha Cool has worked on the bum steer I gave her last night.”
She got up and came to the door with me, her arm resting gently on mine. “So you know that I was lying to you yesterday?” she asked.
“Hell, yes,” I said.
“That I killed him and that I’m—bad?”
“It depends on what you call being bad,” I said. “I know that you killed him, and I know that you’ve been making goo-goo eyes at me and that you planned things so I’d go on the make for you last night. I suppose you figured that you had to throw yourself in as part of the bargain, that I couldn’t be trusted to protect you unless you gave me that, too.”
I put my hand on the doorknob and twisted it savagely.
“When will I see you again?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you want me to wait here?”
“Yes. And if you answer the telephone, remember to turn loose your accent.”
She tilted her face up to mine. “Goodbye, Donald—darling.”
Her lips were close to mine, her eyes seeming to swim into my consciousness. I let go of the doorknob, and grabbed her. She pushed her lithe body to mine. Her mouth seemed to melt around my tongue.
Twenty, thirty, forty seconds, or maybe a minute later, I pushed her away and dashed out into the corridor, angrily jerking the door shut behind me.
I was just a damn sucker, falling for a woman with the most beautiful body I’d ever seen, lying to Bertha Cool who was employing me, flirting with a murder rap which was going to get me sure as hell, and being too much of a sucker to even cash in on the benefits I was entitled to as fall guy.
In the elevator, I began to take mental inventory. What would happen when the murder rap caught up with us? Would she stand by me—or would she duck out from under and leave me holding the sack—the guy who killed Eben Cunner?
I didn’t know the answer, but I knew the answer that Bertha Cool would give if she knew what I knew.
My job was to keep Bertha from finding out.
The clerk who had been on duty when I came in about three o’clock in the morning was still at the desk. “Good morning, Mr. Benn,” he said, deferentially.
“Good morning.”
His smile was smirking. “Did you get the note I left under your door this morning?”
I thought that one over, and then met his eyes with a cold, hard stare. “What was in it?” I asked.
“Just a receipt for the week’s rent you’d paid on the apartment.”
I held his eyes. “After this,” I said, “don’t ever put anything under my door.”
“Yes, Mr. Benn.”
I stared at him until the sophisticated smirk left his lips, but I could feel his eyes following my back out through the door.
Nuts to him.—Did I get the note under my door?—A neat little trap he’d laid, and I’d walked into it. How much did he know? How much did he suspect? He had a job that enabled him to read the newspapers from front to back, plenty of opportunity to think over what he’d read. Was he going to connect Mademoiselle Yvonne Delmaire, with her synthetic accent, and Carl Benn, who didn’t get the notes which were put under his door, with the Ruth Marr and Donald Lam for whom the police were so diligently searching?
There was an answer to that—and it was something else I didn’t have the nerve to put into words.