GAVIN HADN’T HEARD HER enter; he felt her because he turned at the pale shape of her in the shadow and his eyes were flat as two blue disks.
She whispered, “You killed him.”
She knew she should turn and run but she didn’t, she kept moving forward slowly, unwilling it, until she stood above the lump on the floor. It wasn’t the messenger. It could have been one of the ordinary men who waited for a cab at the Roosevelt. There was a gun fallen from his hand. She raised her eyes to Gavin Keane. He held no gun. He said, “He was going to kill me.” He looked down at the man with scorn.
She said to herself but aloud, “I ought to call the police.” She knew she should do something but she didn’t. It wasn’t because she was afraid Gavin Keane would stop her. It wasn’t because she didn’t dare call the police. It was that she had no feeling at all. She was immobile.
Gavin said, “He isn’t dead.” His mouth was still scornful. “I’ll get him out of here.” He bent down.
She stopped him quickly. “You shouldn’t move him. We’d better ring a doctor.” If he died, if the police came … Towner wouldn’t like it.
He turned on her as if she were very young. “And explain what he’s doing here? In this shape? You don’t want to be mixed up in this.” Again he bent over the man.
She cried, “You can’t take him down in the elevator. Richards—and Franz—”
“That’s right.” He didn’t touch the man. He only picked up the gun, by the barrel, put it in his pocket. “What about the service elevator?”
“It doesn’t run at night.”
“Good.” He smiled now. “Good enough.” He bent down, put the man’s arm about his own neck, supported him about the waist. “Hand me his hat.”
She obeyed as an automaton. There wasn’t any blood on the floor. Not any.
“You lead.”
She didn’t look at the way the man’s head lolled. She didn’t say anything. She held open the door of the kitchen. She thought only how lucky that she’d set the oven control, the chop would be cinders if she hadn’t. She’d turned that domestic. She pulled back the bolt of the kitchen door, then she remembered. “The service elevator is in the basement.”
“I know that.” He propped the man against the wall. The man who wasn’t dead but who was limp. “Just lock your door again and don’t fret.”
Again she obeyed in that curious mechanical way, as if she had to obey. She closed the door on Gavin Keane and the man. She shot the bolt and only after she shot the bolt did she come out of the dream.
This had happened. This was real. A man had been shot. The man who had shot him had taken him away. She began to shake as with a chill. She was afraid of violence. Towner knew she couldn’t face violence, death. He’d protected her from that. Her hand pushed the bolt tighter. She stumbled to the kitchen table, gathered up the leaves which had fallen outside the bowl, and the fork and spoon. She began mixing the salad again, not because she wanted to eat but to have something for her hands to do.
She stopped, turned the chop, reset the stove. The water for the coffee hadn’t yet boiled dry. The time had been that brief. She refilled the pan, set it again to boil. Her hands kept writhing the salad utensils until she realized, then she put them down with something like horror. She turned off the oven, poured the boiling water into the glass coffee bowl.
She set the food for herself at the kitchen table, turned from it and went slowly back to the game room. The damp tweed coat, the rain-spattered hat were still there. He’d have to come back for them. He’d have to come back to get the box. He wouldn’t leave without it.
She turned on the lights again in the white metallic living room before making her careful way to the foyer. She didn’t want to go back there but she was impelled. She must make sure.
There were no rugs to break the glossy dark wood square. She bent over where the man had fallen, she was certain of the place. She put down her forefinger, then the palm of her left hand, rubbed it over the high polish. She could feel no stickiness. She brought her hand up, turned it over fearfully. It wasn’t reddened. She’d been right. There was no blood.
She lifted her head, and at the sudden thought the vise clamping her heart unloosed. The man hadn’t been shot. Gavin Keane had knocked him out. He’d shot at Gavin Keane. She’d heard a shot; why had no one else heard it? That was answerable. City dwellers were accustomed to sound; one more or less made no difference. Moreover in this house the persons were too well bred to acknowledge a shot if they did recognize one. As a matter of fact they’d be too well bred to recognize one.
The blue-eyed man had used his fists. Because she’d heard a shot and seen the lump of a man she’d decided the two went together. They hadn’t. No one had been killed.
She could go, she could take the box and run quickly before Gavin Keane returned. Dress quickly and go. What excuse could she give to Richards and Franz, running out into the storm again, leaving two strange men in her apartment? She’d think of an excuse.
How could Towner find her if she ran away? He couldn’t unless she left an address. She couldn’t trust the two old servitors, the two innocents, not to give it to another. Towner had told her to stay here; he would expect her to stay. He didn’t like his plans changed. He might have known this was to happen. Except for the violence, he might have planned it.
If she ran, Gavin Keane would know she had the box. She had to brazen it out. Find a better hiding place, and brazen it out. Towner would do it that way. He was like this house, too well bred. It was undignified to run, he wouldn’t run. She turned out the foyer lights and started swiftly to her bedroom. She was arrested before she’d crossed the living room. By the buzzer. The sharp rasp of the buzzer.
Gavin Keane had been quicker than she thought. She wondered why he was returning by the front door, what explanation he’d given Franz. She stood unmoving as the buzzer drilled into her ears. She didn’t have to answer. The doors were locked; he couldn’t get in. She was afraid not to let him in.
She’d play it as she’d planned. He was already convinced of her innocence; she had only to maintain it tonight. By tomorrow Towner would certainly be here. She went to the foyer as the impatient buzzer sounded again. She opened the door and for the second time that evening stepped back in astonishment. The last person in the world she expected was standing there. The last person she wanted to see at this moment. Her voice was weak. “Mr. Brewer.”
He looked tired and tumbled, and from the wetness of his coat and hat, the rain had increased its pace. He spoke wearily, “I’m looking for Gavin.”
“Gavin?” She might never have heard the name before.
“Gavin Keane.” He was a little disturbed. “He was at the office today. He talked to you. Didn’t he leave a package for me?”
She remembered Gavin’s coat and hat while he was speaking. She remained there in the foyer doorway, blocking further entrance. She didn’t want Bry to know. She clung to her little respectability. She wasn’t dressed; she didn’t want him to think she had a man here. It went deeper than that. She didn’t want Bryan Brewer involved in this. He didn’t belong in this kind of thing.
She looked up at him. She hadn’t realized before, tilted on her office high heels, how tall he was. She smiled sweetly, innocently, “I don’t know why you’d think he was here.”
He frowned slightly. “He called me for your address. He did leave the package today?”
She nodded. She spoke brightly. “Oh yes, he left the package. Are you looking for it or for Gavin Keane?”
Brewer turned his steady gray eyes down to hers. “I’m looking for Gavin Keane,” he said, as if she were a backward pupil who couldn’t understand the lesson. “Because I am looking for the box he was to leave for me. It isn’t in the office.”
“How do you know?”
She asked the question too quickly. The underline of fear was because he was saying he was mixed up in the affair of the box and he mustn’t be. He wasn’t fitted for that kind of danger. He was decent.
He said, “I know because I went there to get it and it wasn’t there.”
“You went there tonight? To the office?”
“Yes. Gavin said he’d left it with you.”
She acknowledged, “He did leave it with me. I put it in my desk, the lower left hand drawer.” Her eyes were wide; he couldn’t know their honesty was a lie. Because he didn’t know her; because even men who knew her couldn’t tell her truth from lies. Crafty men, wise in their generation, couldn’t tell. “I waited until after six but he didn’t return,” she said. “It was there when I left.”
There was alarm on him as she spoke. She didn’t want to worry him but it was better than having him involved in this. She couldn’t give him the box; she couldn’t tell him the truth. She said, “Maybe Mr. Keane went back for it.”
“He couldn’t have got in.”
He had no idea of the resources of a man like Gavin Keane.
He was puzzled. “If he didn’t think you’d taken it home with you, why did he want your address?”
She didn’t suggest: Maybe because he looked at me. She was going away and she wouldn’t see Bryan Brewer again; he’d never look at her that way. She said quietly, “I can’t imagine why. I didn’t even know his name.”
“He didn’t know yours either. He asked for the gorgeous creature in my office.” His eyes might have seen her then if they hadn’t been crowded with anxiety. “At the time I thought—” He broke off. For just a moment he seemed about to turn human. For a fleeting moment. “But when I went to the office and the box wasn’t there—”
She interrupted staunchly, honestly. “Mr. Brewer, you know I wouldn’t bring anything home that belonged to the firm.”
His expression apologized. “I know. I thought perhaps—for safekeeping—”
She didn’t want to ask, she didn’t want him to know. But her voice was casual. “Is the box important?”
He echoed, “Important!” He knew something; he knew too much. Even a little was too much. She was glad she’d learned in time to carry the box away. It couldn’t endanger him now. “It’s so important—” he began.
The purr of the ascending elevator sounded while he spoke. He broke off. She caught her hands tightly. It would be Gavin coatless, hatless; Bry would know she had evaded the truth. She was shamed; there was no glib explanation she could give him. She couldn’t even explain it was for his sake she had lied, to keep him out of this.
The elevator door slid noiselessly open. She took a breath. She waited for Gavin to step out. He didn’t. The man who appeared was a stranger. She knew he wasn’t a guest of the Hildebrands and their spaniel. A tall, motionless man in a belted gabardine coat, a hat pulled over his eyes, wouldn’t be calling on the Hildebrands at nine on a drenching evening. A man with his hands pushed deep into his pockets, a man who said nothing, who stood there waiting.
Bry saw him, and was blind. He thought the man was someone she was expecting. Franz was holding the elevator. Bry said, “Goodnight,” and again, “Sorry I bothered you, Eliza.” Without looking at her, he stepped into the elevator.
If Bry knew the cold that enveloped her, he wouldn’t leave her with this silent stranger. Franz couldn’t deposit a man like this on her doorstep, not Franz with his careful consideration of every visitor. She appealed to the closing door, “Franz—”
She heard his faint, troubled voice, “It is all right, Miss Eliza.” The door closed in her face leaving her there in the hallway with the man.
The man said, “Yes, it’s all right, Miss Williams.” He took his left hand from his pocket, opened it. On the palm was a small gold badge. The insignia of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
He had a long face, without expression, the eyes hidden under, his hat brim. The badge didn’t have to be real. He could be another imitator. As if she had spoken he said, “My name is Jones. Franz and—what’s the big fellow’s name—Richards—made certain I was the real Jones before allowing me to come up unannounced, Miss Williams.” He didn’t smile. “You too may call headquarters if you doubt.”
She said, “Come in, Mr. Jones.” He couldn’t hear the irregular beat of her heart. Her steps muffled it.
She couldn’t ask him into the living room, he might see in the room beyond the man’s coat and hat. She stood there in the foyer and the cold was moving along her spine to encircle her throat, to numb her fingertips. He stood where the man had fallen, but there was no blood. Gavin Keane had struck the man down, but he hadn’t killed him. The man had shot at Gavin. Somewhere in this room there must be the scar of a bullet. She hadn’t seen it; she hadn’t thought about it.
If this man’s shaded eyes, trained eyes saw it, he would question. She couldn’t answer. Not without explaining why she hadn’t called the police.
Jones said, “I’ve been watching a man tonight. His name is Hester. Renfro Hester.”
Her relief was weakening. He wasn’t after Gavin Keane and the box. She didn’t know anything about Renfro Hester. Not even the name. She shook her head.
“He came to this apartment.”
“Oh no,” she denied. “I’ve never even heard of him.” But doubt leaped again. She hid it in wide eyes.
He was unhurried. “I watched him enter this house. After he passed inspection—” a faint grimace touched his inexpressive mouth—“he went up in the elevator. I watched a long time for him to come out. Rather a bad night for watching.”
She said, “Yes.” Renfro Hester wasn’t dead; his head lolled but he wasn’t dead.
“He didn’t come out, Miss Williams. I watched almost an hour but he didn’t come out.” He twisted his cold lips. “By enquiry, I found Hester had come to your apartment.”
He wasn’t threatening her; he was stating facts. He stood there waiting, his hat over his eyes, his hands dug down in the pockets of his waterproof. Waiting for her to speak.
She was hesitant, feeling her way. “Yes, he came here.” She mustn’t mention Gavin Keane. “He didn’t tell me his name.”
“What did he want?”
It came to her complete; Jones might not believe, but he couldn’t change her story. It would carry feminine conviction. She said, “I don’t know what he wanted. He didn’t have an opportunity to tell me. You see—” She made a point of lashing her eyes, of fingering the pink froth of her chiffon. When she lifted her lashes, her eyes were wide, appealing. “You see, I was expecting a—” her hesitation was infinitesimal “—friend. He is—rather—jealous. I didn’t want him to find that man here. When my friend rang up, I asked that man to go out the back way. That’s probably why you didn’t see him leave the building.” It was childish but he couldn’t deny it. He couldn’t know how many men had come to her apartment tonight.
Under his hat shadow she could see his quick scowl. “You asked him to walk down fourteen flights?” He didn’t believe her.
She said arrogantly, “I don’t care how he got downstairs. He looked as if he should have used the tradesman’s entrance.” She smiled at Mr. Jones. “He could have rung for the service elevator if he didn’t want to walk down.”
“The service elevator doesn’t run after six o’clock.”
He’d questioned the guardians of the portal. He knew too much about this house. He’d questioned and he’d thought he had Hester trapped here. Why hadn’t he picked up Hester when he was following him? Why wait? In the back of her head, the answer beat like nervous pulse. Because he wanted to find out why Hester came here. Because Hester would lead him to Gavin Keane. But Jones didn’t know Gavin Keane had come; he had missed that.
She heard herself saying, “Doesn’t it? Maybe he did have to walk then. However, he probably stopped at the next floor. I don’t know what he was selling but I’m certain that’s why he was here.”
The voice was dry. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to see your service entrance, Miss Williams.”
She minded, she minded very much but it wasn’t a request, it was a demand. And she mustn’t do anything to excite his suspicions of her. She had passed muster with him as she had with Gavin. She said, “Certainly, Mr. Jones. This way.”
He followed her into the living room, through the open archway to the game room. She went straight on to the door leading to the kitchen; she did not hesitate when she no longer heard his following footsteps, she didn’t stop until she’d pushed open the connecting door. She showed surprise when she turned back and saw him standing at the couch fingering Gavin’s damp coat and hat. “This way,” she repeated brightly.
“Whose stuff is this?”
The F.B.I, didn’t beat about the bush with diplomacy. She had her answer. “My friend went out for some seltzer.”
“Without his coat?”
She swallowed but her face didn’t change. “I don’t mean he went outside on a night like this. Just to another apartment in the building.”
He took his fingers from the coat. “I presume he too used the service entrance.”
She was blithe. “Oh yes. We don’t bother Franz for just a flight or so.”
She preceded him into the kitchen. “But I’m certain he didn’t run into that man you’re looking for. That man had been gone a long time.”
He noted her untouched dinner. She didn’t expect him not to. She was thinking ahead of him now. “You didn’t eat much,” he stated.
She laughed, “I’ve had too many interruptions. This is the service door.”
He said, “I’d like to have a look outside.”
“Certainly.” She fumbled a little with the bolt. Gavin and the man must have been gone long ago. Nevertheless her fingers were wooden, fearing lest that figure was still slumped against the wall. She babbled, “These bolts. My aunt’s afraid of back entrances—this is my aunt’s apartment. She’s in Europe.” The bolt was out of its socket. Slowly, hoping her anxiety wasn’t noticeable, she opened the door. Jones passed her and stepped outside into the service corridor. She stood in the doorway, seeing that figure although it was no longer there, hoping Jones was not seeing it too. Her head turned towards the back stairs as his did. She didn’t move. She saw the man’s yellow curly head, she knew it before he lifted his face. He was holding the bannister, pulling himself up. When he sensed persons there, when his face lifted, she was shocked at the drawn, white look of it.
She ran to him, pattering gayly, “Didn’t Beatrice have any seltzer, darling?” He could see her face, her warning eyes; her Back was to Jones. “We’ll have to call the delicatessen after all.” She slipped her arm through his when he reached the head of the stairs. She went on, “This is Mr. Jones, darling. He’s from the F.B.I. He’s looking for a man he thought came up here tonight. I told him no man came to my apartment.” Now she could warn Mr. Jones with her eyes, with a light shake of her head. “Mr. Jones, this is my friend, Mr.—Smith.” She didn’t hesitate giving him the name. Jones had to accept it or deny his own. Obviously if the F.B.I. man was looking for Gavin Keane, he didn’t know Keane by sight. Doubtless that was why he needed to follow Renfro Hester.
Jones’ mouth was ironic. “How do you do, Mr. Smith.”
Gavin played up. His hand closed over hers. He said, “We haven’t seen any man, Mr. Jones. Who is he? Sneak thief?”
She laughed, “Darling, the F.B.I. wouldn’t be sent after a sneak thief!”
Mr. Jones agreed with a lift of his lips that could be a smile. “There’s some questions we want to ask him.” He walked over to the stairs, looked down them. Gavin’s hand tightened over hers.
She cried, “You’re not going to walk down fourteen flights, are you?”
“No, Miss Williams.” He turned and this time his lips did smile slightly. “I’ll bother your elevator man.” He went back into the kitchen. She and Gavin followed. With her free hand she shot the bolt, Gavin still held the other hand tightly.
It was Jones who led the way to the foyer. He wanted to say more than goodnight but with Gavin there, taking part in the pretense, he couldn’t. He had to agree to her story, a jealous lover, just because it might be the true one. He said, “If this man should call on you again, Miss Williams—” he was choosing his words with care—“I hope you’ll get in touch with us at once.” She couldn’t open the door for him, she couldn’t free her hand from Gavin’s.
Mr. Jones left the door ajar while he rang for the elevator. She had to stand there in the doorway, Gavin leaning against her, during the long interlude between the push of the bell and the quiet sliding open of the cage. She had to stand there silently urging Mr. Jones to leave but knowing a far heavier ordeal lay ahead. She couldn’t keep small talk moving, not in the face of the silence of the two men. She too went into silence.
Only when the elevator sound neared were there words again. Jones said, “I may want to ask you some further questions tomorrow, Miss Williams.” Franz had the door open as he spoke. Jones didn’t say goodnight, the door closed on him.
Gavin’s hand slipped away. She closed her own front door and turned to face him. He tried to smile at her but his face wavered. He swayed; he fell.
She pushed back the scream in her throat. Gavin fell where the man Hester had fallen. This time there was blood. It was a little red snake crawling from under his shoulder.
She stood rooted there, helplessly. She tried to speak his name but her mouth was too dry for the utterance of words. And then the witchspell of horror was lifted. She could move, speak. She knelt beside him, tugging at him. She heard herself whispering, “What’s the matter, Gavin? Get up. What’s the matter with you?” She tugged until she had him turned over, until she could see the white mould of his face. Even then she kept on whispering crazily, frantically, “Gavin, what’s the matter? What’s the matter with you?” She knew it was crazy but her will couldn’t silence her tongue.
Not until she realized: he wasn’t dead. His breath was whistling warm against her hand. He was breathing hard but he was breathing. Her hand moved away from his face. She saw then the blood welling from his shoulder, saw it smeared on her sleeve, looked down and saw the wet stain on the breast of her negligee where she’d leaned across him.
He had been shot. That was why Jones hadn’t queried about a bullet scar in the foyer; there hadn’t been one. Gavin had been shot but he hadn’t stopped until he’d done what there was to do: get rid of Hester. As if he’d known Jones was coming.
She couldn’t let him lie here. He must have attention. Who could help her? Not Richards or Franz. There was no possible explanation she could give them for this violence. She knew no one in New York but Bryan Brewer. She wouldn’t involve Bry. She would manage alone, at least until Gavin was conscious and could tell her what to do.
The fall had evidently broken open the wound. She pushed aside his coat, unbuttoned his shirt. He’d wadded his handkerchief against the hole. It was drenched with blood. She lifted it away, it clung stickily to her hands. She ran through the living room into the bedroom corridor, to the bath. She dropped the handkerchief in the tub, took a small Turkish towel, soaked it in cold water, ran back to the man on the floor. He hadn’t moved. She crushed the wet towel against the blood; he must stop bleeding. And he must be returned to consciousness.
She left him again, went to the game room closet. Aunt Hortensia’s wine cellar. Among the bottles was one of brandy almost full. Whether it was the right treatment or not she didn’t care. The first aid she’d once known was blacked out in this shock. She carried the bottle swiftly back to where he lay, sat on the floor and lifted his head into the curve of her arm. She pulled the cork with her teeth, forced the bottle into his mouth, tilted it like an infant’s nursing bottle. She held it rigid until he stirred.
His voice came faintly. “What … trying … float me?”
She controlled hers. “You’re hurt,” she said. Stupid, he knew that. “You fainted.” He must know that. She must be calm. She must take care of this. She spoke slowly, carefully. “I will call a doctor. Do you have any preference?”
He said, “No doctor.” He made his voice come stronger. “I don’t want a doctor. Not tonight.”
“But you’ve been shot.”
His hand caught hers. “That’s the reason I can’t have a doctor. You understand?” He was trying to push himself up.
She cried, “Be careful.” He mustn’t faint again.
“If you’ll help me to the bathroom where I can wash up.” He was half-propped and his eyes closed.
She cried again, “Gavin. You mustn’t try it.”
He opened his eyes and ghost-smiled at her. “I’ll make it. Give me another swig of that brandy. And I’ll make it.”
She held the bottle, half empty now, to his mouth. He took a pull, handed it back to her.
“Now if you can help a little. Push that chair to me.”
She set the bottle down, rose obediently and pushed the square bleached chair to him. She held it, while resting his weight on it, he pushed to his feet. He steadied himself on it.
“I can make it,” he assured her.
She took his arm quickly as he started stiff-legged across the floor.
“You’re forgetting the bottle.” There was a hint of the old humor.
“I’ll come back for it,” she promised. “After I get you to bed.”
“Bed?”
She led him through the white living room to the bedroom corridor.
“I can’t go to bed. Too much to do.”
She said, “You’re insane if you go out again tonight. There’s a spare bedroom. You can have it.”
“Have you no reputation?” He definitely smiled now.
She pushed him into the bathroom. He sank down on the edge of the tub.
“Slip your good arm out of the jacket,” she ordered. She helped him. “I’ve jeopardized my reputation completely tonight as it is. Now the shirt. Care of the sick can’t be reputation shattering. You’re too sick to be moved.”
She let the jacket and shirt slide to the floor, turned on the cold tap. She took the towel away from the hole, soaked it under the cold water.
He said, “I can’t see the damn place, too high. Is it bad?”
She held the sopping towel to the bleeding. “It could have been worse. A little up and over and it would have severed the jugular. Lower—” She frowned. “The bullet’s in there.”
“And it’s going to stay there tonight. I want a look.” He tottered to the long mirror, peered at the place. “Plenty of men still walking around with bullets in them. Got any iodine?”
“I’m certain—yes.” She opened the medicine cabinet. “There’s three bottles of it here.” Aunt Hortensia evidently was one with Towner. Buying a bottle of the stuff whenever she scratched her finger in town. Thereby accumulating a shelf of little brown bottles.
He looked on the shelf. “They’ll have to do. I’ll sit on the tub again. You can pour them on my shoulder.”
“Pour them on that?” He had again bared the gaping hole.
“Yeah. Pour ’em. But first the medicine.” His head jerked towards the other room.
“Yes.” She eyed him. “Don’t faint while I’m gone.”
“I’m all right now.” He wasn’t; he was lily-colored.
She half ran to the foyer, and back again with the bottle.
He held it up. “We’re hard on your brandy.”
“It isn’t mine. It’s Aunt Hortensia’s.”
“From the pervading odor, most of Aunt Hortensia’s best went down my neck. On the outside.” He took a long drink, set the bottle on the floor, and gripped the edge of the tub. “Now pour, baby.”
He slanted back. He didn’t wince, his mouth was set in a smile. She poured into the hole, one bottle, another, the third. He said through clenched teeth, “I sure smell pretty. Brandy, blood and iodine.”
She gathered the empty flacons. “We should have sulfa.”
“Before sulfa, it was iodine. And now.” He came to his feet, swayed.
She supported him again. “The spare bedroom is next door.” The lights were still burning. Aunt Hortensia might have planned it for a man, clean oiled wood, cinnamon and amber striped wools. Eliza put him in the chair.
He said, “You don’t need to do this,” but his voice was unsteady.
“I don’t need to.” She folded back the spread, turned down the bed. “I could put you out in the storm. If you didn’t fall on your face and get run over, you’d come down with pneumonia in a couple of days. I don’t want you on my conscience.”
He tried for a smile. “What’s the good aunt going to say when she discovers a stray male in the spare bedroom?”
“I think she’d be delighted. Especially one with a real bullet in him. Unfortunately she’s in Europe.” She steered him to the bed, eased him down on it. “You needn’t be embarrassed.” She was removing his shoes. “I’ve nursed sick men before.” She unfastened his trousers, pulled them off. His eyes were closed, his face set. “I’m sorry I’ve no pajamas to offer you. This is strictly a woman household. Small size women, unfortunately for you.”
She covered him. She didn’t know if he heard anything she said but she went on talking. “Aunt Hortensia has a box of nembutal. Marked strictly for toothache. I’m sure she’d consider a bullet hole as great an emergency. I’m going to give you a couple now. If that doesn’t work, I’ll give you another.”
She turned off all the lights but the one bed table lamp. He didn’t open his eyes as she left the room. The nembutal was in her bathroom, reached only through her own bedroom. She hurried for it; she wanted him to have the capsules before he slept. She wanted to make sure he would sleep.
His eyes were closed when she returned. He opened them before she spoke. He said haltingly, “I haven’t said thanks. Thanks.”
“Take this. We’ll talk in the morning.”
He took the capsules from her, swallowed water from the glass she held. He smiled. His eyes were blurred but they made a valiant attempt to charm. “You’d better get rid of those bloody clothes.”
She’d forgotten her own appearance. She looked now at the sticky drying blotches. She had better get them out of sight quickly. If Jones came in now he’d think Renfro Hester had been slaughtered. Jones wasn’t coming in again tonight. No one else was coming in here tonight. She’d had enough. The doors were locked; no one but a window washer could come through a fourteenth story window. And there were no window washers performing at this hour in this rain.
She wouldn’t change until she’d cleaned up the mess. Gavin Keane seemed to be drifting to sleep. She turned off the lamp. She’d leave his door open, the corridor light on in case he woke in the night. She went back to the bathroom, gathered up the blood-soaked clothes and dropped them in the hamper. She rinsed the stains from the tub, wet a fresh towel and took care of the spots on the tile floor.
She was afraid to enter the whiteness of the living room. It must be examined, now, tonight. Unbelievably it was unblemished. He’d held the towel to his shoulder as he passed across the rug. The worst was the foyer floor. She knelt and scrubbed at it with the towel. She didn’t know if the dark wood would show stain, if Jones would notice tomorrow. He would come tomorrow, of that she was certain. The warning had been in his farewell tonight.
Let him come. Tomorrow the box wouldn’t be here. She wouldn’t be here. She and Towner would have moved on. She was certain Towner would appear tomorrow. If Gavin Keane were still here, it was too bad. He hadn’t any business coming in the first place, turning Aunt Hortensia’s shining apartment into a battleground. She wouldn’t be covering her departure by throwing him to the wolves. He’d got himself into this. She was certain he could get out of it.
She clenched the towel. It was again her buzzer sounding. She didn’t move. Whoever it was could go away, must go away. She wasn’t opening the door tonight. Whoever it was must be someone she knew, someone who had passed inspection. Jones. Hester? She was rigid while the finger held on the buzzer for a longer period. It couldn’t be Towner Clay. He wouldn’t come to her on a night like this; he’d send for her. Towner was fastidious as a cat.
The person outside couldn’t know she was here on her knees. The apartments were too well sound-proofed for sounds to carry. Yet she feared her breath, the beat of her heart. Whoever it was would go away, believe she was asleep. Bry? She couldn’t open the door even to Bry Brewer. Not with blood staining her, not with Gavin Keane in the guest bedroom. She started as the buzzer sounded again, longer now, more insistent. She knelt there, her knees ached, and she began to tremble. But she didn’t move. Not until there was silence for a long time in the outer hall.
She was joint stiff when she rose, turned out the foyer lights, and tiptoed soundlessly into the living room. His coat and hat were still in the game room. She hung them in the wine closet, not wanting to carry them to the coat closet so near the front door. She put out the lights in the kitchen first, next the game room, last the living room, only a step through the door into the lighted corridor.
She closed the door against the darkness, hurried now to add this towel to the others. He was quiet in the bed when she passed his door. She stood there to make sure of his breathing, of his drugged sleep. In her own room at last, the door closed, she pulled off the hideously stained chiffon robe and gown. They were ruined. A good cleaner—but she wouldn’t dare do anything about it until this business was cleared up. By that time they’d probably be beyond hope.
She showered to wash away the sticky touch of blood. Clean yellow satin pajamas. Brush her damp hair. Turn back the bed, bed light on, other lights off. And now—
She took the box carefully from the closet shelf. A white square box, fairly heavy, neatly wrapped. A box she should have recognized at once today but she had never dreamed it would be carried casually into the office. She’d been expecting it under the guerdon of heavily insured post. She sat cross-legged on the bed, untied the string, folded back the paper. She had never looked on it.
She set away the lid. Tissue paper wrapped the contents. She lifted the whole out, removed the tissue, held the object in her hands. Her trembling hands.
It was a large egg. A Russian Easter egg. A garishly beautiful thing, heavily encrusted with gems. It glittered red and white, rubies and diamonds, golden lacework of filigree meshing the whole.
“The Scarlet Imp.”
She started, lifting her eyes fearfully to the voice in the doorway. It was Gavin.
She whispered, “I thought you were asleep.”
He moved to the bed, sank on the foot of it. He took the egg from her hands. She couldn’t clutch it; she couldn’t let him know it meant anything to her. He shimmered it. “Pretty, isn’t it?”
She said anxiously, “You must go back to bed.”
“I was afraid maybe they got it away from you.”
He still believed her an innocent bystander. She took her black wool robe from the chair, put it around his shoulders. “They didn’t. And they won’t. Not tonight. I’ll hide it again. Tomorrow—”
“Tomorrow I’ll try to deliver it.” He slitted his eyes at her. “You wanted to see it. Don’t you want to know what it’s all about?”
“I do,” she said. She tried to look wide-eyed, curious. “Terribly. But if you don’t go to bed now you won’t be able to tell me tomorrow. Please.”
He said to himself, “I’ve carried it half around the world. The Scarlet Imp. The fabulous Persian treasure.” His laugh startled her. It was short, harsh. “They haven’t got me or the Imp yet.”
She pleaded, “Please go back to bed. You’ve lost a lot of blood. You can’t deliver—that—if you’re ill.”
He ignored her as if she weren’t in the room. “It’s a race. If I don’t win—I die.” Pain suddenly spasmed his face. She caught the Imp; he let her take it. “Put it away. Somewhere safe.”
She held it. “I’ll put it away if you’ll go back to bed.” She frowned at him over the jeweled egg. “You didn’t take the sedative?”
His eyes mocked. “No, I didn’t take the sedative.” The humor went out of him. “Never knock yourself out when you’re playing a dangerous game, sweetheart.”
Her lashes dropped quickly. Although she knew he didn’t connect her with the danger. She made her hands busy, stuffing the egg back into the box, gathering the tissue around it. She said, “Don’t worry about this. It’s perfectly safe for tonight. No one can get in here.” She carried the box to the closet, placed it on the shelf. When she turned he was standing, gripping the foot of the bed. She started to him but he shook his head. “I’ll make it.” He felt a path out of the room. She followed him. He dropped on his bed, didn’t move when she covered him again. His face was colorless as water. Whoever he was, he shouldn’t have to endure such pain. It hurt to look on him.
She said, “Please. If I bring you some capsules now, won’t you take them?”
He grimaced. “I still have the first two I palmed.” His hand went under the pillow, brought them out.
She begged, “To stop the pain so you can sleep.” She repeated, “No one can come in. I won’t let anyone in.”
His blue eyes looked up at her, measuring her honesty again. Again he believed. He could believe; she was honest at this moment. “I’ll get you some water.”
“Never mind that.” He put them in his mouth, swallowed them. There was an echo of his cocksure smile. “Satisfied? I’m not used to being fussed over. I’ve never mixed a girl with business.” The echo faded. He was eyeing her and he was remembering something, trying to remember. He scowled. “Did someone come? Or was I dreaming?”
In her reprieve she was gentle. “You heard the door. I didn’t answer it.”
“That’s good. Don’t. I couldn’t help you much tonight.” His voice began to drowse. “Does anyone know you brought the egg here?”
“I’m not sure. That man—Jones called him Hester—he might have seen me get into the cab. I had a newspaper around the box.”
“Don’t worry about Hester.” His mouth twisted.
“Jones didn’t mention the box, he was only looking for Hester. Bry—Mr. Brewer—”
His eyes opened, widened. “Was Bry Brewer here?”
“Before Jones.”
The eyelids fell again. He fought them open. “What did he want?”
“He was looking for you. I didn’t tell him you’d been here. I didn’t know—” She was hesitant. “I didn’t want to explain where you were.”
“Where was I?” The words were drugged.
“You were—getting rid of Hester.”
He was under now, his breathing regular. She smoothed the covers over his shoulder. She returned to her room. She took down the box again, lifted out the egg. It was so daringly beautiful, only the days of fairy-tale monarchs could create anything so magnificent. Peter the Great’s gift to the Persian Shah. It was too beautiful to risk. Even in an apartment where no one could enter. She found in her drawer a purple wool fascinator, carefully wrapped the egg in it. The safest place. For tonight at least. She took down a hatbox, pushed the purple into the crown of one of Aunt Hortensia’s creations of cerise and ochre plumes, nested it again in tissue and replaced the box. A large oval of bath soap, not the scented, the white scentless. The weight was almost the same, and the shape. She carefully wrapped the cake in tissue, closed the box. She tied the white paper about it neatly. The package didn’t look as if it had been opened. She put it back on the shelf. If anyone broke in, he could have the soap.
She snapped off the light, slit the Venetian blinds. The wind moaned into the room as she opened the front windows. The rain was still slashing down, whipped by the wind. And in the park a man sat on a bench, one man huddled in his coat, facing the apartment house. She turned away, and quickly covered herself in bed. Even if Gavin was helpless she was glad she wasn’t alone tonight. Even if he was her enemy.