by Frances
The tailor had perceived; for fifteen years he had continued to perceive. “An artist,” André thought to himself each time he ordered new clothes, of that special dark gray so difficult to obtain, “a fellow artist.” It pleased André to see that others appreciated this; that his friend the tailor had also prospered. Perhaps, André had long thought, they might achieve world fame together—the most admirable tailor, the greatest restaurateur, of the habitable world. (The habitable world was not, to André, very large.)
It was no slight trick to remain permanently foreign in any part of this world, particularly for a man of no physical idiosyncrasy and with a marked aptitude for languages. The retained accent, the artfully tailored clothes, the barbering, these were essential, but these were only the costuming of the part. “He even walks like a foreigner,” Cecily Breakwell thought, watching him recede through the coatroom. “It’s funny how you can tell.” André would have been pleased had he been able to overhear that thought; here, he would have realized, was a tribute to an art purely personal. The walk, the gestures, the use of the eyes, the inflection of the voice—these were of André, of André only. Even now, after many years, André Maillaux sometimes invented a new gesture, at once Parisian and personally idiosyncratic, to make himself more perfect, more perfect as the impeccable proprietor of the greatest restaurant in the world. There was little of planning, of diligence, of ingenuity, which André Maillaux was not ready, and for that matter able, to contribute to make that dream a reality.
Cecily Breakwell watched M. Maillaux walk, like a Frenchman, down the length of the cloakroom and leave it by a far door. Cecily sat down again, but almost at once got up. The first of the little ones appeared; she helped him off with his overcoat, took his hat, smiling welcome with all of her small, pert face. You could never tell who might come to the Restaurant Maillaux, or what might be the effect of her charm, her youth, her piquancy, on some guest who was looking for just that, who had almost, perhaps, decided not to produce that delightful little play because nowhere, in no casting office, had he found just the girl, with just the charm, the piquancy, for the leading part. And here, where he would least expect it, he would come upon the girl, drudging with hats and coats as Cinderella drudged at whatever menial tasks Cinderella drudged at. (Cecily was not very precise on this.) And then, Cecily thought (sitting down again, since this did not seem to be the man), he finds out I am really a college girl, just filling in here—between parts, really—and—
“Please, miss,” a new patron, who also did not look like a theatrical producer, “I’d like to leave my coat, huh?”
André Maillaux was in the office suite, by that time. The new suite, added to the restaurant during extensive alterations the summer before—the alterations which had expanded, and in so much changed, the Restaurant Maillaux.
Enlargement of the main dining-room, conversion of the second-floor dining-rooms, had left no place for the offices, just when the offices, also, needed enlargement. That had been solved by renting the premises next door, in which a dress shop had just failed. The show windows had been painted over and the forepart of the space was used now for storage. In the rear, the offices of André Maillaux, Inc., had been partitioned off. Various passages connected the offices with the restaurant itself, all of them inconspicuous. The one through the coat-room led into the receptionist’s offices, which also could be reached from the street, through a passage beside the storeroom, without entering the restaurant itself. M. Maillaux emerged into the reception-room and said, “Good morning, my dear” to Gladdis Quinn, who said, “Good morning, mess-sere,” a form of address at which M. Maillaux no longer winced. Now he merely nodded toward one of the doors opening off the reception-room, and raised his eyebrows. Miss Gladdis Quinn nodded also, and smiled.
André went, with quick, light steps, to the door, opened it without knocking and, as he opened it, spoke cheerfully, “Mon cher Tony,” he said. “I come to—”
Then, abruptly, he broke off. Then, in a tone Gladdis Quinn had never heard him use, in a voice suddenly higher in pitch, strangely loud, M. Maillaux said, “My God!” Almost at once he said, in a voice nearer his own, “Mon dieu!” Then he went through the door he had opened and Gladdis Quinn, without thinking about it, got up from her desk by the switchboard and hurried, almost ran, behind him. When she got to the door and looked into the room M. Maillaux had entered, she screamed.
The man sitting at the desk was dead. He was very bloodily dead, collapsed forward on his desk. The top of the desk seemed to be almost covered with his blood. There was a knife sticking out of his neck on the left side, so that only the black wooden handle showed. She saw all this, looking past M. Maillaux, who was standing near the desk, a little to one side, and seemed to be swaying slowly. He looked around at her and his eyes were wide and seemed to be popping out.
“It is murder!” he said, and his voice was high and shrill. “Someone have killed my friend!”
Pamela North hooked her leopard jacket close about her, shivered in anticipation, and emerged from Charles’ into Sixth Avenue. She began to beat her way south and to know the familiar resentment against an unnatural phenomenon. On the east side of Sixth Avenue between Tenth Street and the south side of Eighth Street, the winter wind always blows against you. It does not matter which way you go, uptown or down, the wind is in your face. A northwest wind is in your face, a northeast wind takes your breath away, a wind from the south buffets you head-on although you are walking with it. It had, Pam thought resentfully, something to do with the old Jefferson Market Courthouse. Pam looked at the courthouse with animosity. She looked up at the clock on its tower. The clock informed her, smugly, that it was twenty minutes after ten. Pam had looked at the clock in Charles’ as she walked under it, coming out, and knew that it was actually about ten minutes after two. The wind blew dust in her face and her eyes watered. She put her head down, held on to the leopard-skin hat, and burrowed through.
She passed two newsstands and, blurrily, saw big headlines on afternoon newspapers. She felt the instinctive alarm which large headlines inevitably arouse in city dwellers of the atomic age and, at Eighth Street, stopped, braced against the wind and bought a copy of the Sun. (Jerry could read Sokolsky when he got home, so discharging in a single burst, against a worthy object, all the pent-up animosity of the day.) The Sun’s headline said: “A. J. Mott Found Slain at Office Desk.” So, Pam thought, tucking the newspaper under her arm, that’s all. No atoms today. She fought on against the wind.
When she reached the apartment, she tossed the newspaper on one of the beds and left it there while she put her face back on, while she told Martha to have steak for dinner, but to call up for it instead of going out, and while she said hello to Martini and the kittens, Gin and Sherry (which was gradually being translated into Chérie). Martini climbed on her lap and looked devotedly into her face, stroking her chin with a soft paw, and the kittens, excited by her return, dashed from the living-room into the bedroom. It was only when Pam heard them tearing paper that she remembered to wonder who had been killed in an eight-column line. She went into the bedroom. Sherry had burrowed under the newspaper and Gin was scratching her way through it toward her sister. Pam rescued the newspaper, dropped the kittens on the floor and read the headline again: “A. J. Mott Found Slain at Office Desk.” She ignored the banks of the headline and read the beginning of the story.
“Anthony J. Mott, II, son of the president of the Greystone Bank and Trust Company, and himself widely known as a financier, was stabbed to death today as he sat at his desk in the office of André Maillaux, Inc., operators of the restaurant of that name at—East Fiftieth Street. Mott recently purchased a controlling interest in the restaurant company.
“The body was found shortly after noon by M. Maillaux, founder of the restaurant and one of its chief owners. He had gone to consult with his associate on routine matters.
“M. Maillaux opened the door of Mott’s office and, as he did so, called a greeting to
him, according to a receptionist in the office. But the greeting was stopped on his lips by the sight of Mott’s body. It was sprawled across the desk and bleeding had been profuse. The knife with which the financier had been killed was still in the wound, in the left side of the neck. According to the police, the weapon was one of the restaurant’s steak knives.
“Death had—”
Pam North interrupted herself. She went out into the living-room and through it to the kitchen, carrying the newspaper in her hand.
“Oh, Martha,” Mrs. North said, “on second thought, I think we’d rather have fried chicken tonight; if you’d just as soon?”
“Yasum,” Martha said, politely. She was making a cake and had no time for discussion. Pam returned to the living-room, scooped up a kitten for company, and returned to the news account.
“Death had taken place within the past hour or hour and a half, according to a representative of the Medical Examiner’s Office, who said also that Mott must have lost consciousness within seconds after he was stabbed.
“According to the receptionist, Gladys Quin, 23, of—East 180th Street, the Bronx, Mott, who was about 37 and lived at—Park Avenue, had entered his office some time after 10 o’clock this morning. So far as she knew, he had had no visitors until Maillaux entered his office shortly after noon. According to the police, however, there are two other exits from Mott’s private office, both leading to corridors from which either the street or the main dining-room of the restaurant can be reached. It is assumed that the assailant used one of these methods to enter and leave the office.
“Similar exits exist from Maillaux’s office, giving any assailant a wide choice of avenues, the police say.
“Deputy Chief Inspector Artemus J. O’Malley, in charge of Manhattan detectives, is in personal charge of the investigation. He is being assisted by precinct detectives and detectives of the Homicide Squad under Acting Captain William Weigand. Inspector O’Malley said—”
Pam stopped at that point, because one of the cats, presumably Gin, who had been on top, had removed the rest of the column, together with several adjacent columns. So far as Pam could tell, after a search of the bedroom, Gin had then eaten it.
Thus prevented from sharing Inspector O’Malley’s thoughts, Pam North looked to see which kitten she had scooped and, finding it Gin, told the little cat that it should be ashamed to eat Inspector O’Malley. “Indigestible,” Pam told the small cat, which looked at her in surprise and then began to purr loudly. It then looked around, found that it had been deserted by its mother and sister, and began to wail, also loudly. “Funny little thing,” Pam said, letting it go. “I—”
And then, belatedly, it struck her. Mott. Anthony J. Mott, II—but that would be Tony Mott! The Tony Mott! The night club Tony Mott, the play backer, the marrying Tony Mott—in short, the entirely fabulous Tony Mott. No wonder he required an eight-column line to do justice to this last, still fabulous, front-page appearance. Well, Pam thought inadequately, well, for heaven’s sake! I was thinking about him only—when was it? Something reminded me of Tony Mott only the other—And then, for the second time, she was struck, remembering. And she reached for the telephone.
The telephone on Jerry North’s desk rang. He said, “Sorry,” to an author important enough to bring him back to the office after lunch on Saturday, and “Yes?” into the telephone. He said, “Put him on” and heard the modulated, slightly professional voice of Professor John Leonard. The modulation seemed a little hurried and Leonard said, “North! It’s gone. Out of my office.”
Jerry North, who was used to having things come at him suddenly, said, “What?” only once. Then he said, “You mean the paper the girl wrote? The thing we were talking about?”
“Of course,” Leonard said. “The blue book. It was on my desk, I went to lunch, it was gone. Just like that.”
“You’ve looked?” Jerry said.
“I’ve looked. It’s gone.” Leonard gave that a moment to sink in. “It’s the damnedest thing,” he said. “Have you got the copy I made? Did you show it to this Weigand?”
“I did,” Jerry said. “He kept it, I think.”
“How did he feel about it?”
“About as I thought he would,” Jerry said. “That it was—funny. Disturbing. That he couldn’t do anything. Do you think the girl took it?”
Leonard said that anybody might have taken it. Registration for the spring term had begun, the Extension offices were crowded. It was impossible to tell where everybody went; impossible to lock up the offices of individual faculty members since most of the offices were shared by several professors and so constantly in use. “And crowded,” Leonard said. “Several people standing around in each office, rushing in and out. You know.”
“Was the girl there?” Jerry asked.
“Probably,” Leonard said. “The girl, her boyfriend—anybody. Anybody could have walked in, student or not. It’s—it’s like the concourse of Grand Central, for all the check there is. What do we do now?”
“I don’t know,” Jerry said. “I’ll tell Weigand. But I don’t know what we do. Was it by itself?”
“The blue book? Yes. I’d held it out. I was going to talk to her about it, you know. When I got a chance.” He sighed. “If ever,” he added.
“I’ll tell Weigand,” Jerry repeated. “I don’t know what he can do.”
“It’s a funny thing,” Leonard said. “Disturbing.”
“Yes,” Jerry said. There was a short pause.
“Well, all right,” Leonard said. “I don’t know what we can do, either. But it’s a funny thing.”
Jerry let Leonard repeat himself, promised to let him know what Weigand said, hung up. I don’t know if it’s as funny as all that, he thought, and turned to the writer, who leaned forward and gave full attention.
“As I said,” Jerry told him, “we like it. We want to bring it out. There are one or two points—”
The telephone rang again.
“Damn,” Jerry said. “Sorry.” He picked up the telephone and said, “Miss Nelson! Please don’t put anybody on for—oh.” He waited a second and said, “Hello, Pam?”
“Jerry!” Pam North said. “Did you see it? But I can tell you didn’t or you wouldn’t just be sitting there.”
“I’m—” Jerry said. “What?”
“It happened,” Pam said. “It’s in the papers. She did do something.”
Jerry ran the fingers of one hand through his hair.
“Pam,” he said. “Look, darling. I’m talking to a writer about a—”
“With a steak knife, apparently,” Pam said. “The one in the professor’s class.”
“Look,” Jerry said. “What steak knife? In what professor’s class? You mean Leonard’s?”
“Of course,” Pam said. “Not the steak knife. That was in—well, that was in Mr. Mott. Her husband. Don’t you see? The one she hated.” Pam sighed. “Jerry,” she said. “Don’t you ever read the papers?”
“Mott?” Jerry said. “Look, Pam—what are you talking about. Forget the papers a minute.”
“Mott,” Pam said, very carefully. “Tony Mott. The Tony Mott. You know. He was killed in a restaurant he owned. Somebody stuck a steak knife in him. Don’t you remember the name of the girl?”
“Good God!” Jerry said.
“Of course,” Pam said. “What do we do?”
“Look,” Jerry said. “Bill won’t miss it. Only—I was just talking to Leonard. The paper she wrote. He says it’s gone. Apparently somebody took it—stole it, really, from his desk. He wanted me to tell Bill.”
“Did you?”
“Look,” Jerry said. “I haven’t had a chance yet. I just finished talking to him and you—”
“Anyway, he’s out on it,” Pam said. “I tried to get him, to be sure he saw it was the same Mrs. Mott. He and Mullins both. Jerry, we’ve got to do something. I mean, Professor Leonard won’t tell Bill about the paper’s being stolen. He’ll leave it to you. And she did it so that it would
n’t be evidence of—of her state of mind. Because now she can deny that she ever hated Mr. Mott and—”
“Pam,” Jerry said. “Pam! Wait a minute! To start with, we don’t even know there’s any connection. Suppose her name is Mrs. Mott. Suppose Tony Mott is killed. We don’t know—”
“Maybe you don’t,” Pam said. “I do. Of course it is. She is the Mrs. Mott. And so she hated him and—at least, I should think anybody married to Tony Mott would have hated him, from the things he did—”
“Pam,” Jerry said. “You don’t know this.”
“It’s obvious.”
Jerry hesitated a moment.
“It’s likely,” he said. “I’ll admit that.”
“And we have to find Bill and be sure he hasn’t forgotten the girl’s name and tell him about the blue book. You see that?”
Jerry paused a little longer. Before him he could see it all again—the nervous strain, the dashing about, the probability that somebody would get hurt in the end.
“I’m afraid so,” he said. “All right—I’ll try to get in touch with Bill. But Pam—you stay home. Don’t—”
“Oh,” Pam said. “I’m not home, Jerry. I’m downstairs, in a booth.”
Jerry North said, “Oh.”
