For a few moments I thought she had given up breathing altogether. “All right,” she whispered at last, “I’ll do it your way.”
I helped her to her feet, with the feeling that I could have used the help at least as much as she did. I nudged her toward the phone. She balked at the sight of the papers all over the floor. “My book!”
“There’s time for that later.”
“No. Help me put it together. Then I’ll make the call.”
I helped her gather pages. She lovingly put them all together in order. Then she made the call.
The young security man in the lobby looked puzzled. He said, “Mr. Araujo didn’t come in.” A question without a question mark.
I said, “It’s all right. He just phoned he couldn’t make it.”
“Oh.” He gave me a smile, started to give the somber Miss Riley a smile, then changed his mind. I smiled at him for both of us.
In the darkness of the screening room, I felt rather than saw us into the same seats against the back wall Sharon and I had occupied last evening. I slid down in my seat, resting on my aching spine, offering a minimum view in case anyone was curious about the door’s brief opening.
No one, as far as I could make out from the silhouettes ahead, was. On the screen, Sharon was walking toward Nelson’s Column in Trafalgar Square hand in hand with Calderon, who somehow looked smaller than he did in the flesh. So it was her last picture, the one she had made in London. And Quist, his wheelchair parked midway down the aisle, was watching his wife stop and hold up her face for an open-mouthed kiss from her screen lover while, I surmised, he must be gloating over the demise of her one-time real lover. A gaudy double turn-on for those sex instruction books.
Visibility increased as my eyes adjusted to the flickering light. Sharon sat beside Quist, head so far back against the seat that her profile was horizontal. Not sleeping, just rejecting the screen Sharon, who had everything going for her that the real Sharon didn’t. Except for possibly those two weeks in a Devon cottage when they became one. Or had been close to becoming one.
Calderon sat a seat apart from Sharon, sending out smoke signals from an oversized cigar. Further down I could pick out the others. Belle Rountree’s hand rested against the nape of her Scottie’s neck. Lou Hoffman had his arm around his Alice in Wonderland’s shoulders; she was plying a bottle of carbonated Drink Me. Kightlinger, alone in the first row, was hunched forward and seemed to be taking down notes on what he was watching. Or was it yet another appeal to his doctor friend for walking-around money? Same difference.
In a few minutes all hell was going to break loose here. First the police, then, not far behind, the press and TV. This happening was the kind they dreamed about. They’d be coming from Red China for it. They’d be all over it like roaches on a piece of stale cake.
On the screen, people in Trafalgar Square were eyeing the lovers. Calderon said to Sharon with heavy humor, “It doesn’t take much to draw a crowd here, does it?”
Sharon looked at him gravely. The camera moved close to that face. She slowly shook her head. “I don’t see any crowd.”
I looked at the real Sharon. Horizontal or otherwise—especially horizontal—that profile long ago would have launched at least a thousand ships.
Milano, the profile freak. Appreciate it, but under no conditions let it get to you.
On the screen, very close up, the sapphire eyes glowed, the lips parted.
I closed my eyes. No use. I opened them again.
So all hell was going to break loose here any minute. When it was over and done with, accounts settled, witnesses dismissed—let Willie Watrous threaten a coronary, let Shirley Glass shake her head in despair—I would arrange for two weeks in Devon with that profile. And, God help me, everything else that went with it.
That would be our clear, hard understanding. Two weeks, and absolutely no more.
At the most, three.
About the Author
Stanley Ellin (1916–1986) was an American mystery writer known primarily for his short stories. After working a series of odd jobs including dairy farmer, salesman, steel worker, and teacher, and serving in the US Army, Ellin began writing full time in 1946. Two years later, his story “The Specialty of the House” won the Ellery Queen Award for Best First Story. He went on to win three Edgar Awards—two for short stories and one for his novel The Eighth Circle. In 1981, Ellin was honored with the Mystery Writers of America’s Grand Master Award. He died of a heart attack in Brooklyn in 1986.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1979 by Stanley Ellin
Cover design by Connie Gabbert
ISBN: 978-1-5040-4042-6
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