The mysterious lady was wearing a djellebieh. It was pale green and blended with her eyes, which were a more intense emerald. It touched the floor. She was barefoot, and she had painted her toenails green.
She drifted closer until the top of her head was just under my eyes. I took a deep breath. She smelled fine. There was a faint tinge of something I couldn't quite place that lurked under her perfume. I had smelled it somewhere. But what was it? Where had I smelled it? She was too close for me to bloodhound along that thought. I dropped it and concentrated on the djellebieh.
It seemed to me to have about four hundred buttons. They started at the floor and went up between her calves, thighs, and then split her stomach, went between her breasts, and theoretically stopped at her throat. But my investigation proved that the top fifteen or so were not buttoned. Not too many. But enough to reveal the first inch of her cleavage. I would rather look at that than at a girl in a topless bikini.
I was glad she didn't have a zipper. A guy could spend a tense and delightful half hour unbuttoning the rest of the buttons. I could start at the top and undo one. Then to the floor and undo one. Then to the top. Then the bottom. Or one at the top and two at the bottom. The possible combinations were endless. It was a job for a happy mathematician and too much fun to hand to a computer.
"That's a very pretty dress," I said.
"It's from Morocco. Feel it." She took my hand, expertly avoiding the dirty bandage. She lifted it, palm down, and pressed the back of the hand against the underside of her left breast. She wasn't wearing anything under the silk, bless her, and when my hand was in full contact she slowly and deliberately lifted it an inch. It pushed that rounded, full mass out of phase with the other one. I freed my palm from her grip and spun it around. A man needed to feel that weight with his palm and not with the back of his hand.
Just as I cupped that big ripe melon with its hard little raspberry at the apex she stepped backward, leaving my open palm facing upward as if I were testing for rain. Bitch.
"It feels like silk," I said. I would play it cool.
"Drink?"
"Sure."
Oh, this was a cool one, all right. Maybe too cool. This specimen would take some gnawing. The greater the challenge, I told myself. I liked challenges. And I had nowhere to go and nothing to do till 9:00 a.m.
She had the usual two-and-a-half-room box that single career women inhabit until they marry. No character, nothing personal about the furniture. It was even less exciting than a prison cell. At least there your imagination would have elbow room. Here it was locked into the eternal Van Gogh lithographic reproduction and the bleached-oak sideboard and the wall-to-wall carpeting.
She backed away into the room and suddenly turned. The djellebieh flared outward a little, exposing her ankles, then it settled down above her green toenails. I like my ladies totally covered and with only an ankle exposed; it's more enticing than all the miniskirts of the world. The nineties must have been an exciting time, when the sight of a lady's ankle as she pulled up her skirt to board a street car made all the watching men treasure that memory all day. So I knew that my new friend was a shrewd article.
"Bourbon, scotch, rye, Irish?" she chanted.
"Irish." A sudden warning light went on in the back of my mind. I had learned to pay attention to these friendly little hints that came to me from time to time from my memory input. Something was fishy somewhere and I couldn't put my finger on it. I thought, aha, maybe once I had some bad experience with a lady with green eyes who played it cool. Maybe this flashing red glow was a warning to my psychic structure to play it cool. I rapidly fed in all the green-eyed ladies I had ever known. I ran the data through. Green-eyed, yes. Cool, yes. Cool green-eyed, no. Funny smell? Nothing.
She had taken a glass and put ice cubes in it. She poured a jigger of Irish that would have bankrupted any bar in one evening if they had a bartender as generous. The little red light ahead. I suddenly had produced an idea. The red light considered it and turned to green.
"A nice apartment," I said, approvingly." I like the way you decorated it." She liked the flattery. "How many rooms do you have?"
"Two and a half." I began wandering through the apartment with the drink in my hand. I looked in the bedroom. The bed looked capable. I looked in the bathroom. It was a bathroom. I looked in the kitchen. She stayed in the living room, putting records on the player. I looked in the kitchen cabinet, on the shelves, and in the refrigerator. Carbonated water. Ginger ale. No quinine water. I sauntered out.
I held up my drink. "This is pretty strong," I said. "Got anything to cut it with?"
"Soda and ginger ale. What will it be?"
"I like quinine water," I said. "Would you have any?"
"Quinine with Irish?"
"It sounds lousy but it's great. Ever try it?"
"Ugh."
I was with her all the way.
"You don't have any?" I sounded really disappointed.
"Fresh out."
I put the drink down. "I must have it," I said. "I know I sound like a pregnant woman wanting strawberries out of season, but that's the way I am. Where's the nearest store?"
"There's an all-night delicatessen three blocks north."
"Be right back!" I said. She looked at me as though she thought I was a prize jerk, and who could blame her?
I took the elevator down and looked at the name beside 3A. Anderson. The name meant nothing. I broke my little red warning light and kicked the glass bits viciously into a corner. Give me a good stoolie over intuition any day.
So I walked my six blocks for nothing. For less than nothing, as it turned out. The delicatessen was one of those clip joints that raise the price of everything three cents as soon as the supermarkets close for the day. There were big round mirrors pivoted down from the ceiling in four places to discourage shoplifters, which is what any red-blooded American ought to become in order to even the score.
I came back upstairs. The records were still on. She mixed the quinine water with the Irish, put in three ice cubes, and handed it to me. "It's your funeral," she said.
I drank it with every outward sign of pleasure. But she was right. It was probably the lousiest drink I had ever had in my life outside of a grape-juice-and-cheap-gin mixture I had once when I was seventeen. I threw up for three days in a row.
She sat down and asked me what my name was. I told her. She asked me what I did. I told her. She was fascinated. She said I must lead an exciting life. I said I did.
"I like a man who likes his work," she said.
I asked her what her name was. It was Lucy Greene. Her business was being a divorcee and living on alimony and traveling. Once in a while she did some part-time work to keep herself from absolute boredom. She worked as a receptionist in an art gallery; she worked as a hostess in a good restaurant.
My drink was ready for a refill. She made me another one. My stomach began to turn in small circles. I got a good grip on myself and kicked it into a corner. It lay there and made small whining and snarling noises.
She sat down on a chair opposite mine and asked if I were working on a case right now. I said yes, but I didn't want to think about the damn thing till nine the next day.
"What happens then? Do you punch a time clock?"
The more I talked, the less I would have to drink. And the less I would have to think about that Irish and quinine doing terrible things to each other and to my stomach lining. I put the glass down and told her I would sit down at nine with all the telephone directories of a hundred mile radius, looking for a real estate agent who had rented a summer home to my suspect.
She shivered. "It's more exciting than the Late Late Show," she said. She crossed her legs. This tightened the silk against her thighs. She swung one leg slowly back and forth, leaned forward, put her elbows on her knees, and showed me she was well-built. I now had three inches of decolletage to examine.
There was an air of deliberation about it. It was too carefully calibrated.
I got up and wandered around while the gabfest went on. I stopped at a small bookshelf. Readers' Digest Condensed Books. Information, Please Almanac. Valley of the Dolls. A high school yearbook. What did she look like when she graduated? I turned to the A's. Not under Anderson. Her married name. I looked under Greene. Not there either. I leafed through it idly till I found her picture. She looked cute, sincere, vulnerable. She looked like she would believe anything. A natural sucker. She didn't look cool at all. I read the little poem under her picture.
At her back is Time's scythe,
As on to success sweeps Forsythe.
And under Plans it said: "Nursing school and marriage."
I put the book back on the shelf slowly. She had not seen me looking at it.
Yap, yap, yap on the phone. Now it was lightweight luggage.
I picked up Vogue from an end table and pretended to look at it.
My private inner distant warning was all systems go, after all. I apologized to it silently. What it had been trying to tell me was that I had seen the eyes before, in the operating room, when they had stared at me above her mask as I was talking with Dr. Morrison.
She had seen me come into Bruno's. She probably overheard part of the conversation I had there. After she had arranged to feel sick the note came. The faint smell I couldn't quite place, that was the hospital smell she kept with her because, most likely, she hadn't washed her hair tonight.
So it was very probable she was having an affair with Henley. She might even be in love with him. The naive, eager face in that high school picture-it didn't look naive and eager any more, but the potential for love was obvious.
She probably knew what he was up to, and where he was staying. He might even have included her in future plans. I had seen worse looking women being towed around the country by criminals who enjoyed their company and who were actually faithful to them.
Yap, yap, yap on the phone.
I got up. "Back in a flash," I said.
She covered the mouthpiece. "It'll be over soon," she said. "The guest towel is blue."
To reach the bathroom I made a sharp right turn and walked a few feet. I was out of her line of sight. I opened the door of the bathroom, turned on a faucet, and stepping outside quietly, I carefully closed the door. I listened. Warning about too much exposure to sun the first few days, followed by a rundown on various brands of suntan lotion.
The bedroom was next door. I slid in and opened the closet door fast. At the far corner, three new suitcases, all packed. A few dresses were left hanging. They looked rather worn, the kind of dresses you would leave behind rather than drag around on a long trip. I opened the bureau drawers. Just a few odds and ends: worn sweaters, worn linen bedsheets, frayed towels. Tucked in a corner of the second drawer, under some pillow slips was an Air France ticket to Paris and thence via Sabena to Leopoldville. Departure time: 8:30 a.m. the next day. Kennedy Airport. I closed everything carefully, I folded everything back just the way it had been. I went back to the bathroom. She was still on the phone. It was the first female phone call I had ever approved of. I shut off the faucet and called out, "You have an extra toothbrush?"
"Top shelf, medicine chest."
It was a brand-new toothbrush in a plastic container. I brushed meditatively. Sooner or later she would have to phone Henley and tell him how close the hunt was getting. She would therefore have to get me out of the way somehow. Or wait till I was asleep. She probably wouldn't try the latter. The chance that I might overhear would be too big. So she would try to get me out of the apartment on some pretext.
Fair enough. I faced the same problem. I had to get her out of the way to make my phone call.
I had seen a public phone down the street on my way to the delicatessen, but it was a block away. By the time I'd be coming out of the elevator she could be talking to him; by the time I'd reached the booth she could easily be finished. I was sure that he had no patience for long friendly phone conversations.
I put the toothbrush back on the rack. To pass the time I opened the medicine chest. It was full of instant happiness, instant energy, instant forgetfulness, instant sleep. To lock up the adrenal cortex. To unlock it. To slam a trap door on guilt, fatigue, nightmares. To put the brakes on. To take them off. She would need them all for her ride with Dr. Henley. I heard her hang up the phone.
Now or never. I lifted the porcelain cover on top of the toilet tank. I bent the arm holding the copper float. I quietly replaced the lid. I flushed the toilet and stepped out. It would now behave badly.
"I apologize for that call," she said.
I held up my hand. "I never get angry at ladies talking on the phone. It's a fact of life, like sunrise and athlete's foot. What good would it do to make a speech against sunrise? I accept it."
I sat down beside her and made little rings "on her knee. She tried to smile, but she was thinking hard, and she wasn't a good actress. Her attempt to show total interest in me was not very good. Then she tilted her head and listened. "What's that noise?" she asked.
I listened too. "It sounds like the toilet," I said.
I got up and went into the bathroom. "It is the toilet," I announced. She came in and looked at it. "I'm no good at these things," I said. "I leave it in your capable hands." I turned. She gave me a dirty look and tried to conceal it. "I'll freshen up your drink while you're slaving away," I added cheerfully. I didn't blame her for the dirty look. I went out. I heard the clatter of the porcelain top being slid to one side.
I grabbed the phone and asked for the chief operator. I identified myself, gave the girl's phone number, and asked a watch to be kept from then on of any long distance calls. She said she'd take care of it. I thanked her and hung up. Elapsed time: twenty seconds.
I picked up my drink and emptied half of it into the sink. I came back into the bathroom holding the drink and pretending to sip it.
She was poking around helplessly. "See down there?" she said. "That hole is where the water is supposed to go out, and this thing here is supposed to cover the hole and stop the water. But I can't get it to stop running!"
She gave me another dirty look. I put the drink down. I frowned. I studied it. I took the arm I had bent and I studied that. "Ah," I said. I bent it back and dropped the float. I flushed it. It worked beautifully.
"I can't imagine how that happened," she said. "It worked all right before."
"Metal fatigue."
"You're very accomplished," she said, moving closer. She felt she owed me gratitude for the lightning repair job, and she was deliberating about a little reward before I would be sent out on some pretext.
"In all sorts of ways," I said. I was standing very close. I bent and kissed her neck. She shivered. The girl had a small problem. She had to call her lord and master and tell him I was getting hot. But there I was, complicating matters. And it was very possible that I would have to stay the night. She would have what the French call a crise de conscience. Should she tell Henley about that! She wanted to be honest with him because she loved him, but what if he didn't take it correctly? No, the Forsythe woman would never make a good spy.
She patted her pocket. Then she walked out into the living room. She looked over all the table tops. "What's the matter?" I said. I felt as if I were feeding lines at an amateur production.
"Oh, damn! No cigarettes." An actress she wasn't.
"I'll get some," I said kindly. "What brand?"
She told me.
"Anything else?"
She shook her head.
"Be right back," I said. "Keep it warm."
"I'll put together some good dance records while you're gone."
"Put on something hot, will you, baby?"
She came up to me, stuck her tongue in my mouth, and ground her pelvic bones against mine. Now that I'd be out of the way she cou
ld celebrate her cleverness with a little free gift to me.
"You bet."
"Put on those records right away," I said. "I'll be back steaming."
She laughed and turned to her record collection. In the hallway I slid open the drawer of the little table on which she had dropped her hat and her purse.
The drawer was jammed full of cigarette packs. She must have scraped them all together while her friend was yapping away on the phone. I closed it quietly. You had to give her good marks for trying.
I closed the door. I was going to miss going to bed with her, calibrated or not.
I went three doors down the hallway and rang the bell. A nice old lady opened the door. "I beg your pardon," I said. "I'm looking for a Miss Forsythe, and I can't find her name on this floor. And I was here before. Perhaps I'm in the wrong house?"
"Oh, no, you're in the right house. She's in 3 A."
"I thought that was the right door," I said, puzzled. "But it's marked Anderson."
"Oh, Miss Forsythe sublet it from Mrs. Anderson. She just hasn't gotten around to putting it on the door. She's very quiet. I don't like noisy tenants. I was the first one to move in here when it was built. That was in 1948! So the superintendent listens to my complaints, I can tell you."
I thanked her even though she wanted to talk and talk. I took the elevator down. I strolled slowly to the phone booth. I smoked half a cigarette. That should be enough time for her to get him in from the garden, say I miss you, and then I'll meet you in Leopoldville and we'll have a big fat unextradited life together, my darling.
I threw the butt away and got my chief operator.
"I have the information you requested, sir."
"Go ahead."
"The party phoned 215-724-4957."
"Where's that?"
"New Hope, Pennsylvania."
Ladyfingers Page 15
