He reached down and picked her up again and put her back on his chest as he stretched out. "All right, baby doll. It's tough, but if you never had it you don't miss it. And nature's law of compensation seems to have you doing all right for yourself."
Sassy reached a tentative paw toward his moving lips, and he took the paw in his hand. Immediately the tufted ears flattened; she half rolled on her side in an attempt to get at the holding hand with her other paw. He swept her off his chest down onto her back on the bed beside him and tickled the furry underbelly, and for an instant all four legs furiously resented this indignity before she stretched languidly and invited more.
Johnny laughed, played with her for another moment and then stuffed her under the sheet as he slid off the bed. He stood and watched her battle her way out, to emerge with fangs bared, ears cocked and tail thrashing. She glared about the bed for him, then in a kittenishly instantaneous change of mood collapsed flexibly upon herself as she energetically cleaned a hind leg.
Johnny picked up her saucers from the newspaper on the floor and rinsed them clean. He refilled them from the wax-papered cache and the milk carton in the refrigerator. The instant he stooped over the newspaper, saucers in hand, a white streak leaped from the bed and trotted over to him, white paws twinkling and tail aloft like a Saracen banner. He went into the bathroom and turned on the shower; he stood in a torrent of hot water and then of cold, and dashed out puffing and blowing. Halfway through his shave he remembered something and in his underwear went to the phone and gave the operator the number of Vic's apartment. "Lorraine? Johnny. Since you're home I don't know that I even need to ask, but how'd you make out with the boys?"
He caught her hesitation. "Where are you calling from, Johnny?"
"The hotel."
"Do you think that's wise? Have you eaten yet?"
"Just on my way downstairs."
"Why don't you come over and eat with me? It's too hot to fuss, but if a salad will tempt you--"
It was his turn to hesitate, but only for an instant. "Be there in thirty minutes."
"Fine. I'll be expecting you."
He stared down at the phone musingly as he replaced it. Just where did he stand with this woman? She was the wife of a good friend. By her own admission she wasn't a perfect wife. She had been tied up with Robert Sanders, professionally and--according to Mike Larsen--otherwise. She could have killed Robert Sanders. And whoever had killed Robert Sanders had more than likely killed Ellen Saxon. Johnny frowned down at his clenched hands; tonight he would clear out a little underbrush. The machete would probably draw a little blood, but so be it.
He finished shaving, whacked at his still damp hair a couple of times with the comb, dressed quickly, waved to the preoccupied Sassy and left the room. On the street the heat rose up and attacked him. He whistled for a cab; in the back seat the little breeze that they stirred up was a hot breeze. The city lay limp in the kiln.
Lorraine Barnes had the apartment door ajar when he came off the second floor landing; he knocked on the partly opened door.
"Come in," she said from just inside.
He went in through the hall to the living room, where she was setting up collapsible little tables. "You look to see who you were inviting in?" he asked her, indicating the still open door in the hall.
"No." She straightened, thoughtful. "I never even thought about it, since I knew you were coming--"
"I'd start thinking about it. There's no inoculation--"
"Sit down," she interrupted firmly. "Food first, lectures later." Johnny sat down, and she placed on the little table before him a platter piled high with potato salad, pineapple slices, hard-boiled eggs, lettuce, tomatoes, radishes, cucumbers, cold cuts and cheese. He blinked up at her. "Half of this is enough for the Mexican Army."
"Eat." A smaller tray with a tall glass, a pitcher of ice and a pitcher of tea was added to his table. "Speak up for what you don't see."
For a short time the clink of cutlery and the tinkle of ice was the only sound in the room. When Johnny sank back with a repleted sigh Lorraine removed his tray. She had already removed her own. She lit two cigarettes and offered him one, and as he inhaled she sat down across from him again.
"I think I owe you an explanation, Johnny." He had intended to give her no opportunity to speak first, but he realized that he had been outmaneuvered. The blue-gray eyes across the room were fixed upon him steadily. "Cards face up? All the way around?" He nodded, warily.
She crossed her legs deliberately and tugged her skirt down over her knees. "I hid a choice when I went down there this morning. I could tell them where I'd been last night, and in fact and inference explain Vic's presence in Ellen's room. I think they'd let him go if I did--soon, anyway. I didn't tell them, and I suppose you think I'm a first-class heel."
He dragged hard on the cigarette. "It's your problem." He couldn't keep the irritation from his voice.
"Granted. I'll handle it. Myself." Twilight had stolen up to the apartment windows; he sat and watched the cigarette in the chair opposite glow more brightly as Lorraine Barnes continued. "There is a husband-and-wife relationship almost impossible to describe to an outsider. You're Vic's friend, so I'm trying. I'm also trying because I'd like your help." The cigarette in her hand moved in a vague arc; the steady voice was expressionless. "Vic is not a passionate man. It has nothing to do with his age; he never has been. In our marriage there are really only two things I can give him: companionship, and his own self-respect. I've compromised the self-respect, but I don't intend for Vic to know it. Vic needs me, depends upon me; I'm his crutch against the world. And in turn I'm very grateful to him for being the sweet person that he is." Above the smoldering cigarette her gaze was unwinking. "I wouldn't want you to think this an excuse or a rationalization, even. I'm simply trying to explain to you the position in which I find myself."
He stirred uneasily in his chair. "So where does it leave you?"
"That depends on you. Do you think I killed Ellen, Johnny?"
He drew in his breath; this woman beat him to first one punch and then another. For the space of ten seconds he turned it over in his mind, and then he spoke deliberately. "I don't know. I doubt that a woman would have the strength; Ellen was no midget. On the other hand, you had opportunity as far as Sanders and Ellen both were concerned, so far as I know, and I have to think that whoever got Sanders got Ellen, too." He was silent a moment. "I don't know about Sanders, but there's one way you can get yourself ninety-five per cent clean with me on Ellen. The police didn't put it out, but Ellen reached whoever killed her with her fingernails--reached them good. This morning when we went downtown you had on a high-necked dress. You've got another on now. I want a look. To the waist."
She said nothing at all for a count of twenty, and when she did speak her voice was an octave lower. "If I didn't need you--" She said it between her teeth as she stood up.
"I'm in this thing, and I want out with as whole a skin as I can manage. Sit where you are." She unfastened the three small mother-of-pearl buttons at the neck of her dress and in one long flowing motion stooped, caught up the hem of her skirt and pulled the dress off over her head. She had on a half-slip and a bra. In seconds she had the bra unhooked and off, and made one slow, complete pirouette. In the room's waning light her body glowed, and the only break from neck to waist in the ivory symphony were the dark-nippled, firmly jutting breasts.
She re-hooked the bra, face averted, picked up her dress and reversed it from its inside-out condition. She sounded a little breathless as she slipped it back over her head. "Satisfied?"
"Almost. I want to look at your scalp."
"Then come and look at it," she said wearily and sat down. In ninety seconds he had satisfied himself that there were no more scratches or abrasions hidden beneath her hair than there had been beneath her clothing.
He returned to his chair, and his voice was abrupt. "I don't know why you want me on your side. I don't know what you've got in mind, but let me tel
l you something I've got in mind. I wouldn't want to find out later that you had a partner and that he had the scratches."
She sounded honestly curious. "And if you did find it out?"
"We wouldn't need any police." The sound of his voice hung in the room, fiat and deadly. "I'd break your back. His, too."
"I wish I knew you better, Johnny. Anyone who can make a statement like that, which should sound merely theatrical, and make it so impressively lethal--"
He refused to be distracted. "Who killed Sanders, Lorraine?"
The face she turned to him was perfectly guileless. "I don't know. I didn't see him killed. I'm not sure I know anyone with a good motive for killing him."
"Why were you over there near his place?"
He could see her jawline ridge itself prominently. "That's my business."
"You said a minute ago you needed me," he suggested softly. "I don't move very fast up a one-way street. I want to know what you know. Now, not when it's too late. Let's hear something."
"You've heard all you're going to hear from me," she replied positively.
He did not want an open rupture--yet. He went off at a tangent. "You know a guy named Ed Russo?"
"Russo? I don't believe so. Why?"
"He has an office over at the hotel. He's a slim, dark, slick-looking job, thin face, good clothes, quick way of moving. Was Ellen carrying a white kitten when you saw her last night?"
"Why, yes, she was. I remember it on her arm--"
Johnny nodded. "She had it at the hotel, too. This morning I overheard this Russo asking if a kitten had been delivered for him. I got curious and went upstairs and poured a little kerosene on him. He exploded all right, but not in a way that meant anything to me. Then in his desk I found a newspaper folded back to the Robert Sanders headline."
Lorraine Barnes frowned. "Your general description... Does he wear a ruby ring?"
"Never noticed."
"The rest of it sounds like a man named Winslow I see in and out of Mrs. Sanders' office all the time. Hair plastered down--"
"Tight," Johnny agreed. "You know his first name?"
"I think it's Edward, though that doesn't sound--" She looked up at the ceiling. "Edmund. That's it. Edmund Winslow."
"At my place he's Edmund Russo. He worked for Mrs. Sanders? Or was there something personal between them?"
"Something personal? I wouldn't think so." Lorraine Barnes said it slowly; obviously the possibility had not occurred to her before. "And he did run around a bit with a girl in the office. Roberta Perry; everyone calls her Bobby. I know they've dated."
"You got an address for this Perry girl?"
"It's in my address book. I'll get it for you before you go."
"What about her? How would you size her up?"
"Well, a little on the shrewd side, I'd say. Attractive. Calculating is the word I want, I guess. I wouldn't think vicious."
"She'd better be shrewd if she's taking on Russo."
"You don't like him?"
"We've agreed to disagree."
Her smile was surprising, the first real smile he had seen on the usually guarded face. "You said he exploded? I don't see any marks on you."
"I must outweigh him seventy pounds." The smile still lingered. "Years ago I found the application of strength and leverage a fascinating subject. You'd never think it to look at me, but I'm a phys-ed grad." She looked at him steadily. "If we can't be partners, Johnny, how about an armed truce?"
"Why can't we be partners? Because I want to know too much? I want to find this guy."
"I'm afraid you'll have to forgive me if I don't want you finding him at the expense of shattering the foundations of my life."
"Look, Lorraine. I don't give a damn about your private life. I want to know what you know that'll help me get closer to this guy. I don't see why you're afraid--"
"I'll tell you why I'm afraid," she interrupted firmly. "In the important area of the police I'm not yet involved in this thing. If I should tell you my suspicions, and you acted upon them without proof, we would both be involved with the police, and my entire purpose would be defeated. That's why I'm afraid."
He stood up and turned to the door. "Good night, Lorraine."
"Good night, Johnny. I'm sorry."
On the stairs he paused; one of the reasons you'd just about scratched this woman from the derby, Killain, was because you thought she couldn't have the strength to kill Ellen. Now she's a phys-ed grad.
So where are the marks?
He shrugged and ran lightly down the stairs to the street.
CHAPTER 7
Johnny sat slumped in the deeply cushioned armchair in his room and frowned down at his shoes propped up on a hassock. His shift had just gone off and it was time for bed, but an underlying restlessness clawed at his nerves. His physical batteries felt overcharged.
He removed his feet from the hassock, kicking it to one side, and bent down and untied his shoelaces. He toed his shoes off, unfastened the two top buttons of the uniform jacket, jerked loose the tie and undid the constricting collar button on the white shirt. He recognized wryly as he did so that the gesture was superficial; the tension was within, not without.
He tried to relax in the depths of the chair, but the muscles in chest and stomach and thighs crawled and jumped in cramped mute protest at the enforced inactivity. With no conscious volition he found himself on his feet, and he impatiently finished unbuttoning the jacket and slid out of it. He stripped off tie, shirt, trousers and underwear, and in his socks padded over to the bed. Ridged muscles leaped in back and shoulders as he leaned forward to turn down the coverlet and top sheet; he stared down at the bed for a moment and then walked to the window. He raised the shade and looked out; in the early morning light the street below was still deep in shadow, but across the way the upper stories of the taller buildings gave off a golden approximation of the sunrise as reflected from hundreds of windows.
Johnny grunted, half aloud. Live in the concrete canyons anywhere below the twenty-fifth floor and get your sunrises secondhand. He turned away from the window. On the other hand, Killain, he reminded himself, in your time you've seen a few sunrises you'd trade even up for the artificial gold-on-glass brilliance across the street. The wheel does come full circle, but high or low on the arc a man gets restless.
He wandered uneasily around the room in a stocking-footed shuffle; in the corner by the bathroom door he looked down at Sassy, curled up in a tight white ball in the sleeping basket he had gotten for her. He broke off his aimless prowling to walk into the bathroom and splash water upon face and upper body; toweled off, he returned to the bed and sat upon its edge. He reached absent-mindedly for a cigarette from the pack on the night table and then decided against it.
And with no absent-mindedness at all he reached for the phone. "Sally? Afraid you might have left already. Come on up."
"Mmmmmm? Business meeting?"
He could hear her initial surprise, followed by the impish humor he had come to expect of her. "Yeah."
"Shall I bring my notebook?"
"I don't need to hear the minutes of the last meeting to know where we left off." He could hear the smothered whisper of her laughter in the phone. "Hustle it up."
"Yes, Galahad."
He replaced the phone, lifted his legs and swung around as he stretched out on his back. For a man who lived by life's tactile sensations there weren't many superior to the feel of clean linen on flesh. He closed his eyes.
When he heard her footsteps in the corridor outside he slid from the bed and had the door open with himself behind it almost before the faint sound of her knock had died away. Sally slipped quietly inside, and he closed the door again. "Mornin', Ma."
She turned. "Well!" Her palm cracked smartly on his bare flesh. "Business meeting! Didn't your haberdasher tell you those socks don't match the rest of your outfit?" The big arms encircled her, and she squealed as her breath abruptly departed. She flinched as his lips descended upon an ear lobe, and
in his arms he could feel her knees lifting instinctively. "H-hey! That tickles!"
He released her, and she smoothed down the rumpled front of her dress; as always, her clothes looked too large for the doll-like body. She looked at him speculatively. "This means you're not coming by the apartment this afternoon?"
"Few errands to run, Ma." He returned to the bed, and in seconds she slithered in beside him, the boyish slimness cool to his hands. She stretched lazily along his length, and the little hammers started to pound behind his eyes. Over her shoulder he could see the added light in the room as the golden reflection moved farther down the windows across the street.
He counterbalanced Sally's leaning figure with his arm as she stretched for cigarettes and lighter on the night table. She leaned over him as she flipped on the lighter for the cigarette she popped between his lips. "You know, man--"
"Mmmm?" He blew cigarette smoke up at her.
"You're something better than a vacuum." She grinned down at him. "To accentuate the positive, sir, you're adequate." She punched him in the ribs with a sharp-knuckled little fist and slid from the bed before he could grab her.
"I've got to make like a lady again and get out of here."
He could hear the rustle of her clothing as she dressed. He ducked as ash from his cigarette dropped on his bare chest; he brushed at it hastily, rolled sideways and stubbed out the butt. On his back again he locked his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. "Sally?"
"Yes?"
"You know the big blonde down on the mezzanine works for Ed Russo?"
She appeared beside the bed to look down at him, her hands busy with the belt of her dress. "Mavis? A bleached iceberg. She's no more a blonde than I am. A hard ticket. A twenty-minute egg." She smiled wryly. "So I'd like to have her figure. All I know about her is that if you follow the panting tongues there's Mavis. What's on your mind, besides lechery?"
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