Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 8, No. 6, May 1961

Neither the girl nor the man spoke the young bank teller’s language. They were from another world — a world of stark criminal violence and sudden death. And their game was Russian roulette.

I

When Oscar Blinney became acquainted with Evangeline Ashley, that delectable young lady was on the brink of losing one lover and murdering another, although, at the time, she had not the faintest premonition of the impending imminence of either catastrophe. And, of course, Oscar Blinney was totally unaware of the pertinent gentlemen involved or of the gradual gathering of the uneventful events which would culminate in such twofold tragedy. It was March in Miami, last scented breeze-swept month of the dying winter season of that warm, golden, riotous, luxuriant, ocean-lapped resort.

Blinney had come down on the first day of March, and had met Evangeline Ashley that same afternoon. And they had had their first actual conversation — initiated, in point of fact, by Miss Ashley, since it was not the wont of Oscar Blinney to address himself to any strange young lady no matter how delectable.

On the first of March, Oscar Blinney had descended as per reservation upon the Hotel Cascade in Miami Beach, ocean-front and fashionable, but not too expensive at end of season, although “descended,” usual as is such terminology, is woefully inaccurate as concerns Oscar Blinney, because, simply, Oscar Blinney never “descended” upon anything, anywhere. “Slithered” would be more descriptive but “slithered” also fails because Oscar Blinney was a muscular broad-shouldered six-feet-one and how can one apply “slithered” to a muscular broad-shouldered six-feet-one?

Let us put it this way: Oscar Blinney was shy, cautious, soft-spoken, and apologetic; his approach to anything, anywhere, always, was careful and diffident; it was as though the great bulk of muscular broad-shouldered six-feet-one trod tip-toe upon its own private carpet of foam-rubber; and it was always as though he were saying “Excuse me” before he said anything else. Carrying a battered suitcase in the great paw of his right hand, he egg-shelled to the ornate desk and said to the desk-clerk: “Blinney.”

“Pardon?” said the clerk.

“Blinney,” said Blinney.

“You have a reservation, sir?”

“I have,” said Blinney.

“Just one moment, sir,” said the clerk and rummaged amongst slips of paper and selected one and said, “Oh yes. Blinney, Oscar. Room 202. Please sign here.”

He slid a large square card in front of Blinney, but it was more than signing; it was like filling out a questionnaire that would serve as foundation for a cumulative dossier. Blinney dropped his suitcase with a thud, inspected the card, read the questions, meticulously inscribed the answers, and returned the card to the clerk who smiled frozenly and thumped a bell.

A wizened little bell-boy, who looked like a long-retired jockey, appeared, hoisted the bag, and accepted the key from the desk-clerk.

“Mr. Blinney goes to 202,” said the desk-clerk.

“What floor?” said Blinney.

“Two,” said the desk-clerk and puckered a rosebud mouth.

Blinney looked toward a wide marble staircase.

“Walk or ride?” he inquired.

“Whatever is your pleasure,” said the desk clerk and sniffed and turned to other matters.

“We ride,” said the jockey. “Like it’s a heavy bag you got here, Mr. Blinney.”

Blinney undressed, unpacked, showered and considered. Then decided to dress in his new sports clothes and see something of Miami Beach.

He did not use the elevator. Instead, he walked to the end of the corridor and down the stairs. He noted, at the foot of the stairs, that the staircase led directly to one of the entrance doors, and that it was completely out of the range of vision of the desk and the elevators. He grinned as he contemplated that, — wondering if the architect had so purposely constructed it. There was no doorman. It was perfect for the secret rendezvous of lovers. Was this staircase, so situated, one of the features of the Hotel Cascade, an undeclared, unadvertised, word-of-mouth inducement for the patronage of paying guests?

He grinned. It was a charming, practical gambit, a definite advantage to such of the paying guests who required such advantage, whether or not it was so purposely designed. And he stepped out, unseen, into the street.

The air was warm and scented sweet and there was a breeze from the ocean. He breathed deeply, filled his lungs, looked about. To his left, above an arched doorway, the glass tubes of unlighted neons spelled out in curlicued script: cascade tea room. It was a place to eat and he was hungry but he delayed it as though by presentiment.

He decided to walk. He strolled about, looking in shop windows, enjoying the invigorating out-of-doors, and he returned in half an hour, famished. He entered directly into cascade tea room and he saw her at once and he stopped short as though hit.

He had moved from bright sunshine into small-bulbed dimness and as she stood there before him she seemed almost unreal. She was facing the street and her features were clear to him as the light of the sun caught at her piled-high taffy-gold hair like a nimbus. Her eyes were enormous, sheer blue and clear beneath sweeping graceful eyebrows; her face, smooth-skinned and lightly tan, was heart-shaped, the cheekbones high, the cheeks slightly hollow, the chin coming to a delicate point; her nose was tiny and imperious with small flaring nostrils; her mouth was full, curved, sensuous, and glistening, insouciant and somehow cruel. She was tall, deep-chested, long-legged, and full-figured, and as she came toward him erect and carriage high, she smiled with gleaming, even, high, white teeth.

“How many please?” There was the soft nuance of Southern accent. The voice was resonant, musical, and pitched low.

“Beg pardon?” said Blinney.

“How many please?”

“Well, there’s just me...” He said it diffidently.

The smile broadened and there was a quiver at the nostrils. “Well, sometimes a party may be expecting others...”

“No, I’m not expecting anyone. Just me.”

“This way, please.”

She turned and he followed her, observing the movement of the rounded hips, looking at the full calves of her legs that narrowed to slender ankles. She wore a simple white short-skirted dress with a tight gold belt, sheer white stockings, and white high-heeled shoes. She led him to a booth, laid a menu in front of him, inquired, “Is this all right?”

“Yes, thank you.”

She waved to a waitress and went away.

Oscar Blinney, for the first time in his life overwhelmingly affected at the sight of a woman, found, nonetheless, that his appetite was unimpaired. He ordered orange juice, ham and eggs, and coffee, and for dessert, a second order of ham and eggs and a second cup of coffee. Then he paid his bill, tipped the waitress, nodded to the hostess, and departed.

He wandered through the streets of Miami Beach. He nibbled at drinks at various dim-lit bars and made no response to flirtatious eyes. He went to a movie. He came out of the movie and went to Club Columbo and watched the strippers. Some of them were quite beautiful, all of them salacious; he remained unmoved, unaffected, lonely, and alone.

He went back to the hotel, took off his clothes, lay out on the bed. He could not shake the image of the tall golden-haired girl in the white gold-belted dress.

He dozed.

II

Evangeline Ashley was going to her lover. She was going to her lover, William Grant, known as Bill, who lived on the second floor of a semi-fashionable apartment house on a semi-fashionable street, its curbs lined with parked cars, in a semi-fashionable neighborhood.

She arrived there at twenty minutes after eleven, giving no heed to the parked cars one of which was a sleek black Cadillac with a thick dark man seated at its wheel. She ran up one flight of wooden stairs and knocked upon a door marked 2A.

“Who is it?” said Bill Grant.

“Eve,” said Evangeline Ashley.

“What the hell!” said Bill Grant and opened the door.

“Surprised?” said Evangeline Ashley.

“Knocked right on my fanny,” said Bill Grant. “Don’t you believe in calling?”

“It’s your night off, isn’t it?”

“So suppose I wasn’t home?”

“Then I’d know you were out cheating, you ill-begotten son. Pour a drink for little Eve.” He went lithely, gracefully, to a liquor cabinet, poured bourbon and added soda, and brought it to her. “Do you cheat on me?” she said.

“You bet I do,” he said.

“Don’t ever let me catch you.”

“Nobody catches me when I cheat.”

She drank of her drink, set it away, slipped out of her coat, took up the glass, and went to a divan. She drank again and placed the glass on an end-table. “Come here by me,” she said softly.

“Take your time,” Grant said.

“I’m burning,” she said.

“It’ll keep,” he said.

She took up her drink again. “What have you been doing?”

“When?”

“Now. Before I came.”

“Watching TV.”

“Very exciting.”

“Baby, I get my excitement when I’m not home. Home, I take it easy. What about Senor?” he said.

“The hell with Senor,” Evangeline said.

“Baby, you’re just begging for trouble, aren’t you?”

“What’s the matter? Are you afraid?”

“I’m afraid of nothing, and you know it.”

“Are you afraid of Senor?”

“The hell with Senor.”

“That’s what I said. So why are you bugging me with Senor?”

He gulped bourbon again. “Because you got a good thing there. Why spoil it?”

“For you I’d spoil anything.”

“Sure. You spoil it with Senor and you spoil it for me too, you stupid fool. Suppose he decided to come visit you tonight?”

“So what?” she flared. “What am I? A prisoner? A slave? So I went for a walk, so I went to a movie, so I went out for a drink, so I went to a girl friend.” She subsided. “Come over here to me, Billy-boy.”

“You’re beautiful,” he said. “You’re gorgeous. But you’re an awful chump.”

“Why? Because I go for you?”

“That’s exactly why.”

“I couldn’t agree more. You’re a disease.”

“Diseases are curable.”

“Not this disease.”

“Cut it out,” he said. “If I told you once, I told you a million times. Bill Grant is temporary, a temporary guy. Bill Grant has got things to do, a big score to make. Two, three times in my life, I almost made it, but it slipped by. Okay. I’m not discouraged. I’m right in there, seeking, looking, angling all the time. I’m looking for a big score and I’ll make it.”

“Sure you will, Billy-boy.”

“This trick in Miami, it’s a stopover. Working here for Senor who thinks he’s a big shot, it’s a stopover. You? You’re a stopover. They want me back in Havana and I might go. I’m looking for the big score. Maybe I’ll even go back to London. I’ve got some friends who are doing pretty fair there. But I’m surely not a guy to have a chick hanging on to his coat-tails. Now why don’t you get that through your head?”

“You’re not going anywhere yet, are you?”

“No.”

“And I haven’t been in your way, have I?”

“No.”

“And I’ve been helping out pretty fair, haven’t I?”

“Yes,” said Grant.

“Do you love me, Billy?”

“No.”

“Do you like me?”

“Yes.”

“Then come over here by me. Now. Right now. Please.”

“Beg.”

“I’m begging.”

“That’s the only way you like it — when you beg. And the only guy you go for — is a guy you’ve got to beg.”

“Only you, Billy. I never begged before. The other way around. They begged me. They still beg. And I never felt anything for any one of them. Only you, Billy.”

He turned the switch of a small table-lamp. A blue light flickered faintly. He snapped off all the other lights and in the blue dimness he went to her. “Hold me tight,” she whispered.

The dark man in the black car sat motionless, his eyes on the windows of the second floor apartment. When the lights went out he flinched, grunted; then he sat motionless again, rigid. After fifteen minutes, he started the car. It pulled out with a lurch, roared forward, settled to normal speed. He drove smoothly, observing all the traffic regulations. He parked the car one block from the Hotel Cascade, and walked the rest of the way.

He was a tall, powerful, thick-set man with kinky black hair, grey at the temples. His name was Pedro Orgaz but all of Miami knew him as Senor. He entered Hotel Cascade through the door at the foot of the stairs, and walked up quickly and silently.

He opened the door of 203 with his own key, locked the door behind him, and stood still in the dark, recovering his breath. Then he switched on all the lights. He searched the room, removing anything that might connect him to the premises, no matter how remotely. There was not much. He did not keep clothes there. He picked up two packets of matches and pocketed them. They carried the stamp of Club Columbo and he was the owner of Club Columbo.

He searched through all the drawers of a dresser and a table. He found a picture of himself and Evangeline Ashley taken one afternoon when they were out on a fishing trip. He slipped the picture into his jacket pocket. He found an envelope from Club Columbo, one envelope. He was giving Evangeline Ashley a thousand dollars a month. On the first day of each month he brought her a thousand dollars in cash. He was a married man and dared not write checks to a woman he was keeping.

On the first day of each month he brought a thousand dollars in cash in an envelope. Sometimes he would leave the cash and take the envelope, sometimes he left the cash with the envelope. Each envelope bore the imprint of Club Columbo. There was no risk involved. Anybody could have an envelope from Club Columbo. But for what he was now planning, he wanted no vestige of any connection with himself in that room. There was but one envelope. He slipped that into his pocket beside the picture.

He searched the room again, very carefully. There was nothing in it that pertained to Pedro Orgaz. He went to a small table on which there were many bottles of whiskey. He selected a bottle of Canadian Club, uncorked the bottle, and drank the raw whiskey directly from its mouth. He corked the bottle and replaced it.

Then he drew a large silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and mopped his face. Then, painstakingly, he wiped every item and every area of the room where his fingerprints may have been impressed. Then, handkerchief in hand, he switched off the lights, wiped the doorknob and turned it, wiped the outside doorknob, and locked the door.

He had left the room exactly as he had found it. An expert would not have known anyone had been there, let alone Evangeline Ashley. He went down the stairs quietly and out into the street and walked quickly to his car. He drove to his club and assumed his normal duties as owner and host; normal, except that he was morose, preoccupied, and he was drinking.

Usually, Senor Pedro Orgaz did not drink when at work. This night he drank and he did not stop drinking.

III

On that third day of March, at ten o’clock in the evening, Pedro Orgaz sat in his office at the Upstairs Room, drumming his fingers upon the desk-top. A half-empty bottle of Canadian Club stood on the desk near the drumming fingers, as did a sizable shot-glass. Senor was waiting for Bill Grant. He poured whiskey into the shot-glass, gulped, and made his third phone call within the past half hour.

“Everything okay?” he said into the phone.

“Sure, for Chrissake. What’s with the phone calls? What’s with so nervous?”

“I just want to be sure.”

“You can be sure, big brother.”

“Do it slow. Make it last. A long, slow job. You know?”

“Leave it to Little Dee. Little Dee is going to enjoy.”

There was a knock on the door.

Senor hung up.

“Who?” he called.

“Bill Grant.”

“Come in. Come in.”

Grant entered, smiled. “Check me in, Senor.”

“Billy.”

Grant continued to smile as he crossed the office to the desk. “Yes.”

“You got a job to do for me, Billy.”

“Yes, Senor?”

“Little Dee is sick. Caught up with one of them little bugs or something. Just called up. He was supposed to bring the loot for the till for tonight. We got a little but we need plenty more. He’s over by his cottage. You know where Little Dee’s cottage is.”

“Of course I do. We’ve had some pretty good parties there, haven’t we? Little Dee’s a bachelor who knows how to live.”

“Would you like a drink, Billy-boy?” Senor asked.

“Too early for me.”

Senor had a drink. He wiped his hand across his mouth. “Okay. You go over to Little Dee. He’s got fifty thou over there for the bank here. Go over and pick it up. He’s waiting for you. Bring it back here and we break it up for the tables. And don’t get lost with my fifty thou.”

“That crazy I’m not, Senor.”

“I know, Billy-boy. You’re too smart to be stupid. Now come on. Get moving.”

“Twenty minutes, pal,” Grant said. He went out, closing the door quietly.

Senor had another drink, sat drumming the desk-top. In an hour, and it would be done. In an hour, it would be finished. In an hour, Little Dee would have had his fun, and would be out to sea, and he, Senor, could quit this office and have the pleasure of finishing the job. He looked at his watch. One hour. One hour...

Pedro Orgaz was fifty-three years of age. He was a Spanish-American, born in Montreal, who had married a woman of wealth, and transferred his criminal activities to the United States.

He owned one of the most lucrative gambling setups in Miami and his brother, Little Dee, was his second in command. Senor had grown to be a big man in the town, a rich and solid citizen. His wife had borne him three sons in quick succession, and within ten years he had amassed a fortune of his own. He had his affairs, but always discreetly, and unsuspected by his wealthy wife. He hand-picked his girl-friends. He propositioned them and if they agreed he paid them liberally.

He used them until he tired of them, and when he did, he dismissed them with an enormous gift of money and a plane ticket for a faraway city. His respectability had to be guarded at all costs; his wife must continue to think him faithful, devoted to her alone. He dared not risk a divorce court exposure, with all that would follow in its wake. His wife had powerful friends and relations.

He never had any difficulty with any of his girls. He never suffered embarrassment from any of his passing amours. The girls, on their part, understood their situation. Nobody had held a club to them. They knew with whom they were dealing. Senor Pedro Orgaz. A big man, a rich man, an important man, an owner of an illegal gambling casino, and consequently a dangerous man. He had never had embarrassment — until Evangeline Ashley.

Too frequently, she was not there when he called. He had his moments and he came when he pleased. Too frequently late evenings, she was not there. Too frequently, afternoons, on her days off, she was not there. He did not equate these times with Bill Grant’s days off (two each week); he had not the remotest idea of any relationship between Bill Grant and Evangeline Ashley; he did not think of Bill Grant at all in this personal quandary. But he did, at length, become suspicious of Evangeline Ashley. He was, at this time of his life, almost prudent; a man of fierce pride, he was, at this time of his life, slow to wrath; but a niggling pique had begun to eat within him.

He wanted to know but there was no one he could trust for the assignment except Little Dee, and he had to tell Little Dee, and Little Dee’s amused cynical expressions of sentiment added flame to the pique. Little Dee was out on watch and Little Dee reported — Bill Grant.

Senor could not believe. Senor had to see for himself. And Senor saw for himself and flaming pique burst into killing fury, long-quiescent. They were laughing at him — and their laughter, unheard, was heard by him, and his stomach coiled in hate. Like all of the ignorant and unlearned, swelled to pomposity, he had a dread and a hatred of being laughed at.

And they were laughing at him; the dapper, superior, smooth-talking Bill Grant was laughing at him; the cold, contemptuous superior college-girl was laughing at him. They would laugh on the other side of their faces. Fury became final and implacable. A violent nature needed release. And now Senor was drinking whiskey in his office and drumming fingertips on a desk-top...

On the third day of March, at ten minutes after ten of a humid moonless night, Bill Grant drove a black Cadillac onto the concrete driveway of Diego Orgaz’s ocean-front cottage by the sea in Miami Beach. He pulled up the brake, turned off the motor, switched off the lights, squirmed out of the car, slammed the car-door, walked lightly to the front door of the cottage, and touched his finger to the door-bell. At once Little Dee opened the door.

“Hi, Billy,” he said.

“Senor sent me for the cabbage.”

“Yeah, yeah, come in, come in.” Grant entered into a small foyer. Little Dee turned the lock on the door. “In the study,” he said. “You know the way. You been here before.”

“How do you feel Little Dee?”

“Fair. Caught up with one of them bugs.”

Little Dee wore brown moccasins, brown slacks, and a brown Basque shirt. In the roomy, pine-panelled study, Little Dee used a key to lock the door and dropped the key into a pocket of his slacks.

“Senor wants me back in twenty minutes,” said Bill Grant.

“Maybe it’ll take a little longer.”

“Senor said twenty minutes.”

“Okay. Okay.” Little Dee went to a desk, opened a drawer, and brought out an automatic.

“What the hell goes?” said Bill Grant.

“It will take more than twenty minutes,” said Little Dee.

“You out of your mind?”

“You’re out of your mind, Billy-boy.” Little Dee pointed the gun and came close to Bill Grant. Little Dee’s face was shining. Perspiration ran along the sides of his broken nose. His teeth gleamed in a happy smile. “It ain’t nice to make out with Senor’s girl. Senor don’t like it when a couple of double crossers laugh at him.”

“Who’s laughing?”

“You and that college-girl hooker, that’s who’s laughing. But you ain’t going to laugh no more, Billy-boy. Little Dee is going to break you up into a lot of little pieces, but nice and slow and easy, and you’re going to cry and cry. How’s it sound, Billy-boy?”

“Peachy,” said Bill Grant.

“And after I break you up a little bit, and cut you up a little bit, and you cry and cry, Little Dee is going to feel sorry for you, and put you out of your goddamn misery. Then Little Dee will wrap you up nice and comfy and take you out to the boat.”

Little Dee was close to Bill Grant. Little Dee towered above Bill Grant. Little Dee was an experienced torturer and an experienced murderer but Bill Grant was no slob in either department himself. Bill Grant tensed himself and watched carefully.

“What boat?” said Bill Grant.

“The boat like what will be your hearse,” said Little Dee.

Bill Grant watched. He did not have to jump Little Dee because Little Dee was not going to murder him, yet. To jump Little Dee would be an act of desperation, because Little Dee was obviously stronger, and Bill Grant could lose.

“Like how a boat for a hearse?” said Bill Grant.

“After I break you up a little bit, and cut you up a little bit, and you cry instead of laugh, and I put you out of your misery, I take you out to the boat, and I wrap chains all around you, and I take you way out to the deep, and I drop you in, and you sink, and the fishes will eat what’s left of you. Nice, huh?”

“Peachy,” said Bill Grant.

“So you want to laugh now, baby?”

Bill Grant watched. The gun twisted in the massive hand, held like a hammer now, butt protruding. Bill Grant’s face assumed a look of fear; he turned as though to run. The hand swiftly rose and fell in a powerful hammer-chop directed at Bill Grant’s head.

Bill Grant moved his head, just enough, as expert as an expert boxer; he let the gun hit, a sliding blow without effect, and now guile was added to his act. He screamed and fell and lay quivering and he heard the gritting laughter above him.

As Little Dee bent for a second chop, Bill Grant’s foot shot out in a crushing kick to the testicles, and as the big man fell back, grunting, Bill Grant was upon him, his switch-knife in his hand, and he plunged a six-inch blade into Little Dee’s groin, and cut upward, all the way to the diaphragm, and gas exploded from Little Dee’s stomach, and blood lumped the Basque shirt in a curious reddening bulge.

Little Dee stood quite still for a moment, teeth gleaming in a death-grin, no pain in his face, nothing but an expression of pure, almost child-like, surprise. The gun fell first. Then Little Dee fell, supine. And Bill Grant was upon him, stomping his high heels into the expression of surprise, stomping until there was no expression, until there was almost no face.

He stood still, red knife in hand. He breathed deeply until he recovered his wind. Then he laid the knife on the floor and turned the faceless man over. He took the key from the pocket of the slacks, went to the door, unlocked it, returned, threw the key on the floor, and picked up the dripping knife.

He went through a corridor to the bathroom where, first, he washed the knife. He dried it on a bath towel, folded it, and replaced it in the pocket where he always carried it. Then he removed his jacket and shirt and washed himself thoroughly. He combed his hair, re-dressed, went back to the study, skirted the dead man, and explored the desk-drawers for money. Of course there was no money. He left all the lights burning and went out to the car.

He drove to his apartment and packed quickly. He took sixteen hundred dollars from its hiding place in a closet and placed it into his wallet. He turned off the lights, went back to the car, and drove to the airport. He spread a bit of bribe-money, talked about an emergency involving an acutely ill mother, and procured a ticket to Havana on a flight that was leaving in forty-five minutes. Then he went to a booth and made a phone call.

IV

On the third day of March, at seven minutes to eleven of a humid moonless evening, Evangeline Ashley sat in a soft chair in Room 203 of Hotel Cascade reading a three-paragraph gossip-column on a back page of a daily newspaper.

She was nearing the end of the last paragraph when the phone rang. She laid the paper aside and went to the telephone. She was wearing a grey gabardine suit, grey stockings, black patent-leather pumps, and a frilly-fronted white blouse. She lifted the receiver and said, “Yes??”

“Eve? This is Bill.”

“What’s the matter? What—”

“Shut up. Listen. I’m at the airport.”

“You’re where...?”

“Airport. I’m leaving soon. Next forty minutes—”

“For where?”

“Havana. Now shut up. Listen to me, will you please? Get into your car and drive out here. Fast. No time for fooling around. Hang up, get into your car, and drive out here. Important. I’m waiting. Bye now.”

He hung up. She hung up. She turned off the lights, left the room, locked the door, ran down the stairs, ran to the garage, got into her powder-blue convertible, and drove without event to the airport.

She parked, ran in, and he was there waiting. He took her to an uncrowded spot and told her what had happened.

“Take me with you,” she said. “Please take me.”

“Forget it.”

“I love you, Bill.”

“Forget it.”

“Will you send for me?”

“No. Now look, you’re in a spot.”

“I’m in no spot.”

“Senor.”

“I can handle him.”

“I don’t think you can. That creep has popped his cork, I tell you. And when he finds out what happened to Little Dee, he’ll really flip.”

“I can handle him.”

“But he knows about us.”

“He hasn’t seen us together, has he? He hasn’t seen us in bed, has he? So he knows we’ve been out together. So he knows I came visiting you. So he knows, even, that I stayed over. I can talk him out of all of that. I’m a woman. He’s a man. I can handle him.”

He drew out his wallet, pinched out money. “Here’s three hundred bucks. Pack up and git. You can always take out the five thousand you have in the Savings Bank by mail or something.” She held back. “Take it,” he said. She took the money. He put his wallet away. “That’s my advice. Pack up and blow. Tonight.”

“I told you I can handle him,” she insisted.

“Look.” He talked rapidly, quietly. “I gave a guy his lumps tonight. I’m running. I’m hot I figure to be hot for quite a while. Even if I wanted you, I wouldn’t let you come with me. I’ll be moving around, like looking over my shoulder. For a while, anyway. Until it simmers down. Even if I wanted you, I wouldn’t let you come. And I don’t want you. It’s been nice, but I’ve had it. I’m a loner. I’m a loner, looking for the big score. I’ve got to go my own way, and I’ve got to go unhampered. That’s it. I don’t like long good-byes. I’m going to turn around and walk away. You go back to your car.”

“Billy, please.”

“Honey, there’s a dead man around, and I killed him. It may blow up big, it may not blow up at all, depending on whether Senor pipes. If it blows big, there’ll be cops looking for me. They inquire at airports. There’s no sense somebody seeing us and tying you into it. There’s no sense in your being an accessory. I don’t want you hanging around here with me. Good-bye, Evie.”

“Billy, say one nice word.”

“Good-bye, baby.”

“Billy, do you love me?”

“No.”

He turned and walked, gracefully, on his high heels, into gloom. She restrained an impulse to run after him. You did not run after Bill Grant. You did not make scenes with Bill Grant. You gave him all the love you were capable of. You gave him money to nurture his expensive tastes. You held him and you made love to him and he made love to you, but you knew all the while he was gossamer, you had no sense of possession, you knew one day be would go away. Now he was going away.

She returned to her car and drove back to town. She had coffee in Wolfie’s and thought of her own problem. She was certain she could handle Senor. Her body and her beauty could manage Senor, as they had managed so many others, excluding Bill Grant. Her approach to Senor must be one of outrage: he had doubted her when he should not have. She, of course, would know nothing of what had occurred. He would accuse, and she would quickly, openly, honestly defend.

Of course, she had been seeing Bill Grant. Love? Love affair? Don’t be silly. The poor guy was sick, impotent, on the verge of a nervous breakdown — there could be no love affair with Bill Grant. She had been as a mother to him, as a sister, as a nurse; the man was in the throes of a psychopathological melancholy; she had even stayed over with him on occasion, actually to prevent a suicide.

She would have to think it all out, think clearly, and she was far too upset and confused to think clearly now. She parked the car and ran up the stairs. She needed a drink. She needed a few drinks, badly. Then she would run a warm bath and rest and soak and try to relax and try to think. She opened the door, closed it behind her, switched on the lights, but she did not lock the door.

Instead, she stood silent, gaping, body rigid, mouth working, and the key slipped from limp fingers without a sound to the carpet.

Senor was there. He was seated, fat knees spread, in an armchair. The kinky hair was dishevelled. There were deep lines in the flushed face. Perspiration gleamed in globules in the sockets of the eyes. The mouth was tight. The nostrils were dilated, gleet on the upper lip. The protruding eyes were red and raging. The hands were encased in black silk gloves.

He rose, and he moved toward her, and she moved away, and he circled, moving toward her, and she backed away, all assurance drained from her. She knew now she could not handle him. He was beyond handling. His eyes were insane. His breathing was rapid and raucous. He moved toward her, black hands outstretched.

“No. Don’t,” she said. “No, please, Senor, don’t.”

He stopped, black hands outstretched. Thickly he said, “Yes, do, Senor. Do. Do.”

She had moved away from him step by step, until the back of her legs touched the liquor table. Her hands were behind her. Her right hand felt a bottle, crept stealthily to its neck, and grasped it.

“No!” she said. “No, Senor! I beg you! No!”

“Laugh, you little tramp! Laugh at Senor! Laugh, now! Laugh, till my hands come to you, and I choke out the laughter!”

“You’re drunk.”

“So what?”

“You’re making a mistake.”

“No mistake.”

“They’ll get you.”

“Who? Bill Grant?”

“Cops.”

“Never. I got no connection with you.”

“You have. They’ll get you.”

“Never. Nobody seen me come. Nobody’ll see me go. I choke until you’re dead. I leave you here and it’s finished. Another cheap broad gets knocked off. There’s a million of them. I got no connection. Now, laugh, tramp. Die laughing.”

“You’re drunk.” He moved. “No Wait!”

He moved forward. He was drunk. He stumbled.

She lashed out with all her strength. She was young, and strong. The bottle, weapon-held, came from behind in a high, swift, terrifying arc, descending full upon the left side of the head. The bottle burst, inundating the head and face with running, seeping, caustic-smelling whiskey, quickly mixed with blood; the kinky hair opened, mangled, to a fracture of the skull, blood bubbling from a deep fissure of splintered bone in a high geyser, splashing the face; the eyes were blinded with blood and whiskey; but still he did not fall.

From deep in his chest came a babble of gasping, retching profanity, and he moved, forward, slowly, blindly, black hands extended. And now she waited, crouched, sobbing, taut, right hand gripped to the broken, jagged, lethal bottle-neck, and as the hands touched her, she thrust it into his throat and tore sideways, and the red-purple jugular blood spurted streaming, staining her. And still he stood; and then the black hands dropped; and he sighed; and he fell; and she went down to her knees, almost upon him, fighting for consciousness.

So they remained, for minutes, in tableau, and then she straightened to her feet, dropped the bottle-neck, and stood looking down upon him, without pity, licking her lips, swallowing, thinking.

Abruptly she lifted her skirt and kneeled beside him. She removed the black silk gloves, folded them, and stuffed them into a pocket of his jacket. She drew a long deep breath, lowered her head, placed her mouth against the dead sunken mouth, and firmly rubbed her lips to his. She stood up, gaping, sucking air, crunching back nausea. Recovered, she looked down at the bloody face. Lipstick was a shapeless imprint on the mouth.

She went to a mirror and looked upon herself. She was drawn, livid, her lipstick smeared, the pupils of her eyes contracted to tiny points. Watching her reflection, she put her hands to her hair and pulled until it hung straggly, disarranged, and tousled. Watching her reflection, she tore at the jacket of her suit until it ripped and came apart; tore at the blouse until it rent; tore at her brassier until a strap burst and it hung awry at her middle.

As a slattern, clothing torn, hair hanging, full bosom exposed, she turned from the mirror, kicked over a chair, rumpled the covers of the bed, and went again to the dead Senor, and knelt beside him. She clasped the back of his right hand in hers, made a claw of his hand, and ripped his fingernails down one naked shoulder and breast, ripped until blood oozed from long welts, and the skin of her flesh was beneath his blunt nails.

She dropped the hand, stood up, and returned to the mirror. She looked upon the ragged bleeding scratches in the soft flesh, saw her reflection blur as the tears came to her eyes, and she smiled, frightfully, in hysteria. Her mouth opened, her lips contorted, and she screamed, frantically.

She screamed... Screamed. Screamed.

V

On the third day of March, at five minutes before midnight of a hot humid moonless night, Oscar Blinney lay spread in bed in Room 202 raptly reading a paperback mystery novel. He lay, uncovered, nude except for boxer shorts, legs apart, heels dug to mattress, pillows piled beneath his head.

When the first scream penetrated, he swung up, sitting bolt-upright, scowling, blinking, uncertain as to whether or not he had imagined it.

The screams came, fierce, piercing, hideous. He flung away the book, leaped from the bed. The screams were from 203. He ran to the closet, dragged down a bathrobe; running, he pulled it on, burst out of his room, pounded on the door of 203, tried the knob, opened the door, slammed it shut behind him, quickly took in the scene in the brightly lighted room. It was as if she did not recognize him, even though she had met him in the tea room. It was as if he were a complete stranger to her, a man without a clear-cut identity.

She saw him, looked at him, looked through him — screaming, screaming — mascara making dirty blue-black lines of the tears on the wet face. He crossed, grasped her shoulders, shook her. She slobbered, laughed violently, gasped, choked.

He slapped her, hard, across the cheek, and she fell to the bed, face down, whimpering. He went to the phone, lifted the receiver, said, “Quick! Send a doctor to room two hundred three! And call the police! Quick!”

The man in charge was Andrew Borrelli, lieutenant of detectives, young, deeply-tanned, quiet, competent, and sympathetic. He waited, while the doctor examined Pedro Orgaz and pronounced him dead. He waited, while the doctor attended to the scratches on the body of Evangeline Adams. He waited, while the doctor injected a sedative into the body of Evangeline Adams.

“Not too much, Doc,” he said. “I’ve got to talk with her.”

“Don’t teach me my trade,” said the doctor. “I know.”

He waited, while police photographers took pictures. He waited, while the body of Pedro Orgaz was carried out. He waited, while Evangeline Ashley, in the bathroom, washed her face, composed herself, and changed to a housecoat. He waited, while, during that period, Oscar Blinney told him why and how he was in the room when the police arrived. He waited, until the doctor departed, until the uniformed policemen were gone — with two of them stationed outside the door.

He waited until Oscar Blinney was seated and Evangeline Ashley was seated, smoking a cigarette held in trembling fingers. Then he said, “All right, Miss Ashley, let’s have it, if you please.”

“Yes,” she said, gulping. “Yes.”

He led her, easily, quietly. “Let’s just give it a fast run-through, huh? Mr. Blinney here tells me your name is Evangeline Ashley. A very pretty name indeed.”

“Thank you.”

“My name is Borrelli, Lieutenant Borrelli. You’re a resident of this hotel, Miss Ashley, aren’t you? Here? This room?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you work, Miss Ashley?”

“Yes. Here. Downstairs.”

“In the hotel?”

“In the tea room. I’m a hostess in the tea room.”

“And... the deceased... did you know him?”

“Yes, sir, I knew him.”

“His name?”

“Orgaz. Pedro Orgaz.”

“Know his occupation?”

“He owned... owned... Club Columbo.”

“You feel all right, Miss Ashley?”

“Uh... yes, sir... yes, sir, I do.”

“Would you like a drink, Miss Ashley?”

“Yes. I mean, may I?”

“Of course.” He smiled. “This is not an inquisition, Miss Ashley. You’re going to give me a statement of the facts, what happened here, a sort of preliminary statement. After that, we’ll go downtown and you’ll give us a formal statement. After that, and after consultation with the man from the prosecutor’s office, we either hold you and you get yourself a lawyer, or we release you, and you still get yourself a lawyer. Now it is my duty to inform you that whatever you say may be held against you. It is also my duty to inform you that if you wish you may say nothing. Up to you.”

“I’ve nothing to hide.”

“Very good, Miss Ashley. May I prepare your drink?”

“May I do it myself?”

“Why, certainly.”

She rose, poured bourbon into a tumbler, went to the bathroom to add water.

“How about you, Mr. Blinney?” said Lieutenant Borrelli.

“No, nothing, thanks,” said Blinney.

She returned, sat down, drank, set the glass away.

“All right, then,” said Lieutenant Borrelli. “You say you knew Mr. Orgaz, knew he owned Club Columbo. Were you well acquainted with Mr. Orgaz?”

“No.”

“Fairly well acquainted?”

“No.”

“How well acquainted, Miss Ashley?”

“I once worked for him.”

“Ah, so. You once worked for him. When, please? For how long, please?”

“It was in November, early November. I worked for him for about two weeks.”

“In what capacity?”

“I was... a sort of waitress at Club Columbo.”

Lieutenant Borrelli coughed. “Waitresses at Club Columbo? You sure you weren’t... er... a dancer?”

“Waitress.”

“But there are only waiters at Club Columbo.”

“This wasn’t in the club proper. I worked in the Upstairs Room. You know, where they gamble.”

“No, I don’t know. Is this some sort of private club, the Upstairs Room?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure.”

“All right, you worked as a waitress in the Upstairs Room in November for about two weeks. Were you fired?”

“I quit.”

“Why?”

“He got fresh.”

“Who?”

“Mr. Orgaz.”

Lieutenant Borrelli smiled. “You happen to be a very beautiful young woman, Miss Ashley. Getting fresh is a relative term. If you’ll pardon me, you naturally inspire ‘getting fresh.’ I myself, if I met you under different circumstances, might... ‘get fresh.’ ”

She smiled, for the first time. Blinney admired the adroit, easy manner of the soft-speaking young lieutenant. “Yes,” she said. “Of course. A relative term. But he really got fresh. He made some real nasty passes, and some real nasty propositions. It got to a point where I just couldn’t work there. I quit.”

“I see,” said Borrelli.

“But the moment I quit, he became contrite, almost nice. It was as though he suddenly realized that I simply wasn’t the type. He practically implored me to return to work, that he wouldn’t bother me, but I had had enough of it. Then he insisted upon helping me find a new job. He told me to apply for work as hostess in the tea room downstairs, even told me that he’d arranged that I could have a room in the hotel. It was as though he had made a mistake and wanted to make it up to me. And, in a way, I felt sorry for him. I felt I had misjudged him. I got both the job and the room.”

“You saw him?”

“No. Not once. We talked on the phone. That’s all.”

“Didn’t see him once until tonight?”

“That’s right. I appreciated what he had done for me, but that was it. He called me once or twice, for a date, but I refused.”

“And then — tonight?”

She tapped out the cigarette. “I was here,” she said. “It was about eleven o’clock or so. I had a couple of drinks; I was sitting around reading the paper. I got restless. I got my car and drove over to Wolfie’s. I had coffee and a bun, sat around, then came back here.”

“What time?”

“I’m not sure. I’d say about a quarter to twelve.”

“Yes?”

“I was about to take a shower and go to bed when there was a knock on the door.”

“Yes?”

“It was Mr. Orgaz. He said, through the door, that it was important, that he was in some sort of trouble, that, please, he wanted to talk to me. I let him in.”

“What happened then, Miss Ashley?”

“He was drunk, terribly drunk. He babbled some incoherent nonsense for a few moments, and then he came after me. I was frightened to death. I ran for the door, but he caught me. I tried to fight him off. He was mad, drunk, insane. He tore at me, ripped at me, all the while cursing, saying horrible, frightful things. I was wild with fear. He pulled at my clothes, grabbed me, kissed me. I broke away. He was after me.

“I snatched up a bottle and I hit him over the head. The bottle broke to pieces but still he came. He was on me, on top of me, and I slashed out with what was left of the bottle in my hand. And then he dropped to the floor. And that’s it. I know I screamed. I know I was hysterical. I know Mr. Blinney was suddenly here in the room, and I know he slapped me, I know he slapped me, and I thank him...” And she was sobbing. And she put her hands to her face.

The young lieutenant looked toward Blinney, shook his head, looked away. He went to Evangeline Ashley and lightly touched her head with an open comforting palm. “Miss Ashley,” he said, “I’m not married, but I have four sisters. If you’re telling the truth, whatever you did, I compliment you for it.”

She looked up with wet, beseeching eyes. “I’m telling the truth.”

“All right. Please get dressed. You too, Mr. Blinney. Go to your room and get some clothes on. We’re going downtown. Make a bundle of the clothes you were wearing, Miss Ashley. We’re taking them with us. They are, as a matter of fact, evidence in your favor.”

Oscar Blinney went to his room and got dressed. Lieutenant Andrew Borrelli collected the bottle-neck and fragments of the broken whiskey bottle and tied them into a neat package within a clean towel. Evangeline Ashley dressed, combed her hair, put lipstick to her lips, and brought the clothes she had been wearing, in a small suitcase, to Lieutenant Borrelli. Together, the three went “downtown.”

There, under crisp, expert questioning by the Man From The Prosecutor’s Office, Blinney’s story and Evangeline Ashley’s story were reduced to sworn signed statements. Scrapings of skin from Miss Ashley were compared to scrapings from beneath the fingernails of Pedro Orgaz by sleepy police technicians, and sampling of Miss Ashley’s lipstick was compared to the smears on the mouth of the dead man. Additional photographs were taken of Miss Ashley’s shoulder and breast wounds by suddenly-wide-awake police technicians. An autopsy was ordered upon the body of the deceased.

At 5:05 A.M. Miss Evangeline Ashley was released upon her own recognizance, on direct instructions from the Prosecutor’s office. She was accompanied home by Mr. Oscar Blinney.

VI

On the morning of the fifth day of March, the last will and testament of Pedro Orgaz, a strange document, was offered and admitted to probate. It was concise and unambiguous. Whatever he owned he devised and bequeathed to his wife, Theresa Columbo Orgaz. He specifically ordered that upon his death there be no services, no funeral, and no attendance, not even by his wife or children.

The preliminary hearing of Evangeline Ashley went smoothly, quickly, politely and co-operatively, without rancor or dispute. Oscar Blinney testified to the screams; and what he saw when he entered Room 203. He testified further that he had called for a doctor and for the police. He was shown the tom clothing and identified them as the clothing Miss Ashley had been wearing when he entered the room.

Lieutenant Andrew Borrelli testified that the police had arrived with a police physician and that there had been no need for the services of a private doctor. He gave his version of the scene in the room and introduced the evidence the bottle-neck and the fragments of the broken bottle. He corroborated Mr. Blinney’s testimony with regard to the tom clothing.

Evangeline Ashley told her story, bearing up superbly, and shedding only a tear or two. The police physician testified to the condition of the deceased and the condition of Miss Ashley with emphasis upon the scratches on her shoulder and bosom. A police photographer authenticated photographs of the wounds upon the body of Miss Ashley. A police technician testified that sampling of Miss Ashley’s lipstick compared exactly with the lipstick-smears on the mouth of the deceased.

Another police technician testified that scrapings of skin from the body of Miss Ashley were identical with the scrapings from beneath the fingernails of the deceased. An expert from the police laboratory gave testimony that autopsy disclosed sufficient alcohol in the stomach and blood of the deceased to substantiate a judgment of thorough intoxication.

And then there was introduced into the record four separate certified copies of convictions in the criminal history of the deceased from the files of the Canadian police.

Complete acquittal of Evangeline Ashley was a foregone conclusion from the first...

And they were inseparable — Evangeline Ashley and Oscar Blinney. He was with her morning, noon, and evening. He was consumed by her, his attentions completely enveloped.

They swam together, walked together, went on trips together, went to restaurants together, went to clubs together, ate together, and drank together. He marveled at her resilience; within a few days she had bounced back; she was gay, smiling, bantering, beautiful. True, she drank a great deal, but after what she had been through, could he blame her? He himself was drinking much more than was his custom.

They were together morning, noon, and evening, and at night he was filled with wild dreams of her. He was certain that she responded to him, physically, although she had made no overt act. He had not kissed her, not once. His innate shyness, the timidity that was so much a part of his nature, smothered and enshackled him. He suffered, and his dreams grew wilder.

On the thirteenth day of March, Evangeline Ashley sold her car. She had inserted an advertisement in a newspaper and a buyer had eventuated. The buyer got a good buy. He paid $3200 for a “used” car which had been purchased four months prior for $5200, the “use” of which had entailed the driving of 2800 miles. The car, in fact, was brand new, but Evangeline Ashley was jubilant. She had asked $3200 and had received $3200.

“Oz,” she said, “tonight we really do the town.”

“Great by me,” said Oscar Blinney.

“On me,” said Evangeline Ashley.

“Pardon?” said Blinney.

“On me,” said Evangeline Ashley. “Oz, you’ve been a brick, just wonderful to me. I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone as considerate and kind. And it’s been costing you, pal. Well, tonight, the party’s on me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about two hundred dollars. I’m putting three thousand in my Savings Bank, which shall give me a grand total of eight thousand, but the remaining two hundred bucks — tonight we blow it. The party’s on me, and I don’t want to hear another word out of you.”

“I think that’s silly.”

“That’s the trouble with you. You won’t ever be silly. You’re just too damned serious. Now just listen, and listen carefully. Me? I’m going to the bank, and then I’m going to the beauty parlor, and I don’t want to see you for the rest of the day. Rest, lounge, swim, do as you like. At ten o’clock this evening, you’ll call for me, like a boy-friend, you know?

“You won’t have a long way to go, but, very formal, you’ll call for me. You will have a beautiful orchid for me, and you’ll be wearing dinner clothes. You’re a real handsome guy, but you’re going to look your handsomest. And then we’ll go out and we’ll really turn this town over, but we’ll turn it over, pal. We’ll burn that two hundred bucks, but all of it, and not in one place.”

He called for her at ten o’clock. He was now deeply tanned and the gleaming white dinner jacket provided handsome contrast. The grey eyes seemed greyer. The thick blond crew-cut hair, burnished by sun and freshly brushed, seemed thicker, blonder, and very youthful. He smelled of health and masculine perfume.

She was ravishing in her silver strapless Parisian evening gown (no underwear) and her high-heeled silver pumps (no stockings). In ten days the scars of Pedro Orgaz’s fingernails had disappeared as had the scars (if any) of her affair with Pedro Orgaz. The beauty parlor had added additional tints to the gold-blonde hair and had swung it up into an intricate hair-do that revealed the tiny, close-set, inviting ears. Blue eyes were wide and clear and white teeth flashed in the sensuous sheen of smiling, full-curved, magenta-glistening lips.

It was a night to remember. They drank and drank again in all the clubs, big and little, and ate and drank again, and listened to music and watched entertainment and danced, and she was terribly beautiful, and all the men looked upon her.

And then as they sat at table at the Strain Of Melody and listened to the music and sipped their highballs and looked out through the blue haze upon the dancers, he saw his old friend Ken Burns and he waved and Ken Burns waved in return and Evangeline Ashley waved.

“Do you know Kenny?” said Oscar Blinney.

“Who’s Kenny?”

“The fellow who’s waving.”

“I’m not waving at him. I’m waving at Miss Moore.”

“Who is Miss Moore?”

“The gal who’s dancing with the fellow who’s waving.”

“Oh,” said Blinney and through the churning blur of alcohol it all sounded very reasonable.

Ken Bums worked at the bank with him. Ken Bums had taken his vacation at the same time he had. Ken Bums had gone to visit relatives at Coral Gables. And now Ken Burns was at the Strain Of Melody dancing with a beautiful willowy brunette and Ken was waving and he was waving back and Evangeline was waving at the girl with Ken and it all seemed normal and reasonable. And then Ken and the girl came to them at the table and sat down.

“Hello, Miss Moore,” Evangeline said.

“How are you, Miss Ashley?” said Miss Moore in a cool voice.

“Small world,” said Ken Bums. “You two know each other?”

“We went to school together,” said Miss Moore.

“Not quite,” said Evangeline. “You were a senior when I was a freshman.”

“Well, naturally,” said Miss Moore, undisturbed. “I’m three years older than you.”

Everybody laughed and Ken Bums said, “Adrienne Moore. Oscar Blinney.”

“About time,” said Miss Moore.

“You girls don’t give a guy a chance,” said Ken Burns.

“How do you do?” said Miss Moore.

“How do you do?” said Blinney and even through the spinning jollity of the alcohol he realized that she was a most attractive lady, poised and dark and serious, with black shining tumbled short-cut hair, and wondrously deep, luminous black eyes.

“Do you live in Coral Gables?” said Blinney to Miss Moore.

“No. I live and work in New York now. I just came down to visit my parents. I’ll be going back some time in April”

“Miss Moore is a painter,” said Ken Bums.

“Are you that Adrienne Moore?” said Blinney.

“Who’s that Adrienne Moore?” said Evangeline.

“She’s quite famous,” confidentially whispered Ken Burns.

“I’ve seen your pictures in the Hammer Galleries. Just wonderful. I’d imagined you much older,” said Blinney.

“Well, thank you.”

“So you’d like to do him,” said Evangeline.

“Yes. Very much. Marvelous face.”

“Maybe you ought to see the rest of him.”

“Would I need your permission?”

“Now, girls, girls,” said Ken Burns.

“Really? I mean, you would like to paint me?” said Blinney.

“The face,” said Miss Moore. “It appears that Miss Ashley has a vociferous vested interest in the remainder.”

“And it looks like you’re trying to do a little trespassing on my vested interests, baby-doll,” said Miss Ashley.

“Ha, ha,” said Ken Burns, nervously. He was tall, fat, and balding, and his voice was high-pitched.

“What would you call it?” said Blinney.

“I beg your pardon?” said Miss Moore.

“The face,” said Blinney. “You know. Paintings have names, don’t they?”

“Not portraits,” she said, and then she smiled. “Passion and Passivity,” she said.

“Oh no!” Evangeline rose. “That ties it! Come on, Passion and Passivity! Waiter, the check! Bye, all! It was nothing!”

“Ha, ha,” said Ken Burns.

VII

It was late when they left the night club. The streets were hot, deserted. They walked in silence. Then she said, “That bambino was really on the make.”

“Nonsense,” said Blinney. “I was kidding, and she kidded right back.”

“Maybe you were kidding, but that chick was on the make.”

He looked at her. “Don’t tell me you’re... you’re...”

“Well, say it, goof.”

“Jealous. I mean...”

“I am.”

“Well, that’s the first real nice darn thing—”

“Haven’t you ever said damn?” said Evangeline.

“Perhaps. I don’t really—”

“You’re cute. You know? Cute. Really. Damned cute.”

“Look, Evangeline, I want to say, about us...”

And then he was there before them. On a dim unpeopled street, in the hot night, suddenly he loomed before them. He was very tall, with wide high shoulders, a square swarthy face, and bushy hair.

“Miss Ashley,” he said. His voice was coarse, deep, a growl.

“What?” she said. “What is it? What do you want?”

“Do you know him?” said Blinney.

“No,” she said.

“Get away,” said Blinney.

“Butt out, snotnose,” said the swarthy man.

Blinney pushed at the man’s shoulder. “Get away, please.”

“Oh oh, a wise guy” said the swarthy man. “You’ll catch a piece soon. After I finish with Miss Ashley. You I’ll come to. Nobody puts a hand on Ronald. Ronald is allergic to hands.”

“Who’s Ronald?” said Evangeline.

“I’m Ronald” said the swarthy man.

“Do you know him?” said Blinney.

“No. No.” She shook her head emphatically.

Blinney pushed at Ronald’s chest. “Now please let us alone,” he said.

“That’s twice, snotnose. Hang around. Don’t go away. First, Miss Ashley.”

“What is it?” she said sharply.

“I got a message for you.”

“From whom?”

“From someone who knew Senor. He’s got a finger in the pie, and he has to safeguard his interests.” Ronald’s voice hardened. “Now this is the message. The message is that you are an embarrassment. This friend of Senor’s don’t have nothing against you personal, but he don’t want you around to stir up trouble. Senor left behind a very nice setup. This friend says you get out of the state by April First, you know, like April Fool’s Day. That’s the message. You get out, and everything’s nice, and the whole thing’s a closed up deal.

“You don’t get out, and you’re asking for trouble. This friend of Senor’s is a kind man. He don’t want you should have trouble. Who needs trouble? He knows what really happened. And is also a friend of Little Dee. So get out, go someplace, period, by April One. He’s giving you a little time like to pack up. So be a nice little broad and scram.”

“Now see here,” said Blinney.

“You I’m coming to,” said Ronald.

“Do you know what he’s talking about?” said Blinney.

“Not at all,” said Evangeline.

“Like hell she don’t,” said Ronald.

“He must be mistaking me for someone else,” said Evangeline.

“If that’s the way you want it, sweetie” — Ronald looked knowingly at Blinney — “so that’s the way it is. I’m mistaking you for some one else.”

“And even if I were the person, is this the best place you could pick to talk to me?”

“Sweetie, I been tailing you around all over town. I wanted to talk to you alone. Figured this was the best place to talk, even though you got snotnose with you.”

“Have you talked?” said Blinney.

“I have talked,” said Ronald.

“Then get away, if you please. Go away.”

“Not yet, shmuck. Now I come to you. With the chick I got orders to be nice. But I got no orders to be nice with a shmuck with a big mouth and easy with the hands. It is a pleasure I did not expect. Okay, snotnose, now I come to you.”

And he swung, without further warning, a vicious, massive fist to Blinney’s mouth. It did not land. Blinney moved his head, just enough. The blow grazed by and Blinney returned a perfect one-two. The jolt of a left jab caught Ronald beneath the heart and as he gasped and straightened, chin exposed, Blinney’s right first, with shoulder and back behind it, thundered at the point of the jaw.

Ronald stiffened to his toes, hung, spun around in one rigid mass, and fell like a plank, his forehead striking the sidewalk. He lay still.

“Oh my,” breathed Evangeline, eyes big, transfixed, fingers at her lips. “My God, I never saw anything like that, not even in a prize ring. My God, that was beautiful.”

Blinney was trembling. He stooped to Ronald.

“No,” said Evangeline, pulling at his arm.

“He’s hurt,” said Blinney.

“That was the general idea, wasn’t it. He tried to hurt you — so you hurt him. Come on. Let’s get away from here.”

“But I mean—”

“Look. He hit and you hit back. He’s some kind of a gangster or something and he certainly deserves whatever happened to him. Now let’s get out of here. What’s the sense in getting into trouble over this? I’ve had enough trouble, haven’t I?”

Her final words convinced him. She led him away and he went. They turned a corner.

“Wow, but that was beautiful,” she said. “Exquisite. I never saw anything like it. You’re really something, aren’t you?”

“Do you have any idea who he is?”

“None.”

“Who’s Little Dee?”

“I haven’t the faintest.”

“But what the devil was he talking about?”

“I wish I knew. But I don’t. It must be one of those mistaken identity things.”

“Lode,” Blinney said. “He mentioned Senor — Pedro Orgaz. I couldn’t hear all he said, but I caught the name. It might be trouble for you.”

“Nonsense. They’ll find out their mistake soon enough.”

“But—”

“Please forget the whole thing. I want you to.”

Blinney shrugged. He waved down a passing cab, and they tooled toward home. Evangeline held his arm, and she said, “It’s all over. Why are you trembling again?”

“That man,” he said.

“What man?” she said.

“That Ronald. I never hit anybody like that.”

“Now, Ozzie, don’t kid a kidder. I’ve seen guys flattened in my time, but nobody ever got flattened more expertly than friend Ronald. You’ve hit before.”

“I was a fighter.”

“You? A fighter? A prize-fighter? Oh no. Now we’re on the other side. Now we’re way out. I don’t believe it.”

“Amateur.”

“Oh.”

“Boxer.”

“Oh.”

“Intercollegiate champ.”

She squeezed his arm. “Man, you’re a character. In your own way, you’re a character. There’s a lot I don’t know about you. You’re just not a talker. Do you like me, Oz?”

“I... I love you.”

“Hotel Cascade,” said the cab-driver.

And upstairs, outside of 203, he said quickly, “Good night.”

“Good night,” she said.

And in 202 he paced and paced and rubbed his hands together and wondered whether the trembling has all been because of the guilt of the violence. He tried to justify. Even for one as himself, there must be a time, a moment, when violence is justified. But then, instantly, his reason protested. Even if he granted to himself that there could be a moment when violence is justified — had that been such a moment?

He knew that he could have ducked and weaved and dodged and jabbed and made an exhausted spectacle of that blundering muscle-bound would-be strong man. Was it that he had wanted to impress her?

He removed his dinner jacket and cast it upon a chair. And so in patent-leather shoes, dress-pants, cummerbund, collar open, tie loose, he bent to a suitcase, flapped up the cover, and brought out a sealed bottle of Scotch. He opened it, poured into a glass, and gulped whiskey burning, and when the knock came at the door, he went to it and opened it without asking who was there, and there was no one there, and he stood, hand on knob, querulous and squinting blankly.

And the knock came again. And he shut the door of 202 and went quickly to the door between 202 and 203 and there he stood, as though in fear, trembling again. And the knock came again, softly. And he twisted the lock and turned the knob and opened the door, and she was there, and he crossed over.

VIII

Blinney had experienced love-making in his life but he had never experienced love-making as performed by Evangeline Ashley giving expression to her one incontestable talent. He suffered no pang of conscience; at the beginning there is no distinction between infatuation and love; and now, at the beginning, Oscar Blinney was proudly, fiercely, blindly, and overwhelmingly in love.

The door between 202 and 203 was open every night; closed and locked temporarily each morning for the practical reason of propriety involving chambermaids. Blinney expanded with love, and, under the proddings of an already-bored vis-a-vis, he even talked about himself, reluctantly, but then with gradual growing confidence.

And, for the first time since he met her, he told her about his boyhood, his mother, his father, and the six-room house he had inherited in an old quiet section of Mount Vernon. He told her about his nest-egg of $17,000, a portion of which was savings but most of which, like the house, was part of his inheritance. He told her about the First National Mercantile Bank situated at 34th Street and 6th Avenue, and about his job as teller.

He told her about Alfred Hodges, now seventy-three years of age, but spry and spirited and capable, president of the bank since he was thirty-four. He told her of the liberal salary standards instituted by Alfred Hodges all of which pertained right up to the present. He told her, as an instance, of the teller’s job. The starting salary was one hundred dollars a week with yearly increases of ten dollars per week until the individual attained a weekly salary of two hundred dollars.

He was now in his seventh year in his teller’s job; his salary was one hundred and sixty dollars a week. And he told her about Robert Allan McKnish’s job as Credit Manager; a job he hoped to get some day, that the job started at two hundred dollars a week with yearly increases of twenty-five dollars a week until a maximum of three hundred and fifty dollars a week was attained.

And she asked, “Does this sort of thing apply in all banks?”

“No,” he said. “Ours is quite special. Mr. Hodges, in his way, is an executive genius. He made these rules, and the Board approved, and he’s stayed with them.”

“What Board?”

“The Board of Directors.”

“Oh, Board of Directors.”

“Are you interested?”

“Sure. Of course. Are you kidding? Go on.”

“Well, whoever comes to work at First National Mercantile knows just what he’s doing and just where he’s going. We have eighty-two employees and it’s a real happy family. And there are long waiting lists of job-applicants. The bank has a wonderful reputation, and so has its personnel. Of course, Mr. Hodges has set very high basic qualifications for each employee — higher standards than in other banks — and the more important the job, the tougher the qualifications for the applicant. But it isn’t all sweetness and light either. Dear Mr. Hodges insists on certain intramural activities that other banks don’t.”

“Like what?”

He told her, as an instance, about the Gun Club. In every bank, certain employees have the use of pistols. They obtain licenses from the Police Department for such use, they are instructed in the mechanics of pistol operation, and that is that. Not so at First National Mercantile. If a teller or a cashier or a vice-president has a gun in his drawer, he must, at the insistence of Mr. Hodges, become proficient in its use. Each one who has a license must be a member of the New York Gun Club, must attend target practice every Thursday evening, and must compete in the pistol shoot every fourth Thursday.

“Did you ever win?” she said.

“I always win,” he said.

“You?”

He chuckled. “I admit I’m not the type. I’m scared to death of a gun. Perhaps that’s why I’m so good. I respect the darned thing” — chuckle again — “with a deadly respect.”

“And what else does your Mr. Hodges insist on?”

“That we go to school, night courses; that is, those of us who want to improve ourselves, who want to move up to higher positions in the bank. And he actually checks the courses, talks with the various instructors, finds out how each of us is doing.”

“Do you go to night school?”

“Yes. Every Monday and Wednesday. Post graduate stuff.”

“Why, are you ambitious?”

“In a way. I have no big dreams. I don’t want to rise very high. Credit Manager, and there I’ll stay. I believe Old Man McKnish is going to retire this year, and I sure have been aiming for that job, right since I went to work there.”

“Any chance, do you think?”

“Yes, I do. Mr. Hodges knows of my dream and desire; and he knows me since I was a little boy. The Board does the appointing, but Mr. Hodges has influence, of course. I have the background and the education, I’ve never been in trouble, I’ve never been in any scandal, I’m practically the head-teller right now, and I am in charge of the most important payrolls.”

“Payrolls?” she said. “Don’t most firms pay by check?”

“A great many do. A great many don’t. There are matters of policy. Anyway, Thursdays and Fridays are my payroll days; when I prepare payrolls.”

“Two days?”

“Fridays there are a lot of little ones. Thursdays, there are five big ones: Martin Aircraft, Hughes Construction, Fairfax Electronics, North American Builders, and Marshall Contractors Corp. They all have plants throughout the Metropolitan area, and on Long Island. They have part-time workers, and over-time, aside from regular employees. It gets quite complicated. They call in their payrolls on Thursday mornings. By then, they have an approximation. They make up the rest from their own office safes.

“It mounts up. By one o’clock in the afternoon, I’ve probably packaged up to three hundred thousand dollars, mostly in hundreds and fifties, and then down to twenties, tens, fives, and ones. They pick up at about one or two in the afternoon, each, of course, separately. Their own cashiers distribute the money into pay-envelopes and their own guards do the distributing to the various plants on Friday.”

“Pretty important,” she said, “aren’t you?”

“Not really. Accurate, or let’s call it dependable. I’m glad I have the job because it shows that they depend on me, and that I’m in excellent standing, and that I’m in fairly good shape in my bid for the job I want. Of course, Mr. Hodges says — perhaps he’s kidding — that for the Board of Directors I may be lacking in just one thing.”

“And that?” she said.

“A wife,” he said.

“That all?” she said.

“According to Mr. Hodges, it would add to my stature, stability, something. In the opinion of the Board of directors.”

“And being a bachelor? That would be fatal?”

“I hope not,” he said, and flushed, and changed the subject and told her about the banquet each year on the fifteenth of December at the Grand Ballroom of The Commodore when the speeches were made and the bonuses declared and another thousand dollars added to the First National Mercantile Heroism Award.

“Heroism Award?” she said. “What’s that?”

“It’s been accumulating for twenty-one years.”

“I still don’t understand.”

“Last time it was paid was twenty-two years ago to an employee named Edwin Samuelson.”

“But what is it?”

“An award of a thousand dollars if one of the employees of the bank performs an act of heroism. If no one does during that year, another thousand dollars is added the next year, and so on and so on. Right now it stands at twenty-one thousand dollars.”

“No one has been a hero in twenty-one years?”

He smiled, kissed her forehead. “That’s not as strange as it sounds. Very few people, during a lifetime, perform an act of heroism, that is, ordinary people, in ordinary walks of life. There must be both the opportunity, which happens very rarely, and the inclination to act on such opportunity. Actually, an act of heroism is a rare occurrence. We have eighty-two people employed in the bank; nice, ordinary people. In twenty-one years, nobody was a hero. In the bank, there’s never been a holdup, or, really any kind of untoward happening. In our private lives, we just go along, humdrum and normal.”

“How would you like to win a Heroism Award?”

“Me?”

“The Evangeline Ashley Heroism Award.”

“Love it. How?”

“Put your arms around me and kiss me. But like a hero.”

And on the twenty-third day of March he asked her to marry him. He even made a joke. “For me, for Mr. Hodges, for the Board of Directors,” he said. “But especially for me.”

The moment was propitious. She was at low ebb. She was unsettled, at loose ends, disappointed, and fearful. Her brief career as an actress had been preposterous even to her. Her return to Florida had been a descent, step by step, from glorified waitress in the Upstairs Room, to the tumultuous affair with Bill Grant, to the sickening and simultaneous affair with Orgaz, to the tiresome job as hostess in a tea room.

Bill Grant was gone. Orgaz was dead, by her hand. She had no job, no plans, no prospects. And she gave grave heed to the warning she had received, a warning which it would be dangerous to ignore. She was, in fact, grateful for the warning, for she knew, from Bill Grant, that Pedro’s associates were not men who had need to give warnings. If she were an embarrassment to one of them he could have squashed her somewhere in the dark and ended any embarrassment. Instead it had been his whim to send an underling with a warning. She had no intention of staying in Florida beyond the prescribed period.

She remembered that hungover morning with the elderly director just prior to her exodus from Hollywood. She remembered his words. Go home and catch up with a nice young guy your own age and get married and have babies and live happily ever after. What have you to lose?

And so she accepted the proposal of Oscar Blinney.

IX

They were married on the morning of the twenty-sixth day of March. During the forenoon of the twenty-sixth day of March, her worldly goods — her Savings Bank account — under arrangements made by Banker Blinney, were transferred in her name to the Mount Vernon Savings Bank in the State of New York from the Miami Savings Bank in the State of Florida.

Then they packed. At two o’clock of the afternoon of the twenty-sixth day of March they flew north for a short honeymoon in Atlantic City, New Jersey. They checked into the Mayfair Hotel at eight o’clock in the evening of the twenty-sixth day of March. At ten o’clock of the evening of the twenty-seventh day of March, during their short honeymoon in Atlantic City, New Jersey, she was, for the first time, unfaithful to him.

He was sick during that day, the twenty-seventh. Stomach virus, the doctor had said, not unusual when coming from the South to the North. It would pass in a day or two, the doctor said.

She went down to the bar, bought herself a drink, and then was bought a drink by the dark curly-haired man. The dark curly-haired man had a deep voice and an elegant manner. He was a salesman for Rona Plastics which was having their convention tomorrow, but he had arrived a day early. He bought more drinks for her and for himself, told her about his lovely twins aged three, told her about his lovely wife whom he loved dearly, and took her to his room.

She returned to her own room at midnight, cognizant of the fact that she had never learned the name of the salesman from Rona Plastics. She wished his twins well, and his wife, looked down upon Blinney who was snoring peacefully, drank bourbon from the open bottle, undressed, and went to bed.

Blinney recovered nicely.

On the thirtieth day of March he took her home to Mount Vernon. Blinney was sentimental. He asked if he could carry her across the threshhold. She approved. She said she would not go in any other way. He carried her across the threshhold.

Within a month Blinney knew that it would not work. Within a month he knew of his egregious mistake. Within a month he knew that he had set, baited, and snapped a trap upon himself (as which of us has not done sometime during a lifetime)? She was slovenly. She was incapable of caring for a home. She had no interest. She drank at all hours of the day. She lay around in flimsy negligee flipping the pages of picture magazines. She did not prepare meals. She could not cook. They ate in restaurants, or, if they ate at home, Blinney would do the cooking as he had done when he was a bachelor.

There were always dishes in the sink, and the house was dirty. Before he was married, Blinney had had a woman who came in to clean four times a week. After he was married, Blinney discharged her. He was ashamed. His wife drank all day. She was capable of filthy language. She could be uproariously drunk in the afternoon. He could not have a stranger in the house. He was ashamed, and he was fearful of the possibility of gossip in the small town.

She was bored, indifferent, and lazy. She depended solely, as she had always done, upon the snare of her sexual attractiveness. Blinney still required her but panic and revulsion had returned. She neglected the house but she took meticulous care of her body. She lay in scented baths. She preened, creamed, and pomaded. Her chief interests were shopping, the beauty parlor, jazz records which she played interminably, bars and taverns in the afternoon, and nightclubs at night.

The pattern settled into mold, congealed, crystallized, fixed. They were as strangers (or as lovers living in hate). Occasionally they went out together; ate, drank, laughed, and even flirted. He detested her and detested himself when he succumbed to her and learned of the satanic thrill of spasmodic flesh-lust practiced in revulsion, despair, and self-hatred.

Thursdays and Fridays are the busiest days in all banks and The First National Mercantile, at 34th Street and 6th Avenue, was no exception. On Thursdays and Fridays Blinney was about as busy as any man who worked at First National Mercantile.

He had developed time-saving procedures. Each Monday he took home the payroll sheets of the week before, studied them, and had an approximate idea of the amounts which would be required. On Thursday at 9:05 he would call down to the vault for the approximate amount of cash in the approximate denominations customarily requisitioned by his five big Thursday accounts.

By nine-thirty, they would call in the actual amounts needed. Within his cage and behind the shatter-proof window (which he could unlock and raise and lower), he would package the payrolls during the quiet of the early morning and during breaks in the more busy hours when there was usually a long line of customers in front of his window. By twelve-thirty his payroll work was completed and the money lay in his drawer within binder-strips marked $1000, $2000, and $5000.

The business of banking at his level was unadventurous and routine; he was a glorified clerk; a sales person behind a counter dealing in currency. Between one and two o’clock in the afternoon the men would come for their parcels of money; usually men in pairs, big and burly ex-policemen, smiling, and making their jokes. They would wait in line until their turn, slip their requisitions through the slot beneath the window, make their first joke, and wait.

He would raise the window, accept their briefcase, neatly stack the packages of money within its recess, listen to another joke, return the briefcase, lower his window, and see them again the next week, hopeful for a better joke. He was not impressed with himself, his business, or the high adventure it entailed.

And so, on the fifth day of May, at one o’clock, when the phone beside him tinkled, he lifted the receiver without enthusiasm. Flatly he said, “Hello?”

The female voice said, “Mr. Blinney?”

“This is he,” he said.

“Adrienne Moore.”

“Who?” he said.

“Adrienne Moore. This is Mr. Blinney?”

His voice took on timbre. “Oh yes. Of course! Gee, Miss Moore. So good of you to call.” But the line of customers stretched in front of him, impatiently buzzing.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” she said.

“As a matter of fact, you are,” he said. “May I call you back later?”

“Yes, of course. Sorry to have been of trouble.”

“No trouble. No trouble at all.”

“I’m in the phone book, Mr. Blinney. The address is Washington Mews. I’ll be in all day.”

“I’ll call you back. Thank you for calling.”

“Oh, not at all. Good-bye, Mr. Blinney.”

“Good-bye, Miss Moore.”

And as he cashed a check for a beaming rotund lunch-hour lady-customer, hope thrilled within him; there welled within him, unaccountably, an intuitive presendment of succor.

He called her, from a phone booth, at five-thirty. By then, he had made up his mind to skip, for the first time, target practice at the Gun Club. He had not talked with another woman, alone, since the advent of Evangeline Ashley. He had not talked with another woman, alone, since the trap had closed upon him, since despair had become a part of him, since his life, in so short a time, had narrowed to a sense-dulled despondent mechanical existence, somehow incomprehensible.

He remembered her, vividly. He remembered Adrienne Moore. He remembered the soft, feminine, sympathetic beauty, despite the drunkenness of that night, and despite the then overwhelming presence of Evangeline Ashley. He remembered the soft outlines of her face. He remembered her sweet smile. He remembered the muted, melodious, deep-toned, cultured voice.

And he remembered the respect she had engendered within him. Respect. Respect was a part of love. Respect had always been a part of his dream of love. Respect! How mad can you get? Respect! — his dream of respect — the woman on the pedestal — and he had married Evangeline Ashley!

He called, from a phone booth, at five-thirty. He asked Miss Moore to dinner and she accepted. He said he would call for her at seven o’clock. She said that would be perfectly lovely and he thanked her and he hung up. Promptly at seven o’clock he presented himself at her house in Washington Mews near Greenwich Village, but they did not go out for dinner.

She answered his ring, opened the door, and invited him in. She wore black pumps, black tapered slacks, and a black sleeveless sweater. She was tall and slender and well-figured and haughty of carriage, darkly smooth-skinned, high-colored in visage, high-hipped, round-armed, delicate-fingered, red-lipped, and tousle-haired.

“Hi,” she said in her serious deep voice. “So good to see you.”

“Hello, Miss Moore,” he said.

“Come in. Please do come in.”

He entered into a large living room which contained one of the rarities of homes in New York: a wood-burning fireplace — which was burning wood. It was a beautiful room, the walls entirely of a warm thin-stripped wood, the ceiling of a lighter wood with inlaid designs. She took his hat and said, “Would you like a Martini, Mr. Blinney?”

“Yes, thank you.”

She poured gin and vermouth and strirred with a long cocktail spoon. “You’re probably wondering about my motives,” she said. “I still want to do you, and I’d like to start tonight, so, by your leave, I took the liberty of preparing a bit of dinner which we’ll eat in. Was I too hold?”

“No, no, not at all.”

She smiled. “You wouldn’t think me an aggressive sort, now would you, Mr. Blinney?”

“I wouldn’t know,” he said. “And please, not Mr. Blinney.”

“Well, I am, Oscar. And according to Kenny, you are of a — well, let us say — of a mild temperament.” She smiled again. “There’s nothing mild about me, Oscar. Perhaps then, with opposite natures, we’ll be good for one another; sort of complement one another.”

“Perhaps,” he said and sipped his Martini.

“Are you too polite to ask the question?”

“Question?” he said.

“If I’m supposed to be that interested in you — how come I took until now to be in touch with you?”

The drink had begun to melt some of his shyness. “I admit I thought of it, I mean, just now, for a moment.”

“I have a very good excuse. I wasn’t here. I just got into town. Today.”

“You remained in Coral Gables?”

“No. I had a show. At the Berkshire Galleries in San Francisco. I flew there directly from Coral Gables. And so now you must realize that I have not been derelict, that I do pursue, and that I’m shamefully aggressive.” And she laughed. And then she cocked her head and studied him. “You know, something’s been added.”

“Pardon?” he said.

“Your face. There’s a new dimension. I believe I’m going to have more fun painting you than I had anticipated.” She moved her head back as she regarded him, her eyes narrowing.

“You sit and sip,” she said, “while I engage myself in my kitchen. Be with you in a trice, or perhaps thrice trice. Thrice trice, nice.” She giggled, as a very young girl. “Thrice trice is not twice trice but thrice trice. Say that quickly a dozen times or so. It’ll cut the waiting time.”

Appetizer was hot shrimp, main course was roast ribs of beef with mashed potatoes and juice-gravy, tossed green salad, and sparkling Burgundy; dessert was expresso coffee and petit-fours, and more sparkling Burgundy. And then she said, “Oscar, you’re exactly as I pictured you would be. This has really been a charming evening and I thank you.”

“Oh no. I thank you.”

“Which brings me to another point.”

“Yes?”

“I warned you I was a blunt one.”

“Yes, Adrienne?”

“Blunt, yes, but not bitchy, although what I’ll say now may sound bitchy. About the girl you were with that night, Evangeline.”

“I... I...”

“If ever there were two people who didn’t belong in each other’s company!”

“I... please...” He reached for the goblet of Burgundy and drank rapidly.

“You’re obviously such a decent kind of guy. And that one.” She shook her head, her face serious and puzzled. “She had a horrible reputation at school, just horrible. And the rumors that drifted back after she left school...”

“Please.”

“I was no longer in Coral Gables but, gosh, every time I had a visitor from the South, they were full of choice tidbits of Evangeline Ashley in Rome, and Evangeline Ashley in Hollywood. I just can’t understand a man like you and a gal like that — and honestly, I’m not being bitchy.”

“I... I married her.”

It was as though she had not heard. “Pardon?”

“I married her.”

And now it was as though she did not understand. “Married whom?”

“Evangeline Ashley.”

And now it struck and blood suffused her face in a dark flush. “I’m sorry. Oh, I’m dreadfully sorry. I’m so damned ashamed.”

“I... I regret it.”

“So do I. Please forgive me.” The flush remained, perspiration at her temples. The deep, dark, enormous eyes quivered with tears. “I... I’m just beside myself. Damn!”

“No, no.” He gulped, spoke slowly, distinctly. “I regret that I married her.”

“Please. If you please. I’d rather not talk about it.”

“No. If you please. I rather would. I must. Please. Please listen.”

And he had release. He had confession. Calmly, unhurriedly, stolidly, in an unemotional monotone, as though a witness reciting the misadventures of another, he told her all he knew of Evangeline Ashley, from the moment that he had first seen her to the present; he told her of his courtship and his marriage; he told her of his trap and its convolutions, the impossible insoluble quandary; he told her of himself, his background, his parents, his job, the bank, Alfred Hodges, even the Board of Directors — all in relation to Evangeline Ashley.

He talked for almost two hours to her nods, grunts, murmurs, and small noises of comprehension, but she did not interrupt once. And then he was finished. He sat back, and they were silent.

And then he said, “I’m sorry.”

Almost truculently she said, “For what?”

“For sitting her and running off at the mouth like that. For boring you. For—”

“Now stop that!”

He sighed, bit a corner of his mouth. “Maybe it was the wine. Maybe I just had to talk to someone. Maybe it was... was you.”

“I hope, sincerely — it was I.”

He pushed his knees against the chair and stood up. “I’ll be going now. I thank you, for everything... and for listening.”

“Going where, Oscar?”

He shrugged.

“Home?” she said.

“No.” He spoke the word dully.

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why?”

He shrugged again. “Because I think I’ve taken advantage of you. Because it’s late. Because you’ve been very nice, and I’m most appreciative. Because I like you... very much... too much.”

“That’s no reason for wanting to go away, is it?” And she stood up, and her smile was small, and tender.

“It is,” he said. “Things... happen to me. Thoughts. An excitement with certain people. You. It’s wrong.” He grimaced, ran a hand down his cheek. “There must be something wrong with me. Rotten. I must be rotten somewhere.”

“Not at all,” she said. “Sensitive, perhaps yes. The kind of thoughts that run through your mind run through the minds of all men, and they delight in them, they feel a masculine delight with themselves, they don’t feel they’re rotten, and they feel no guilt about it.” The small smile widened. “Kindly understand. This is explanation. Not encouragement.”

“But what I’m trying to say—”

“I know just what the heck you’re trying to say. I’m a woman, I’m an attractive woman, and if I wouldn’t — how shall I say? — stir the beast in a man, I’d be awfully disappointed, in myself, and the man. But we don’t live in a jungle, and I’m not — forgive me — an Evangeline Ashley. I have scruples, and principles, and morals, and all the rest of that bosh, except it isn’t bosh. Now, if you please, you don’t go home on Thursdays, do you?”

“No.”

“You may stay over here, if you wish.”

“But you—”

“Oscar, you’re a dear innocent, and like all dear innocents, more direct, more deadly, and more dangerous than the supposed sophisticates. Staying over here, sleeping here, does not mean sleeping with me. Kindly, dear innocent, get that straight. I have plans for you, and for the nonce, and probably for a long time to come, they are non-sexual. I like you very much. In my own way, as I had suspected I would, I may be falling in love with you, already.

“But, I repeat, I’m not — well, let’s not mention names. Let’s say I’m not of that ilk, not at all. Now, tonight, I’d like to do my first sketch of you. Tonight, your face, to me, the painter, is just wonderful, I love it. So, if you’re willing...”

“Yes,” he said. “I’d like to stay.”

“And you’ll sit for me?”

“Of course.”

“Now?”

“Yes,” he said.

“It’s tiring, especially at the beginning. But I’ll babble. I won’t talk about you, or any of your problems. I’ll talk about me.”

“I’m ready,” he said.

“Come with me, dearest innocent.”

X

They saw one another every day. They ate together, either in Washington Mews, or in restaurants that they kept “discovering.” They were deeply, quickly, in love. They went to theatre together, concerts, ballet, museums, art exhibits, jazz joints, coffee houses, and opera. They slept, frequently, under one roof, separately.

Oscar Blinney, quiet, reserved, laconic, and outwardly bland, but harried, suffering, miserably happy at odd moments and deeply despondent at others, had had the double experience — for the first time in twenty-nine years — and one within three months of the other — of the ecstasy and nadir-reaction of fulminating infatuation with one woman and the profound, humble, beatific, and expanding emotion of love with another, when, on the seventh day of June, the woman to whom he was married announced that she was pregnant.

He came home, perspiring, at midnight of a warm Friday, and Evangeline was waiting for him, cool and pony-tailed, in orange ballet-tights, orange slippers, and a tight orange sleeveless backless scoop-necked blouse.

“Hi, Dad,” she said. “Nice to see you once in a while.”

“Likewise,” he said.

“Nice to see you, Dad,” she said. “And the Dad ain’t jazz-type talk, Dad. The Dad is real Dad.”

“Oh, now, what the hell this time?” he said wearily.

“Dad, you’re going to be a father, Dad. Like I’m a little bit knocked up.”

He could not have predicted his reaction. Adrienne had called him an innocent and right then he knew, for all time, that he was. His heart leaped within him and the elixir of total forgiveness was part of his blood. Suddenly Adrienne Moore was an impropriety. Suddenly the salve of love was a blistering ointment. Suddenly the garish woman before him, hatefully attractive, was Mother, was the Mother-Of-All, was Eve, was Mary with Miraculous Child. Suddenly there was hope, transcendence, reformation of the accursed. The new-born, the young, the progeny would purify.

Suddenly there was hope, of child, children, family, purpose, a knitting together, a striving-forward, a balance, a meaning, a plan and design no matter how jaggedly fitted together. Now the edges would smoothen; life stirring in one would perform amelioration upon all. Suddenly perspiration was of emotion rather than climate. He thrust off his jacket, pulled down his tie, opened his shirt.

“Are you sure?” he said.

“Too goddamned sure,” she said.

And still the nirvana was upon him. “How do you know?”

“I went to a doctor, that’s how I know. I had the whole bit, the rabbit bit, everything. There’s a babe, no doubts, no angles, no anything else. Like no tumor, you know?”

“Now look, Eve, maybe this is it. Maybe this is what we needed. Maybe we settle down, you know? Kids, a family, little ones, something to punch for, something to get together about, something to give us focus, a reason, a meaning...”

“Rave on, McDuff.”

“No, Eve, seriously, this could be it.”

“In a pig’s eye it could be it.”

“No, Eve, listen—”

“Now you listen, and listen real close. I’m going to have this thing aborted. Now in Cuba, Havana, they do it like legal, real nice, in a hospital, antiseptic, you know what I mean. I’m going. I’m flying down, fast. I want you to pay. If you don’t pay, I use my own loot. You got me into this. Get me out.”

“No,” he said.

“Yes,” she said.

“Eve, listen to me—”

“Sure, listen to you — because it’s not you. Well, you listen to me — because it’s me. I’m not going to carry your brat. It makes me sick, just to think of it. You’re so good, you’re so considerate — why don’t you try to understand that? I don’t want — and either you send me, or I go myself. Now which way do you want it, Daddy-boy? Nice, proper, ethical fella — which way do you want it? You send me, or do I send myself?”

And at last, he knew. Finally, completely, sickeningly — he knew. Suddenly he was whole again, forever. “I’ll send you,” he said.

“Nice Daddy,” she said. “Now the sooner I go the better. In a day or two. All right?”

“How much?”

“I’ll go for a month. Take care of it, rest up, you know. I figure two thousand for the whole deal. Two thousand should do it. Any more, I’ll pay out of my own.”

Evangeline returned on the second day of July. She had been gone twenty-three days. It was a Saturday at ten o’clock in the morning. Blinney was in pajamas, in the kitchen, frying bacon and eggs. Adrienne Moore was in Chicago, on business, for the weekend. He heard the outside door slam and he called, “Who is it?”

“It’s me,” she said.

He had never seen her looking better. She was deeply tanned, glowing and her expression was radiant.

“I brought a friend,” she said.

Her arm was linked through the arm of her friend. Her friend was tall, dark, slender, erect, and handsome. Her friend was dressed in beautiful fashion: charcoal-grey pin-stripe suit of silk, shiny black shoes, oyster-grey shirt of the finest cambric, conservative tiny gold-figured tie of black foulard.

Her friend had a black curly Vandyke beard, charming, dashing, Bohemian, well-tended and trimmed. Her friend had dark eyes as soft as a woman’s, and an amused, bemused, somewhat sardonic expression.

“This is Bill Grant,” she said.

“How do you do,” said Blinney.

“My husband, Oscar Blinney.”

“How do you do,” said Bill Grant.

“Bill is an old friend from Miami,” said Evangeline.

“Ran into each other in Havana,” said Bill Grant. “Americans can’t miss in Havana. There are only a certain number of places that Americans frequent Sooner or later, they meet.”

“You going to stay in the States now, Mr. Grant?” said Blinney.

“For a short while. Perhaps six weeks or so. Actually, I’m en route to London.”

There was a sizzle from the kitchen. “Bacon burning,” said Blinney. “You people hungry?”

“Starved,” said Evangeline.

“Bacon and eggs?” said Blinney.

“Fine,” said Bill Grant.

After breakfast Evangeline said, “Are you going to need the car, Oz?”

“Not especially. Why?”

“There’s a good motel a couple of miles down on the Highway. Silver Crest, I think it’s called. I’d like to drive Bill over.”

“What about your bags, Mr. Grant?”

“They’re outside in your foyer.”

“So are mine,” said Evangeline. “I wish you’d take them up for me, Oz. All right about the car?”

“Certainly,” said Blinney.

“Thank you,” said Bill Grant.

“Not at all,” said Blinney.

Whether Oscar Blinney was driven by unconscious motive to go home the next Thursday night he could never say. Whether the conscious rationale of feeling suddenly very tired was a screen for the unconscious motivation, he could never say. He had never gone home on a Thursday night since he was married. He went home on this Thursday night.

He had no conscious desire to sneak, to peek, to pry. He went home because Adrienne had a bad cold and couldn’t see him and the Gun Club meeting seemed an intolerable alternative. He went home in order to wear a clean unstained suit the next day; he went home in order to bathe and sleep in the house where he was born; he did not go home to spy upon Mrs. Evangeline Ashley Blinney.

The house was dark when he arrived. There was no hum from the air-conditioners. The foyer was hot and airless when he put on the light. He threw off his jacket and went directly upstairs to the bedroom. He opened the door to a heavy admixture of many odors: perfume, perspiration, bourbon, stale cigarettes, smell of human breathing.

He switched on the light. They lay in his bed without covers, asleep. Bill Grant was prone, on his stomach, sleeping on one side of his face. She huddled about him, as though protecting him. There was an empty bottle of bourbon on the floor beside the bed. There were glasses on the bed-table. Stubs of cigarettes floated stickily in the brown residue in the glasses. The ashtrays were heaped with butts.

The overhead light did not disturb Bill Grant. He remained prone, on his stomach, sleeping soundlessly, on the side of his face. She moved. She raised herself upon an elbow, turned her head and blinked her eyes, annoyance disfiguring her face. She saw her husband. She closed one eye, squinting. Then she lifted one hand, waving him off, fingers-moving slowly.

“Go away,” she said thickly. “Put out that damn light and go away. Will you please?”

“Phew,” Blinney said, feeling an infinite disgust.

He went to the air-conditioner and touched a button. The motor commenced its initial roar. He crossed to the light-switch and thumbed off the overhead light. He closed the door and went downstairs. He put on his jacket and left the house. He walked all the way to the station breathing deeply and contentedly.

He was cured and he knew it. Finally the sickness was vanquished and he was immune to recurrence. He never slept in the same bed with her again. For the remainder of their marriage he slept downstairs in the living room. He never desired her again. The sickness was finished.

The one remaining problem was ridding himself of her. The trap was as firmly sealed as ever but at least it was no longer a trap within a trap; he was loosened from self-hatred; her lure was dissipated; her wiles were feckless; he was free of her within himself.

XI

On the seventh day of August, the third Wednesday of that month, Adrienne Moore was packing for a trip to France, a quick trip, but one which she faced with divided emotions. She was to have a two-week showing of some of her paintings in one of the major galleries of Paris and she was to attend a number of dinners where she and her work were to be feted and honored. This was a distinct and important step in an already important career and a step which, her manager insisted, could not and should not be avoided.

In all, the trip comprised nineteen days. Not long, but she was worried about Blinney. She was loath but she was prevailed upon. Now, when Blinney arrived, she had completed her packing. He arrived at five-twenty. He had a post-graduate class in banking for that evening which he had no intention of attending. He was to accompany her to the airport. Her plane was scheduled to take off at seven o’clock.

They had a drink together and they chatted and she studied him with her painter’s eye and she wondered suddenly whether she had been wrong to deny herself to him.

At a quarter to six the phone rang and she answered it and she came from it perplexed. “It’s for you,” she said.

“Me?” he said. “Who would be calling me here?”

“It’s a man,” she said.

“What man?” he said.

“He didn’t give a name. Wants to talk to you.”

He went to the telephone, lifted the receiver, said, “Hello?”

“Bill Grant, here,” said Bill Grant.

“Who?”

“Take it easy, pal. Easy does it. Keep your voice down and talk like it’s casual. I said — this is Bill Grant.”

Softly Blinney said, “How did you know to call me here?”

“Oh, man, there are a lot of things I know. Like your chick is taking a plane for Paris at seven o’clock. Good? Good, huh?”

“What do you want?”

“You’ll tell her it’s somebody from the bank that called you. A friend like about an excuse for cutting your class tonight. Dig?”

“Yes. What do you want?”

“I want to talk to you. Personal. You and me. Alone.”

“What about?”

“About your — dilemma. That’s a beauty for what you’ve got, pal. A dilemma. And, man, yours is a whopper. I may be able to help, Mr. Blinney. You do know what I’m talking about?”

“What?”

“Evangeline. Dig?”

“Yes.”

“Will you meet me tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Remember this address. Two thirty-three East thirty-third. It’s apartment 1A. Push the button downstairs. How’s nine o’clock?”

“Yes.”

“You’re a smart man, Mr. Blinney. A pleasure to talk to you. See you at nine. Tell the chick it’s a guy from the bank. Bye, now.” He hung up.

Blinney hung up and returned smiling fearfully.

“Who was that?” she asked.

“One of the boys from the bank.”

“Bank?”

“Fellow who takes class with me. I once told him where he could reach me, not at home, in case of emergency. His idea of a gag.” He looked at his watch. “I think we’d better get going.”

“Yes,” she said...

He took her to the plane. He saw her off. He kissed her goodbye. He had a light dinner at the restaurant at the airport. He thought about Evangeline and Bill Grant. He suddenly had hope. Perhaps they were in love. Perhaps they wanted one another. Perhaps this was it. Perhaps this would produce the divorce that he desired so devoutly: quiet, friendly, practical, adult, uncontested and unrecriminatory.

In the taxi, driving back into town, he resolved not to add new guilt to old guilt so newly acquired. He would tell Bill Grant. He would tell what he knew of Evangeline. He would not permit this man to follow the spoor that he had created. He would tell him all, everything he knew about Evangeline, and then, if the man persisted, he, Blinney, would have no remainder of stigma of guilt.

He rolled down the windows as they traversed the bridge. It was hot-August but the hot breeze was cooling. The cab stopped at 33rd Street and Second Avenue.

“It’s one-way the other way,” the cabbie said. “You want to get out here, mister? Save you two-bits.”

“Sure,” said Blinney.

He paid and alighted. He walked to 233 East 33rd Street. It was an old brownstone with a new yellow-brick front. It had a seven-stepped stoop that led into a small, dim, hot, dank-smelling lobby. The name grant was printed in ink on a strip of cardboard in a narrow bracket above one of the bells.

Blinney pushed the bell, the buzz of a clicker, responded, and Blinney pressed his palm against a glass-panelled door which opened upon a steep wooden stairway. He climbed the stairs and knocked upon the door of 1A. “Come right in,” called the voice of Bill Grant.

Blinney opened the door and closed it behind him. Bill Grant was seated in a frayed easy chair. Bill Grant was smiling welcome but the gun in his hand negated the smile. It was a large gun. Blinney recognized the type. It was a Luger. The Luger was pointed at him.

“So good to see you,” said Bill Grant.

“Please don’t point that gun at me,” said Oscar Blinney.

“Mostly,” said Bill Grant, “it’s for effect.”

“It has made its effect.”

“The purpose was to startle you.”

“I am startled,” said Blinney.

“That was the primary purpose. There are secondary purposes.”

“So?” said Blinney.

“You know, you’re a cool one,” said Bill Grant. “I like that. That’s all to the good. It’ll work out to our mutual benefit.”

“Let’s get to the secondary purposes — if that will stop you from pointing the gun at me.”

“Secondary purposes are sundry,” said Bill Grant, “as follows, extraordinary circumstance. Reaction — excellent. I commend you.” He touched his free hand to his beard. “Second, to acquaint you with the fact that I own a gun. Third, to acquaint you with the fact that I know how to handle a gun. Fourth — and on this you must take my word — to inform you that if I shot you dead right now, it would not mean one goddamned thing to me. I have done it before, shot people dead. Clear, Mr. Blinney?”

“Clear,” said Blinney. “Would you now stop pointing the gun at me? Or better still, put it away.”

“Are you afraid of guns, Mr. Blinney?”

“Mortally,” said Blinney.

“Capital,” said Bill Grant, grinning approval. “You know, I like you, Mr. Blinney. I wasn’t certain whether I would. But I do. It makes matters so much more pleasant, dealing with people you like. You know?”

“I’m still uncomfortable, Mr. Grant.” Blinney pointed. “The gun.”

“But you’re quite a marksman yourself, aren’t you, sir?”

“How do you know?”

“I know, I know.” Grant’s head moved up and down. “I know so much about you, Mr. Blinney, I’m fairly leaking information. I’ve devoted the last six weeks of my life to you, Mr. Blinney. To you, almost exclusively.”

Grant lowered the gun, and his shoulders moved as he chuckled. “All right. Sit down. Over there.” He pointed to an easy chair facing his. “Sit, and let’s stop making with the charming palaver. We have serious talking to do, you and I.”

Blinney sat in the chair indicated.

Grant rose and placed the gun on a mantel behind his chair, returned to the chair, sat, slumped, crossed his legs and clasped his hands. “Where do you want me to begin, Mr. Blinney?” he said.

“Since I have no idea why I’m here, or what you want to begin — begin wherever you like, Mr. Grant.”

“Now you’re getting annoying, Mr. Blinney.” Grant unclasped his hands and straightened in the chair. “Don’t annoy me. I don’t like it.”

“What do you want of me, Mr. Grant? You called me. And how did you know to call me there?”

“Now come off it, pal. I told you I’ve practically been living on your tail these past six weeks. I know so much about you, it makes me sick. I know about your Mama and your Papa and why you were called Oscar and your fight-career and the bank and Alfred Hodges and Mr. McKnish and the Board of Directors and the fancy chick you’re living with. I know so much about you, Mr. Blinney, I’m regurgitating with it.”

“Why?” said Blinney.

Grant wrinkled his nose and his voice touched falsetto. “Because I’m going to help you, that’s why, Mr. Blinney.”

“Look,” said Blinney. “Are you in love with Evangeline? Is that what all this back-scratching is about? Because, if you are, first I want to tell you—”

“In love with that two-timing little tramp!” Grant’s eyes went round and he raised a hand and pushed it against the air as though holding something back. “Are you out of your mind? Look here, Mr. Blinney, you married that bum, not me. You married her, remember? And she’s trouble, big trouble, especially for a guy like you. And I’m here to get you out of your trouble.”

“How?” said Oscar Blinney. He rested his elbows upon the arms of the frayed easy chair and he touched the fingers of one hand to the fingers of the other.

“May I start at the beginning now?” said Bill Grant.

“Please do,” said Oscar Blinney.

“No. I’ll be kind. I won’t tell you all about Evangeline. Only as applies to us, you and me. First off, even crud like that had somewhere, hidden within it, emotion. And I” — he lowered his head in a form of bow — “am the fortunate recipient of the flow of her emotion. You, for instance, are the jerk of jerks to her. Me? I’m God. Sort of gives me a bit of power, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes,” said Blinney.

“We were friends in Miami. She knew I’d gone to Havana. And when she got sick and tired and bored to death of you, she came to Havana seeking me. She did not need an abortion, Mr. Blinney.”

“Oh, no. No...”

“Oh, yes. Yes. She did not need an abortion. She knew you for the jerk you are and she knew how to work her points. She held you up for that two thousand, like expense money, to pay her way while she tried to find me. She found me. She knew I had no interest in her but she knew I had an interest in a big score. A big score. Do you know what that means, Mr. Blinney?”

“Yes. I think...”

“She knew my interest in a big score would freshen up my interest in her. She told me all about you. Everything. All about you. Naturally, she’s a crumb. She threw the pitch but she threw the wrong one. You know what her idea was, Mr. Blinney?”

“No,” he said.

“To let you out. To ease you out. I was to convince you that a proper divorce, at any price, was cheap — which, of course, in your case, it is. You’d pay, right through the nose. You had seventeen big ones in the bank. You gave two to her. That left fifteen. Your house in Mount Vernon is now worth thirty thousand dollars. In case you don’t know that, I’m telling you. Your wife made discreet inquiries. Thirty and fifteen is forty-five.

“A guy like you figures to be able to borrow like fifteen. Total, sixty large ones. That was her proposition. That I come up to the States, and use my... er... persuasion to convince you. For a guy like you, it would be worth it. Aside from the job-business, you’re not a guy who can mix in filth. You weren’t brought up that way; it’s not in you. Free and clear and no complications, I could convince you.”

“And that’s why you came up here?”

“No.”

“But didn’t you say—”

“Mr. Blinney, you married into another world. We’re people who don’t even speak your language. I’m trying hard to get through so that you can understand. Understand?”

“No.”

“I’ve worked it out for you, Mr. Blinney. I’m your deliverer. I’ve planted a double-frame, it’s so perfect, it tickles me. You’re protected, I’m protected — and even your banker’s mind won’t be able to figure out a flaw. And you’re out — clean, clear, once and for all — and it costs you nothing, you hang on to your sixty gee.

“There’s only one way, Mr. Blinney. Way down deep in your heart, you know it. What you’ve been pushing away, what you don’t dare let yourself think about. There’s only one way, Mr. Blinney, and you damned well know it.”

Faintly: “What way?”

“We kill her, Mr. Blinney,” said Grant.

“No!” Blinney half-rose from the chair.

“Sit down.”

Blinney sat.

“We’re going to kill her, Mr. Blinney. It’s so perfect, it’s beautiful. You read in the storybooks about a perfect crime. Daddy, this is it. I’ve already put the thing into operation, the gears are meshing like crazy. Everybody is going to be protected. Nobody is going to be able to put the finger on anybody. And everybody’s going to be protected a hundred percent. One hundred percent. You’re going to be out — clean, clear, a hundred percent. And you’ll probably wind up marrying that Adrienne Moore of yours and live happily ever after.”

“No.”

“You don’t want to live happily ever after?”

“I don’t want to—”

“You don’t want to kill her, Mr. Blinney. Is that it?”

“Are you mad? Of course I don’t!”

“Well, you’re not going to, pal. I am. I’m going to kill her on your behalf. I’m going to do you the biggest favor that ever happened, except, actually, I’m not a hundred percent Samaritan. I figure to make a score on this myself. A nice lovely score for me, and a nice lovely score for you, only different kinds of scores. Me? I’ll have loot to burn. You? You’ll have Adrienne Moore, and you’ll get married, and you’ll live happily ever after.”

“No!” said Oscar Blinney.

“Yes!” said Bill Grant. “Wait’ll I tell you. You’re not going to be able to resist this, Mr. Blinney. Not even you.”

XII

Bill Grant rose up from his chair and went to the slide-door of a shallow closet and slid the door and said, “I have bourbon and I have Scotch. What’s your preference, Mr. Blinney?”

“Scotch,” said Blinney.

Bill Grant tipped bottles to tumblers’, added tap water from the bathroom, brought a drink to Blinney and held a drink for himself. “I must first give you a prologue, Mr. Blinney. I must first tell you about me. I’m a guy that’s been looking for the big score all his life,” said Bill Grant. “Sure, I’ve earned money in my time. Oh, I can’t deny that. Five hundred a week. A thou a week. Two thousand a week.

“But that’s money that you spend. It’s not money, like capital. It’s not a hunk you can throw into a stock market, and if you get lucky, you’re a big man. It’s not a lump that you can operate from. I’ve always been looking for that lump, for a piece all together, for a big score. Can you understand that, Mr. Blinney?”

Blinney said nothing.

“This bum whom you married came down to Havana with a proposition which she thought I’d tie on to. I didn’t. The take wasn’t big enough, and the mark — that’s you — might shake it off. But the more she talked, the more I grew interested, because there were angles present that that idiot had no conception of. So I came back here to the States and checked and checked and checked. And you gain, and I gain, and there is no risk, and we get rid of what we don’t want. Are you with me, Mr. Blinney?”

Blinney still said nothing.

“You’re not the talkative type, are you?”

“No,” said Blinney.

Grant went to the drawer of a rickety desk, opened it, extracted long green sheets, and brought them to Blinney. “Recognize?” he said.

“What the hell are you doing with these?”

“Part of my research, Mr. Blinney. The payroll sheets that you’d study at home.” He sat down, and scanned the green sheets. He read from them: “Martin Aircraft. Number of employees, six hundred and fifty five. Total payroll, seventy thousand dollars. Fifty-five thousand in one hundred dollar bills. Five thousand in fifties. The rest in smaller bills. Hughes Construction. Number of employees, five hundred and Forty. Total payroll, sixty thousand dollars...” His voice droned on and on.

“I didn’t need the reading,” said Blinney. “I know those figures.”

“But do you understand the significance of those figures, Mr. Blinney?”

“Actually, they are approximations. Each set is for the week before.”

“Now don’t go banker on me, Mr. Blinney. Do you understand the significance?”

“What significance?”

Grant’s chuckle came from his chest. “Oh, you weird banker innocents. This significance, Mr. Blinney. Before distribution into all the little pay-envelopes, before the armored cars make their trips, before that whole big-deal operation of distribution, there’s like three hundred thousand dollars sitting nice and quiet in your cage-drawer, and like two hundred and fifty thousand of that — a quarter of a million bucks — is in large bills without earmarks. It is coming through to you, Mr. Blinney?”

Blinney squinted in disbelief, shook his head as though in remonstrance to a mischievous child, said nothing, drank.

Grant returned the payroll sheets to the drawer, went to the closet, and came back with an attache case. He opened it. “Notice, Mr. Blinney. An attache case, but a rather deep one, deeper than the usual kind.” He stared down at Blinney who was gazing up at him. Blinney was still squinting disbelief.

“This case,” said Bill Grant, “will hold two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in packages of one-hundred and fifties. I know. I measured. I used a dummy package. Of course it didn’t contain hundreds. It contained singles. But hundreds are no thicker than singles, are they, Mr. Blinney?”

“You’re crazy,” said Blinney.

“Like a fox, I’m crazy.”

“You can’t possibly think you can get away with anything like this. What’s the matter with you?”

Grant restored the attache case to the closet, and made drinks for both of them. He sipped and Blinney sipped and then he placed his glass beside the gun and leaned, easily and gracefully, against the mantel.

“I’ve cased that joint many times, your First National Mercantile. I’ve studied the entire layout. For instance, the south door lets you out practically at the entrance to the subway on Thirty-fourth Street Did you know that?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know that the south door is thirty-seven paces from your cage; thirty-seven paces of a normal man walking? Did you know that, Mr. Blinney?”

“No.”

“And the subway station right outside the door — the platform downstairs extends all the way to Thirty-sixth Street. As a matter of fact, if you put in your token and become part of that subway system, there’s a ramp underneath that goes practically to Thirty-eighth Street, with exits leading out to each street. Did you know that, Mr. Blinney?”

“Yes, yes, I know that.”

“I just want you to know that I know all of that, Mr. Blinney. Man, I’ve had six weeks of concentration on this. And I also know about alarm signals, and motion picture cameras that start shooting at the press of a button, and the four guards that patrol the floor with loaded guns in their holsters, and I don’t give a damn for any of that. Now I’d like to show you some more, Mr. Blinney.” He went again to the desk-drawer, extracted several objects, brought them to Blinney. “First take a look at these,” he said.

Blinney looked. He saw two tickets for a plane flight to London.

“Non-stop,” said Bill Grant. “Notice the date?”

“August eighteenth.”

“Which is tomorrow. And tomorrow is a Thursday. Flight time, by the way, is three o’clock in the afternoon.” He slipped the tickets into his pocket, handed Blinney another object. “You know what that is, don’t you, Mr. Blinney?”

“Passport.”

“Well, look at it, please. Examine it. Don’t be bashful.”

Blinney examined. He saw a passport, in perfect order, made out to one William Granville. He saw a photo of a smooth-shaven young man wearing glasses.

“Did you ever meet William Granville?” said Bill Grant.

“No,” said Oscar Blinney.

“You’re talking to him,” said Bill Grant.

“You?” said Blinney, looking up. “But, but—”

And now Bill Grant placed the last object in his hands, a pair of glasses, upon the bridge of his nose. “Clean-shaven and with my specs, I’m William Granville. And you have the signal honor, Mr. Blinney, outside of official-stuff, official documents, you know — you have the signal honor of being the first person in my adult life to have become acquainted with Mr. William Granville.”

“I tell you you’re crazy, Mr... Mr...”

“Stick to Grant, Mr. Blinney.”

“You’re crazy, Mr. Grant.”

“You’ll change your mind before I’m through, Mr. Blinney.” He removed the glasses, took the passport from Blinney, brought them to the mantel, deposited them. He sipped his drink, smiled. “I’m still up at the Silver Crest, you know.” He waved a hand. “I retained this princely abode about three weeks ago — as Bill Grant, of course. I paid a month’s rent in advance. Nobody knows about this place — except you, now. I’ve probably been here three times before today.”

“But why?” Blinney sipped, sighed. “Mr. Grant, you’re probably older than I am, but I should like to give you some fatherly advice. I’m afraid that you, as so many others who have deluded themselves before you, has worked out, or thinks he has worked out, some airtight, foolproof, elaborate—”

“Shut up!”

Blinney shrugged.

“Now let me tell you what this room contains, Mr. Blinney. Aside from these little personal effects that I showed you, there is a scissors, a razor, and shaving cream. There is also a blue suit, a white shirt, a blue tie, a pair of blue socks, and a pair of black shoes. There is also the attache case and these couple of bottles of whiskey and there is nothing else. Oh! Let me show you the shoes. You’ll like that.”

“Shoes?” said Blinney.

Grant brought a pair of black slip-on-type shoes from the closet He held them in one hand as he stood before Blinney, holding himself tall and erect. “First observe me now.”

Once more Blinney shrugged. He sipped, nodded. “I have observed you.”

Grant kicked out of the shoes he was wearing and slipped on the new ones. He stood straight “Now observe,” he said.

Blinney instantly noted the difference. “But... but... how... I don’t understand...”

“Vanity,” said Bill Grant. “The other shoes are custom-made, built-up. With those, I’m six feet. These are regular shoes. With these, I’m five feet ten inches. Two inches make a vast difference in the height of an individual.”

“You’re right,” said Blinney. “No question.”

“I’ll be wearing the built-up ones when I visit you tomorrow.”

“Visit? Me? Are you back on that...?”

Grant drank, then seated himself opposite Blinney. “Now you listen to me, pal. And listen real hard. Tomorrow morning, at about ten o’clock, Bill Brant shall leave his room at the Silver Crest Motel. He shall go to the office, ask to use the office typewriter, type out a note, and place this into his pocket. He shall be wearing these high-heeled shoes and a neat grey suit. He shall be carrying a large suitcase which shall be practically empty. He shall take a taxi to the railroad station and take a train to New York. He shall arrive, by train scheduled, at eleven-forty Have you followed that, Mr. Blinney?”

“Yes.”

“Arriving in New York, he shall purchase a box of cigars, and he shall ask to have that wrapped in plain brown paper. Then he shall come here to this flea-trap, rest, pace, prowl, whatever, until the proper time. At the proper time, leaving his large and empty suitcase here, he shall take up his box of cigars in the plain brown-paper wrapping, and his empty attache case, and he shall go to the First National Mercantile Bank.

“He shall arrive there at twenty-five minutes to one, a crowded hour, and he shall get on the line in front of the cage of Mr. Oscar Blinney. When his turn comes, he shall give Mr. Blinney the typewritten note. Mr. Blinney shall comply with the directions contained in the note. Won’t you, Mr. Blinney?”

“No. No, I won’t.”

“Yes you will. For a number of reasons. The first reason — the contents of the note. The note states that the bearer has knowledge of the payrolls waiting in your drawer. The note states that the bearer is carrying, under his left arm, a highly explosive bomb. If he drops it, it will wreck the bank, kill you, kill him, and kill at least fifty others. And you’ll do exactly what the note tells you to do, Mr. Blinney.”

“I won’t.”

“Oh, you will. And nobody can blame you, can they? A bomb threat, which is not only a threat to you and to the bearer, but to so many innocent people who are in the bank.”

Blinney said nothing. He finished the drink and set the glass on the floor.

“After you have complied, Mr. Blinney, I shall exit by the south door. Immediately, I shall enter into the subway, insert a prepared token into the turnstile, walk the ramp to an exit at Thirty-seventh Street, take a taxi to the East Side, and walk the rest of the way back to this flea-trap here. The rest is simple. Is it beginning to come to you, Mr. Blinney?”

Blinney made no answer.

“Once here, I work quickly and effortlessly, for the remainder is so charmingly simple. I shave off the beard. I change into the clothes that are here: the blue suit, the normal shoes, all. Then everything — everything — attache case and all, gets dumped into the big suitcase. There shall be no trace whatever of any living soul in this room. All fingerprints shall be wiped away. That was done also up at Silver Crest, and done to the note that was handed to you. You leave that to me. I’m an expert at that.

“And then I depart, clip out the name grant from the bell downstairs, and take a taxicab to the airport. And then, what have we, Mr. Blinney? What have we? What’s the matter? You look a little green around the gills? What have we, Mr. Blinney?”

Blinney was silent.

“I’ll tell you what we have, Mr. Blinney. We have a sensational bank robbery. We have police scurrying around, headlines in newspapers, detectives detecting, experts deducing, excitement, runaround, statements from officials, viewing of rogues’ gallery pictures, and a round-up of all known criminals using that modus operandi for a bank heist. That’s what we have on one hand.

“On the other hand, we have the complete disappearance of an individual known as Bill Grant. We have, while the police are searching for a six-feet-tall bearded man who might be pin-pointed as one Bill Grant, a small, simple, clean-shaven fellow wearing glasses named William Granville taking up his reservation on a plane bound for London, and taking with him Bill Grant into oblivion. The bearded man will never be found. The crime, as other major crimes of which we have heard, will never be solved. Period. There we have it, Mr. Blinney. Who’s crazy now?”

Oscar Blinney said not one word. He could feel the perspiration upon his face and his scalp itchily crinkled with sweat.

“We’re going to swing it, Mr. Blinney. The — perfect — crime!” He was silent for a moment, standing motionless in front of Blinney. “Do you know why you’re going to co-operate?”

“Why?” Blinney rose, towering. “Why, why — why, damn you?”

“Because your problem is insurmountable. Because you married a psychopathic witch who’ll drag you into filth and then drag you deeper. Because there is no out for you, Mr. Blinney, no escape — except one, and it’s so perfect, it’s beautiful.”

“What the devil are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about your release from Evangeline Ashley, your one release, your one escape. I’m talking about the death of a nothing, a cockroach stepped on, an insect squashed — and freedom at last — clean, clear, sweet, final freedom at last — for a poor sucker that got in so far over his head that he’s drowning.”

“No!” The room was hot. Spots whirled before Blinney’s eyes.

“She’s leaving you, pal. And that would be more scandal, wouldn’t it? She’s running out on you, baby. She’s running away. With — guess who? With me.”

“What the hell?” said Blinney. “What the hell?”

“Not with William Granville, Mr. Blinney. She’s never heard of William Granville. She thinks she’s running away with Bill Grant. It’s all fixed. She thinks she’s leaving with me tomorrow morning. She thinks Bill Grant is going to London to make the big score. She thinks she’s going to London with Bill Grant. That’s why I have two plane tickets; you remember, I showed you two tickets. Do you remember, Mr. Blinney? Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Tomorrow morning she comes, bag packed, to the Silver Crest Motel. She thinks she will be leaving with Bill Grant. She will not be leaving with Bill Grant. Bill Grant will leave on schedule, but she’ll remain in the room, and she won’t be going anywhere or saying anything because she’ll be dead, Mr. Blinney, very dead.”

Blinney felt his knees sag.

“You look pale, Mr. Blinney. You want another drink?”

“No.”

“The chambermaid comes to clean at three in the afternoon. That’s when they’ll find her. There’ll be no question who killed her. Her lover killed her. Oh, we’ve been seen around, plenty. In a way, you’ll be a martyr, Mr. Blinney. People will sympathize with you. You had nothing to do with it. You were at work. Her lover killed her, and let them try and find that lover.

“Lover-boy has completely disappeared. Lover-boy has been swallowed up. Lover-boy will never be heard from again. And so, without doing a thing — not one damned thing, really — you’re out of your miseries, and I’ve hit my big score, and we’ve knocked off a perfect crime. But perfect, Daddy — and everybody lives happily ever after. Beautiful, Mr. Blinney? Beautiful?”

Blinney touched a tongue to parched lips. He said nothing.

“And just in case it’s turning around in your mind that I might pull a fast one on you, Mr. Blinney, I give you the right to check it out any way you please, but discreet. By ten o’clock, she’s dead. She doesn’t figure to be found before three. Any time between ten and three you can do you check, but if you do, you must work it discreet.

“I advise against it because a stumble-bum like you might gum up the works. I wouldn’t pull a fast one — why should I? You’re my ace in the hole for a tremendous score — why shouldn’t I hold up my end? Furthermore, she’s going to be cooled out by Bill Grant, and by three o’clock Bill Grant no longer exists. And still furthermore, if Bill Grant doesn’t do his job at the Silver Crest, you can always let out a tip about William Granville in London. Makes sense, doesn’t it? Doesn’t it, Mr. Blinney. Who’s crazy now? Suppose you tell me that.”

The room was hot. There was no ventilation. The air was stagnant. Blinney sopped air through an open mouth. His breathing was rapid and shallow. His head was hot, there was a pain just above his eyes, and his hands and feet were wet and cold. He drifted toward the door as in a void, detached, sucking for air, noisily, through the open mouth.

“Just a minute!” Grant’s voice was sharp.

Blinney stopped.

“Just in case you get any ideas, Mr. Blinney, like about going to the cops, you’d wind up in a mess of trouble, why, the troubles you’ve got now would seem like Paradise. You know what I’d tell them?”

Blinney made no answer, gasping, pulling for air through the open mouth.

“Talk, damn you!”

“I... I don’t know,” Blinney whispered.

“I’d tell them that all of this was your idea. I’d tell them about your wife whom you hated and despised and who hated and despised you, and she’d back me up on that. And I’d tell them that you dreamed up this idea — that for croaking your wife while you have the alibi of being at work on the job, you gave me the in on a terrific heist. I’d even show them those payroll sheets and tell them that you gave them to me as the convincer. Man, you’d be in a hell of a jam, wouldn’t you? So just don’t you forget that.”

Blinney opened the door.

“Have a good night’s sleep, Mr. Blinney. The more you think about it, the better you’ll like it. Actually, if you consider, you’re going to wind up with more benefit than I.”

Blinney closed the door. The steep wooden stairs creaked beneath his weight.

XIII

On the eighteenth day of August, Oscar Blinney arrived at his post at the First National Mercantile Bank at six minutes to nine. It was a hot day but the interior of the bank was cool.

At twelve noon the bank began to seethe with lunch-hour customers, and the lines began to form in front of the cages. At 12:25, Blinney had completed his payrolls. At 12:41, the customer in front of his window was a tall, dark, slender, bearded man, neatly dressed in an expensive grey suit. He had a brown-paper parcel beneath his left arm and he carried a leather attache case in his right hand.

The bearded man set down the attache case, drew a slip of paper from a pocket, and passed it through the slot beneath Blinney’s window. The routine of the bank hummed normally as Blinney looked down upon the paper. It bore a message typed in capital letters.

Blinney moved the slip of paper aside and looked out upon the bearded man. The bearded man seemed to wink, seemed to nod, but there was no expression on his face. Blinney unlocked and raised his window. The bearded man pushed through the attache case.

Blinney opened it and quickly, expertly laid in the packages of money. Bank routine hummed normally. There was no pressure. There was no interference. The transaction was completed in a few minutes, and then Blinney lowered the top of the case, clicked shut its locks, and pushed it out to the bearded man who took hold of it.

“Thank you,” said the bearded man, quietly, smiling.

“Sir,” said Blinney.

“Yes, what is it?” said the bearded man.

“Just this,” said Oscar Blinney.

He took his pistol from the drawer and shot the bearded man through the bridge of the nose and shot him again through the right eye and as the bearded man splashed blood and fell out of sight, Oscar Blinney fainted.

Uproar!

Customers scattered. Tellers dropped in their cages. Flunkies dived beneath desks on the balcony. Vice presidents demanded the priority of protocol beneath selfsame desks. Men bellowed. Guards ran. Girls screamed. Guards ran. Men screamed. Girls bellowed. Guards ran. And ran and ran. Alarms went off. Buttons were pushed. Motion picture cameras started taking motion pictures. Phones were used. Doors were locked. Power was shut off. Elevators stopped in midair. Police sirens howled on the streets. Traffic became entangled. Patrol cars converged.

And patrol cars were abandoned, doors hanging open, as policemen ran, as the guards had run. Everybody ran, to and fro, and areas were roped off. And orders were barked. And barked and barked. And guards panted. And policemen panted. And tunics were opened. And notebooks appeared. And questions were asked. And questions were answered.

And everybody was told to keep back, as everybody is always told to keep back, and everybody kept back. And all the while one man lay dead and another lay comatose, until Detective-lieutenant Leonard Burr appeared, and a semblance of order pierced the confusion.

Detective-lieutenant Leonard Burr was fifty years of age, tall, slim, grizzled, polite, competent, and experienced. He stood by patiently while a police surgeon declared the bearded man dead and declared Oscar Blinney alive. Restoratives were administered to Blinney, and he was set back upon his feet. He watched, alertly though wanly, as Detective-lieutenant Leonard Burr did skillful research upon the corpse.

The detective-lieutenant produced, from the clothing of the bearded man, a loaded Luger, a key, $32.60 in cash money, and a wallet which identified its owner as one Bill Grant with an address in Havana. The wallet contained a lush color-photo of a voluptuous blonde in a Bikini bathing suit, and a receipt in the sum of $84.00 in payment of one month’s rent for furnished room number 1A at 233 East 33rd Street.

Detective-lieutenant Burr was about to relinquish the cadaver to the panting policemen when he noticed the shoes. “Hey, dig them boots,” he said. “Custom-built and with heels what they used to call Cuban heels. Them heels must be built up two-three inches. Hold everything.”

He pulled the shoes from the body and then surrendered the body to the panting policemen. He smiled upon Blinney and then bent to the brown-paper-wrapped parcel and carefully undid it. He exposed an aromatic wooden box, lifted its lid, and found it fully packed with fresh cigars.

He went to a phone and was put through to the Havana police. He identified himself, stated his business, requested information about Bill Grant at the address he found in the wallet, and told where he could be reached upon return call. Then he collected all of the evidence including the attache case full of money, the typewritten note, Blinney’s pistol, and Blinney, and repaired to the station house where he was joined by Assistant District Attorney John Rogers, young, intelligent, ambitious, and Harvard-trained.

“I have only a sketchy outline of the events,” he said to Lieutenant Burr.

“There’s your man,” said Burr, pointing to Blinney.

“You’re the teller?” said Rogers.

“Yes, sir,” said Blinney. “Oscar Blinney.”

“As long as you’re here, John,” said Burr, “you may as well ask the questions for the official statement.”

Under the gentle prod of the Assistant District Attorney, Blinney told his story and signed the transcript in his neat hand.

“We’re going over to two thirty-three East Thirty-third Street where this Bill Grant seems to have had a furnished room,” said Burr. “Would you like to come with us, Mr. Blinney?”

“If I won’t be in the way,” said Blinney.

“You won’t be in the way.”

They went in a small silent group: Burr, Rogers, Blinney, the two detectives, and a uniformed policeman. The key found on Grant opened the downstairs door and the door of 1A. The uniformed policeman was stationed outside the door, and the two detectives, under the brisk direction of Lieutenant Burr, did an effective search of the room.

They accumulated the following articles: a large suitcase, a passport, a pair of glasses, payroll sheets from the First National Mercantile Bank, two airplane tickets for a flight to London, a neatly pressed blue suit, a white shirt, a blue tie, a pair of blue socks, a pair of black shoes, a scissors, a razor, and an air-pressure can of foam-up shaving cream.

Before any examination was made, one of the detectives, a fingerprint expert, dusted for prints. “Nothing,” he announced. “Not on the bottles, not on the glasses, nowhere. This guy was sure shaping up to take a powder.”

“Natch,” said Lieutenant Burr.

He opened the suitcase. It contained one set of underwear, a pair of slacks, a sport shirt, a sport jacket, and an unsealed envelope marked at its corner MOUNT VERNON SAVINGS BANK. He opened the envelope. It contained eighty one-hundred-dollar bills. He replaced the bills into the envelope, returned everything into the suitcase, and closed it.

He took up the passport, studied it, picked up the glasses, tried them on, then turned over passport and glasses to Assistant District Attorney John Rogers. Rogers examined, smiled, nodded. Then Burr handed him the two plane tickets.

“Get it?” he said.

“Of course,” said Rogers. “He comes back here, shaves, puts on the glasses, dumps everything into-the suitcase, cleans up the rest of any fingerprints, puts on these clothes, and he’s off to London as William Granville.”

Burr was holding the shoes, inspecting them. “And when he gets there,” he said, “not only is he clean-shaven, and a guy with glasses, but he’s two inches shorter.” He looked about. “No phone here,” he said to one of the detectives. “Take those plane tickets, go out to a phone, and check them.”

He handed some sheets to Blinney. “Do you recognize these?”

Blinney studied them briefly and returned them. “Yes, sir,” he said.

“What are they, please?”

“Payroll sheets.”

“Whose?” Lieutenant Burr asked.

“Mine.”

“What are they doing here, Mr. Blinney?”

Blinney shrugged. “I haven’t the faintest idea, sir.”

“Did you ever take them out of the bank?”

“Oh, yes, sir. I’ve frequently taken my sheets out of the bank.”

“What for?”

“Purposes of study, sir. To know what to expect the next week. To expedite matters. To be able to work more quickly. It’s not an unusual practice, sir. Actually, these sheets have no value once they’ve outlived their purpose.”

Burr handed him the sheets again. “Did you ever take these sheets out of the bank, Mr. Blinney?”

Blinney studied them more carefully. “They’re old sheets, sir, as you can see from the date, about a month old. Yes, I’d say I did take these sheets out. Of course I’m not quite certain which sheets I’d take for study, but I’d say yes, I believe I took these sheets.”

“And where would you take such sheets for study, Mr. Blinney?”

“Home, of course.” Blinney returned the sheets.

“And where’s home?”

“Mount Vernon. I gave my full address when I gave my statement. Don’t you remember, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, yes, I remember,” said the lieutenant, grumpily.

There was a knock and the detective with the plane tickets entered. “Verified,” he said. “William Granville had reservations for a flight at three o’clock.” He looked at his watch. “He’d have taken off in twenty minutes.”

“Okay,” said Lieutenant Burr. “Let’s us take off right now. Bring all this stuff.”

And at the precinct house he was handed a typewritten sheet by a shirt-sleeved detective. “From the Havana police,” said the shirt-sleeved detective.

Burr read, turned the sheet over to Rogers, said to Blinney: “The guy was a soldier of fortune type, a first-rate gambler, worked some of the big casinos in Havana. Also operated out of Miami. Was known as Bill Grant, no other name. A dangerous guy, quick with a gun or knife, and a bear with the dames.”

Rogers laid away the typewritten sheet, sat glumly.

A detective entered with a large manilla envelope. “Photos and photostats of everything,” he said.

“Thanks,” said Burr. “Put it on my desk.”

The detective complied and departed.

“You know what’s bothering me, don’t you?” said John Rogers.

“You bet I know,” said Burr. “The same damn thing that’s bothering me. This thing is wide open. Not closed by a long shot. Mr. Blinney got one — but there’s another ugly son running around somewhere: the guy who was going to use the second plane ticket we found at Grant’s.”

He sat down near the teletype machine, lit a cigarette, smoked thoughtfully. “It’s going to go one of two ways. We’re either looking for somebody who got those payroll sheets out of Mr. Blinney’s home — or it’s someone at the bank.”

“Someone at the bank?” said Rogers.

“Remember that Mr. Blinney isn’t certain that he took those sheets home. If he didn’t, then maybe someone in the bank copped them and turned them over to this Bill Grant. Then that’s Mr. Accomplice, and we’re looking for him.”

“Don’t forget about that three o’clock flight time,” said Rogers.

“Oh, I’m not forgetting. We’re going to have to do a complete check of that bank for anybody who would be free by two o’clock today. And also, Mr. Blinney — and I’m sorry if it will inconvenience you — we’re going to have to do a complete check on your household; all your friends; all your wife’s friends; servants; anybody who could have laid their hands on those payroll sheets, if you brought them home. I thought, for a change, I had an easy one. But this damned case is still wide open in my book. Understand?”

There was silence. Burr smoked. The teletype clacked. Burr’s gaze drifted toward it. Burr stopped smoking. The clacking continued. He read:

The machine stopped. The silence swelled. Detective-lieutenant Leonard Burr, sighed, rose, squeezed out his cigarette.

“Mr. Blinney,” he said.

“Yes?” said Blinney.

“We have a report,” said the lieutenant, touching a finger to the teletype. “Just came in. Nothing definite.”

“Report?” said Blinney.

“Nothing definite, Mr. Blinney.”

“I don’t understand.”

“There’s been an accident.”

“Accident?” said Blinney.

“Worse, possibly.”

“What?” stammered Blinney.

“Report on a homicide.”

“Homicide?” said Blinney. “What has that to do with me?”

“Tentative,” said Burr. “Tentative. I don’t understand, sir.”

“Tentative identification of victim. Evangeline Ashley.”

“Oh no...”

“Tentative is no sure-pop, Mr. Blinney. You never can tell.”

“What?... Please... What happened...?”

“Silver Crest Motel up near Mount Vernon. Mount Vernon police request we contact Oscar Blinney at the First National Mercantile. The woman, it seems, was found in a room rented to a Mr. and Mrs. Bill Grant.”

Suddenly the lieutenant moved. He went quickly to the wallet of Bill Grant, extracted a color-photo, and brought it to Oscar Blinney. “Do you know this woman?” he said.

“Yes,” said Oscar Blinney and for the second time that day he fainted.

“The poor goof,” said Detective-lieutenant Leonard Burr, bending to the stricken Blinney. “He’s sure having a rough afternoon, isn’t he?”

XIV

The same group sped north, siren open, on the West Side Highway: Burr, Rogers, Blinney, the two detectives, and the uniformed policeman. The policeman drove. Beside him sat one of the detectives, the manilla envelope in his lap. Beside the detective sat Burr, plucking upon his lower lip.

In the rear Blinney sat between John Rogers and the other detective. Assistant District Attorney John Rogers, Phi Beta Kappa, young, intelligent, ambitious, Harvard-trained, talked with Oscar Blinney, quietly, patiently, incisively, compassionately. He learned that Oscar Blinney had been married in Miami in March. He learned that Oscar Blinney’s wife had spent most of the month of June on vacation in Havana.

“We have proximity, two ways,” said John Rogers. “Evangeline Ashley may have become acquainted with Bill Grant in Miami prior to her marriage to you, or in Havana after her marriage to you. Did she ever mention the name to you?”

“No,” said Blinney.

“Neither Grant nor Granville?”

“No,” said Blinney.

“Did you ever talk with your wife about business affairs?”

“Of course,” said Blinney.

“Did she ever see those payroll sheets of yours, the ones that you brought home from time to time?”

“Yes, I’m quite certain that she did. Is it considered improper for a man to take his wife into confidence, to show her—”

“No, no. Please don’t misunderstand, Mr. Blinney. I’m not criticizing. Not at all. This is part of my job, as it is part of Lieutenant Burr’s job — acquiring facts and piecing them together, trying to make a whole of the parts. No criticism involved, Mr. Blinney. Quite the contrary.”

Detective-lieutenant Leonard Burr wielded his compassion in his own manner. “Quiet in back, for Chrissake,” he said. “I’m trying to think up front.”

At the Silver Crest Motel, the experienced lieutenant and the bright assistant district attorney, assisted by the Mount Vernon police, quickly patched the parts into the whole. Blinney identified the dead woman as his wife. Her throat had been expertly severed by a switch-knife with a six-inch blade, found beside her body. Its blade was bloody but its hilt had been wiped clean of prints.

The room had been rented to Mr. Bill Grant who had signed in for Mr. and Mrs. Bill Grant. The manager identified Bill Grant from a photo taken from the manilla envelope. Residents of the Silver Crest Motel, especially the ladies, described Mr. Grant as quiet, unassuming, and so very handsome with that cute little beard and all; his wife had an important job in New York City — interior decorator, he had said — and she came up often in the afternoons, and sometimes she stayed over, and sometimes she stayed over in the city. Sometimes they both got a little drunk in the Silver Crest Tavern, but never offensive, always gay and charming.

This morning she had arrived at about nine o’clock in that little blue sedan. She had carried a suitcase. She had gone directly to her husband’s room. He had come out at about ten o’clock, also carrying a suitcase. He had asked at the office if he could use a typewriter. (Photostat of the bomb-threat note disclosed at once, by expert comparison, that it had been typed upon the office typewriter of Silver Crest Motel.) He had then called for a taxi and had been driven to the station.

At three o’clock the chambermaid had knocked upon the door. There had been no answer. She had tried the knob, found the door unlocked, entered, and screamed. Mrs. Grant was on the floor, red with blood. Police, checking the suitcase, discovered that it was heavily packed, as though for a long trip.

In her handbag they found a passport in the name of Evangeline Ashley, renewed and in perfect order. In her handbag they also found a cancelled bank book on the Mount Vernon Savings Bank. She had withdrawn, that morning, $8070. Inquiry at the bank had elicited the fact that it had been paid out in eighty one-hundred-dollar bills and seven ten-dollar bills. Seven ten-dollar bills — aside from two single dollars and small change — had been found in her handbag. There was no other money amongst her effects.

“That punk didn’t miss a trick,” said Lieutenant Burr. “She must have divided the money, keeping the hundred-dollar bills in the envelope furnished by the bank, and putting the tens, separately, into her purse. The punk grabbed the bank envelope, which we found in his suitcase downtown.”

“In a way, a break for Mr. Blinney,” said John Rogers. “That eight thousand, in view of all of the circumstances, found in the very envelope of the Mount Vernon Savings Bank, earmarks it as hers. Mr. Blinney won’t have any trouble in claiming it as part of the estate.”

“We are in agreement, Mr. District Attorney,” said Lieutenant Burr, raising a glass. “To your very good health.”

“Drink hearty,” said John Rogers, drinking heartily.

They were seated in a booth, alone, in the Silver Crest Tavern. They were imbibing refreshment of Scotch and soda. They were awaiting the return of Oscar Blinney who was assisting the Mount Vernon police in disposing of the details of a homicide in their district and who were, in turn, assisting Oscar Blinney in the arrangements for the disposal of the victim of such homicide.

“Punk or no punk,” said John Rogers. “The man had well-nigh worked out a perfect crime.”

“Perfect crime.” Burr shook his head. “There’s always some goof-ball like this Blinney to ruffle it up.”

“But you were worried back there for a while, weren’t you?”

“Yeah. The thing had some wide open edges.”

“All closed now, wouldn’t you say, Lieutenant?”

“You know it. Else we wouldn’t be sitting here, relaxing.” Burr sipped, put down his glass, half closed his eyes. “Perfect crime. I’ll admit the punk really figured out a good one. Started natural, but then it developed some real crazy wrinkles. Started natural — a chronic goniff, a charm-boy, catches up with a chick who’s a cheater. Started in the usual way.”

“And in the middle, a rather naive chap — Oscar Blinney.”

“You’re a lawyer, you call him naive. I’m a cop, I call him a goof, a goof-ball, a rube, a yoke. Oh! a nice sweet fella, I sure have nothing against him, you know? Okay. The charm-boy makes the cheater and he finds out the husband is a great big honorable shnook who brings back homework for study and, man, the guy really handles big stuff. The wife turns over a couple of those payroll sheets and the idea for the big heist is born. Of course, she’s supposed to be cut on the take.”

“But he’s going to cut her out because he’s working on a perfect crime. Perfect crime — there cannot be an accomplice.”

“Good enough. So today’s the day. Bill Grant knocks her off, and there’s no longer an accomplice. He’s not worried. If things work out — and I admit he planned an ingenious little masterpiece — there’s no longer a Bill Grant. We could comb the country — no Bill Grant. Instead there’s a William Granville, two inches shorter, smooth-shaven and bespectacled, living in London with a quarter of a million bucks working for him. If he’d have pulled it off, I think he’d have gotten away with it. But he didn’t pull it off, did he?”

“Thanks to your goof-ball — Mr. Blinney.”

“That’s just the point. There’s always some stupid stumble-bum who does the unexpected; a clown who bumbles into being a hero.”

“Do you think it’s ever happened, Lieutenant?”

“What?”

“The perfect crime?”

“I wouldn’t know, because if it was a perfect crime — who would know? There have been unsolved crimes, of course, but, actually for a perfect crime, you just wouldn’t know a crime was committed, would you?”

“True,” said John Rogers. “Fascinating concept, though.”

“Yeah, but so’s Oscar Blinney a fascinating concept. Here’s a clown who turns out to be a brave hero; actually a stupid goof-ball who might have killed himself, wrecked a bank, and killed maybe a hundred people with him. Turns out the guy was carrying a box of cigars instead of a box of explosives — but our bumbling hero couldn’t have known that, could he? Perfect crime? I nominate Oscar Blinney.”

“Yeah, there’s the one.” Rogers laughed.

“A perfect candidate.” And Detective-lieutenant Leonard Burr, seized with his joke and relaxed with Scotch, laughed until the tears streamed. “And why not?” he managed between spasms. “After all, who would think that kind of idiot could have the brains, the nerve, the skill, the flair, the audacity? Would you?”

“I certainly would,” said John Rogers, and now he had made his joke, and he giggled, and then broke into guffaws caught in the contagion of laughter.

“Why, a chump like that would be out in front, right from the start.” And Lieutenant Burr doubled over, stabbing knuckles at his tears. “Oh, man, it’s a beautiful thought. Who could figure a boob like that could have it in him?”

“I could,” said John Rogers, paroxysms pealing.

And they laughed and laughed. They laughed at Oscar Blinney.

And Lieutenant Burr called for the check, and paid, and they laughed and laughed, hugely enjoying their joke. “All right, please, enough,” said Lieutenant Burr. “Let’s get out of here.”

On the fifteenth day of December, at the Grand Ballroom of the Commodore Hotel, to lengthy congratulatory speeches and enthusiastic applause, Oscar Blinney received the Heroism Award of the First National Mercantile Bank in the amount of $21,000. On the twenty-fourth day of December, Robert Allan McKnish, Credit Manager of the First National Mercantile Bank, tendered his resignation effective January the second.

On the third day of January, by unanimous vote of the Board of Directors, Oscar Blinney was appointed Credit Manager of the First National Mercantile Bank at a starting salary of $200 per week.

On the seventh day of January, Oscar Blinney married Adrienne Moore.

They lived happily ever after.