Murder Up My Sleeve

9

When he was half a dozen blocks from the apartment house where Vera Matthews had her studio, Terry pulled his car into the curb and shut off the motor. Various disjointed bits of information were flying around loose in his brain like the detached views which are thrown on a picture screen when the film suddenly breaks and the loose ends fly in front of the projecting lens before the mechanism is shut off. Terry wanted time to correlate those detached impressions.

Seated there in his car, with the motor running, Terry fixed his eyes on the lighted speedometer, and brought his mind to focus upon the facts in his possession.

As patiently as a trout fisherman unraveling a badly tangled fine, Terry went over the events of the day, only to convince himself in the end that some important fact was being withheld from him.

Cynthia Renton had painted Mandra’s portrait. A combination of blackmail and fascination had bound her to Mandra. But, regardless of the tie, Cynthia would only go so far, and then she would fight free.

And that turning point had evidently been reached at two o’clock in the morning, when Cynthia had taken her portrait and left Mandra’s apartment, doubtless defying him to do his worst. She had been seen on the stairs by a witness... but had she been seen? The witness had observed only a woman carrying a portrait. Yet the portrait was distinctive enough, and it was only natural that Cynthia should have taken it to Alma, for appraisal.

But why should Alma have put finishing touches to Cynthia’s portrait? An artist of Cynthia’s individuality would hardly care to have some other painter interfering. Then there was the physical disposition of the portrait to be considered.

Alma had arranged with Levering to have that portrait taken to her apartment. In some say, it had been diverted to Juanita Mandra’s apartment. Had Levering delivered the portrait to Juanita? Or had the police taken it from Alma’s apartment and subsequently surrendered it to the widow? One explanation would mean a connexion between Levering and the widow of the murdered man: the other that Juanita and Malloy were working hand-in-glove. Or...

Clane’s mind suddenly realized a disquieting solution. He stared in frowning perplexity, then abruptly reached for the ignition switch of his car.

He realized now, only too clearly, the necessity of finding out just who had killed Mandra. Cynthia’s story might give her a brief respite but would eventually leave her hopelessly entangled. Clane drove his car through traffic with a certain savage insistence that made others instinctively yield the right of way at the crossings. He parked his car at the curb in front of his apartment house, and recognized Cynthia’s convertible coupe some hundred feet ahead. As Terry stepped to the curb the horn was tapped into brief noise.

Terry nodded his head, to indicate that he had heard the signal, but did not go at once to the car. He strolled to the lobby entrance of his apartment house, then as though he had forgotten something, turned on his heel, walked quickly to his own car and then down to where Cynthia was waiting. He pulled open the door of the car, and encountered Cynthia’s upturned nose, smiling lips, and flashing eyes.

“Well, Owl,” she said, “let’s shout.”

“Why?” he asked.

“Because,” she told him, gaily, “it’s all over except the shouting.”

He looked carefully up and down the sidewalk. “Were you followed here?” he asked.

She shook her head and said, “Not a chance. They’ve dropped me like a hot potato.”

He regarded her with thoughtful scrutiny for a few seconds, then said, “All right, Cynthia, come on in, I want to talk with you.”

“Don’t be so frightfully serious, Owl,” she said. “I want to make whoopee.”

She pivoted about on the leather seat, pointed her feet towards him, braced her right hand against the back of the seat, the left hand on the steering wheel, and said, “Here I come, Owl.”

She slid towards him, a flashing bundle of flying legs and kicking feet.

He avoided the feet, caught her round the waist, lifted her to the sidewalk.

“Listen, Owl,” she said, “I’ve got some great news...”

“Save it,” he told her. “Not a word until you’re in my apartment. And remember, they may have someone planted in the lobby. As we walk through to the elevator, don’t seem to be elated. Can you look downcast and worried?”

“Hell, no!” she told him. “Not now. I’m sitting on top of the world.”

“Do the best you can, then,” he told her, “because someone may jerk the world out from under you. Come on, let’s go.”

He escorted her to the apartment house. They crossed the lobby to the elevator. The face of a strange girl at the telephone switchboard regarded them in disinterested appraisal. The Filipino elevator boy nodded to Terry, and shot the car smoothly to his floor.

Cynthia, holding her face in a grim mask of tragic gloom, suddenly quivered her lips into a smile. The smile became a giggle as the operator opened the sliding door, she flung an arm round Terry’s waist and pulled him out into the corridor. The grinning elevator boy slid the door shut, and the cage dropped smoothly to the lobby.

“I told you I couldn’t do it, Owl,” she said. “Come on and buy me a drink. Where’s Yat T’oy?”

“Out.”

“Don’t tell me the old boy’s playing about,” she said, as Terry fitted a key to the apartment door.

“No, I think he had a business engagement somewhere,” he told her.

She tripped lightly through the door, flung off her coat, hat, and said, “I’m sorry he’s out, because I wanted to see if he savvied ginger ale highballs the same as he did a Tom Collins. My God, Owl, I’m famished for a drink and for a chance to be informal. I’ve been so mealy-mouthed and polite I’m worn out mentally.”

“Are you supposed to go back again?” he asked.

“Don’t be silly, Owl. Why should they want me back? I’m out — exonerated. Stubby Nash got me a lawyer, but I didn’t need him. They put my alibi to the acid test and it stood up. But I had to be such a nice little girl that I feel like a damned hypocrite. I want to do something unconventional. How’s your self-control, Terry?”

“Swell,” he told her, grinning.

She eyed him appraisingly. “Yes,” she admitted, “it’s your strong point. Two highballs may thaw you out. I’m going to start in, Owl. It’s time I busted through your reserve to see whether you’ve got me listed as one of the untouchables. You’re altogether too self-contained, too self-sufficient. Women don’t like it, although it attracts women to you. But their designs are sinister, Owl. That’s feminine nature. We want men to get all steamed up over us. When they do, we’re very coy, proper, and demure. But when they don’t, we start teasing the animals.”

“So what am I supposed to do?” he asked.

“Mix the highballs, stupid.”

He brought ice cubes, ginger ale, Bourbon, Scotch, and soda, mixed two drinks. She gulped hers down, tilted the empty glass towards him and said, “Rotten manners, Owl, but I’ve got to break loose.”

He said, “Not yet, Cynthia. Wait until you’re out of the wood.”

“But I am out of the wood,” she told him, and, at the shake of his head, went on, “Oh, don’t be such a damn killjoy, Owl Snap out of it. Here, catch!”

She kicked her right foot at him. Her shoe spun through the air and missed his head by inches.

She giggled delightedly, squirmed around in the overstuffed chair until her weight was on her other hip, and kicked the other shoe. This went straight up in the air, struck the ceiling and thudded back to the floor.

She swung her legs up over the cushioned arm, wriggled her toes.

“I warned you, Owl,” she said. “I’m going to bust loose. Give me that second drink so I won’t feel so deliberate. It’s smart to be just a tiny bit tight, but unladylike to be forward.”

He smiled at her as he sipped his Scotch and soda. “Do I understand you’re planning to be forward?” he asked.

“Well, Owl,” she told him, twisting her toes, “I’m not going to be exactly backward. I’ve sat for hours, being a very demure little lady, and I’m quite certain there’s going to be a reaction. In just a minute I’m going to think of a limerick which’ll jar you loose from your dignity. Right now I can’t think of one that’s good enough, but it’ll come.”

“You mean bad enough, don’t you?” he asked.

“Don’t be silly, Owl. I mean good enough. After all, you know, I wouldn’t want to frighten you to death with the first one and that’s the way with limericks. Try to think of a clever one that’ll leave ’em guessing, and the only ones which pop into your mind are...”

“Tell me about the questions,” he interrupted, “and about the answers you gave, and about the lawyer.”

She sighed.

“They wanted to know all about me and all about the handkerchief and...”

“Did you admit it was your handkerchief?”

“Yes, and I didn’t even hesitate. I think that made a good impression. Thanks to what you’d told me, I knew they were going to pull the handkerchief trick. So, when the district attorney held it out very dramatically and very accusingly, I gave a little squeal and said, ‘Why, that’s my handkerchief,’ and grabbed for it.”

“They ask you where you’d lost it?”

She nodded. “I told them I couldn’t tell. They asked me if I’d left it in Mandra’s apartment, and I told them I might have. Then they wanted to know lots of things and I told them.”

“The truth?” he asked.

“I always tell the truth.” She glanced sidelong at him from beneath lowered lashes, her lips provocatively parted. “Really, Owl, do we have to talk about this?”

“Did you tell them about the portrait?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Tell them where it was?”

“I told them Alma had it. I’d given it to her. I wanted to see what she thought of it, and perhaps have her smooth it up a little.”

Terry picked up the whisky bottles and returned them to the sideboard.

She raised her feet, caught her skirt under the backs of her knees, swung round in the chair and said, “Why, you stingy old walrus!”

“I’m afraid,” he told her, “this is just a recess, Cynthia. How about the attorney?”

She giggled. “He has the longest neck, and the funniest horse face. He reminds me of a string bean on parade. Tell me, Owl, do string beans ever parade?”

“What’s his name?”

“Oh, you know C. Renmore Howland, the criminal attorney, known to his intimates as ‘Renny’. My Heavens, Stubby wouldn’t get anything for me except the best! I’m an intimate, Owl. He told me to call him Renny.”

“How does Stubby figure in this business?”

“He isn’t in it. He’s just standing by me.”

“And what did Howland do?”

“Oooh, he waved his hands and talked about writs of habeas corpus, and stretched his neck in and out of his collar and patted me on the shoulder in a fatherly manner... Honestly, Owl, that man should have been a racehorse. He could have won his races by a neck without ever leaving the starting post.”

“And they turned you loose when he threatened habeas corpus?” he asked.

She nodded and said, “But about that time they found the portrait.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. I suppose Alma gave it to them. That was an awfully nice boy who met me coming down the stairs from Mandra’s place, Owl. His name’s Jack Winton, and he’s a painter. He looked me over and said that he couldn’t tell whether I was the one he’d seen coming down the stairs or not, but that he’d seen a woman who had very attractive ankles carrying a portrait of Mandra. I loved him for that crack about the ankles, Owl. And he gave a perfectly swell description of the portrait: dull background, the face etching high lights, and Mandra’s eyes staring with that cold glint... Ugh, Owl, it just doesn’t seem possible the man’s dead. He had such a way of controlling people and things that somehow you’d expect him to control death itself.”

Terry stared steadily at her. “Cynthia,” he said, “you weren’t the woman Jack Winton met on the stairs. You never did carry that portrait out of Mandra’s studio. But you learned somehow that this man Winton had seen a woman coming down the stairs carrying the portrait. You figured it would be swell if you could manufacture an alibi from that, and you knew that Alma, with her swiftness of execution and deft technique, could make a passable portrait in a few hours. She locked herself in Vera Matthews’s studio, worked all night, and finished a portrait which you could claim was the one on which you had worked.”

Her face lost its animation, became suddenly weary. She raised her chin defiantly and said, “Don’t talk like that, Owl. C. Renmore Howland... damn it, I must remember to call him Renny... would sue you for slander or defamation of character or whatever it is he’d sue you for. He’d have some perfectly splendid word for it.”

Terry Clane crossed to her, slid his arm around her shoulders.

“I’m sorry, Cynthia,” he said, “but you and Alma both overlooked something. The woman who really has this portrait you painted hates you. She’s going to burst your alibi wide open.”

Cynthia grabbed his fingers, pressed them to her cheek. Hot tears dropped on the back of his hand.

“Tell me about it,” he said to her.

She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, laughed half-hysterically and said, “I’m not going to start bawling, Owl, it’s just the let-down.”

“What happened?” he asked.

“Mandra was blackmailing me.”

“Over the hit-and-run business?”

“Yes.”

“Money, marbles, or chalk?” he asked.

“Money, marbles, and chalk,” she replied. “If you’d known Mandra better you wouldn’t have asked.”

“So what happened?”

“Honestly, Owl, I’d never known anyone as completely ruthless as Mandra. He fascinated me. When he wanted something, nothing on God’s green earth could stand in his way. He would use any method and he played a no-limit game.

“He was crazy about the portrait. I saw that that was going to be my strongest hold over him. I decided to call his bluff last night, and told him I was going to take the portrait away with me unless that hit-and-run business was cleaned up.”

“Did you,” Terry asked, “know that he was teamed up with a William Shield to blackmail wealthy car owners?”

“No, Shield is the man I hit. How it could have been just a blackmail scheme, Owl, I don’t know, because X-rays showed a permanent injury to the spine. I really must have...”

“You didn’t hit him at all,” Terry interrupted. “An acrobat hit your car with his fist and then did a tumbling act. Later on they introduced you to Shield. Shield hadn’t even been near your car. It was all a frame-up.”

She stared at him steadily for several seconds and then said slowly:

“Owl, is that absolutely true?”

“Absolutely.”

“That,” she said, “explains it. I told Mandra I was all finished, that I was going to see a lawyer, and that I was taking that portrait home with me. And then, Owl, the man actually had the audacity to drug me. We were drinking tea. God knows what he put in it. I felt things going round and round. I got to my feet, and my knees were weak. I grabbed at the side of the table, and things turned black.”

“Then what?”

“When I woke up,” she said, “it was about three o’clock. I had a terrific headache. I went to the room where I’d left Mandra. He was sitting there at a table, slumped over, with his head on his arms.”

“Did you see a sleeve gun there?”

“No.”

“Now, wait a minute,” Terry said, “this is important, Cynthia. Try and reconstruct the table just as you saw it.”

She closed her eyes and said, “Well, of course, the thing that I keep seeing is Mandra’s arm crooked over the table and his head lying on his arm. It was awful...”

“Was his face down?”

“No, turned slightly to one side, the eyes were open and stary, all glassy and inanimate. Ugh! Owl, you know how dead people are! Don’t make me describe it.”

“Did you scream?”

“I don’t think so.”

“And what else was on the table?”

“Well, let me see. There were some papers.”

“Where were the papers, right in front of Mandra?”

“No, to one side.”

“Do you remember what sort of papers? Were they letters, or what?”

“No, I can’t remember that.”

“Were they placed in piles or...?”

“No, just in a scramble, as though someone had pushed them over to one side.”

“As though Mandra had pushed them to one side to clear a space on the table?”

“Either that or as though someone had been looking for something and pulled them over to the corner to get away from Mandra’s body.”

“Was there anyone in the room except Mandra?”

“No... that is, I don’t think so. Of course, I didn’t look under the desk or in the closet, or in any of the adjoining rooms.”

“What did you do?”

“I had a mad desire to get out. But, frightened as I was, I realized I mustn’t let the guard see me, and know what time I had left. I felt all tight in my throat, the sensation you have when something’s suffocating you and you want to fight your way through to the air. I’ve always been like that, Owl. If I’m putting a dress on over my head and it catches and covers my face, I want to tear the thing to pieces.”

“I know how you felt,” he said. “What I want to know is what you did.”

“Well, I was there alone with Mandra. He’d been murdered. Someone else had killed him but I didn’t know if I could prove that — and I wanted to keep my name from being dragged into the thing. It was all foolish — just the blind panic which grips you sometimes and makes you want to run. I knew about this corridor door. Of course, it could be opened from the inside. Mandra had the only key which would open it from the outside. So I opened this door and ran out.”

“Now, what time was that?”

“Just about three o’clock. I didn’t look at my watch until after I got to Alma’s apartment.”

“Did you close this corridor door behind you?”

“No, I left it open.”

“Why didn’t you close it?”

“To tell you the truth, Owl, I thought I had, but I must have been mistaken. I don’t remember clearly about what happened when I was getting out of there. I remember fighting with the bolts on the door and ripping the door open, and then being in the corridor and racing down the stairs. The natural thing for me to do was to close the door, but I guess I didn’t.”

“But you don’t remember positively?”

“No. Why, Owl — does it make any difference?”

“It might,” he told her. “Everything makes a difference. Now, did you notice whether the portrait you had painted was there?”

“No, Owl, I didn’t notice — not then.”

“So you ran down the stairs to the street. Did you meet anyone?”

“No.”

“And what did you do?”

“I stopped in at an all-night drug store and telephoned Alma, to see if she was home. She was. George Levering was there with her. I told Alma to wait for me. I found a cab and rushed out there. I dragged Alma into the bedroom and told her all about it. It was her suggestion that we should take George into our confidence and let him see what he could do.”

“How long had Levering been there?” Terry asked.

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

“Wasn’t that an unusual time for him to be calling on Alma?”

“He wanted money,” she said, “and you know George. He can want money any time.”

Terry nodded and said, “Go ahead, Cynthia, what happened after that?”

“Well, George suggested that he’d better go out on a trip of reconnaissance and see if the police had discovered the murder. He told us to wait for him and he went out and jumped in his car. He came back and told us about what had happened. This man had gone out to get something to eat and came back and found the door open, and looked inside and found Mandra’s body. The police had arrived and there was a crowd around the place, not a big crowd, because of the hour, but big enough so that George could circulate around and ask questions without attracting too much attention. He found some newspaper man whom he knew, and the newspaper man had found this Jack Winton who had met the woman on the stairs carrying a portrait, so George knew all about that, and he came racing back to tell us that Winton had seen this woman leaving the apartment at two o’clock in the morning, but hadn’t been able to see her face clearly enough to identify her because of the way she’d been holding the portrait. So George suggested that if we could duplicate that portrait, I could claim that I was the woman who had left at two o’clock.

“I had my original sketches in my apartment and some photographs that I’d taken when the portrait was about two-thirds completed, so with my sketches and the photograph, Alma insisted she could make a passable duplicate of the portrait and have it ready by nine or ten o’clock in the morning. Of course, it wouldn’t be a finished piece of work, but I’m not a finished artist, and Alma’s a very rapid worker. It was George’s idea that Alma could dash off another portrait and that this would give me a perfect alibi.”

“Didn’t you consider the possibility that the other woman might show up with the real portrait?”

“It was a possibility, all right, but we figured she’d want to keep in the background. Of course, Owl, we were rattled, and it sounded like a good scheme at the time. You know George Levering. He’s played so many crooked horse races that he figures nothing’s on the level and anything can be fixed. He said this was iron-clad.”

Terry started pacing the floor, his head bowed in thought.

Suddenly he whirled to Cynthia.

“If anything happens,” he told her, “don’t tell anyone anything. Just sit tight until you can talk with your lawyer.”

Cynthia’s eyes were uneasy as she stared across at Terry.

“I want to get a little bit tight, Owl. When I get home Alma will be waiting for me, and Stubby will be parked on the doorstep. Oh, Owl, I don’t want to see Stubby! He’s so damn possessive. And he got me that lawyer, so I’ll have to be grateful. I don’t want to be grateful to Stubby. He’s a damn nuisance.

“Gee, it’s been an awful day! Owl, dear, you don’t know what it means to have the reputation of being a good sport, and having to stand up and take it on the chin all by yourself. Alma doesn’t understand me, Owl. She thinks I never have a serious moment. She loves me all right, but she feels responsible for me. She thinks that I’m just a little butterfly... that I waste my opportunities, squander my talents, and dissipate my life.”

He said, “You won’t be seeing Alma for a while, Cynthia.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, straightening in the chair.

“Inspector Malloy took Alma down to headquarters with him.”

“How long ago?”

“Shortly before I drove up and met you. They were watching Alma’s apartment. They found the portrait and took it down to headquarters. This witness, Jack Winton, evidently identified it. About that time, your lawyer was making a kick, and they thought, in view of Winton’s testimony, they wouldn’t have anything to hold you on.

“But shortly after that they managed to track that portrait and found out Alma was staying at Vera Matthews’s. They wanted to talk with Alma, just on general principles.”

“Owl,” she cried, “you don’t mean George Levering sold us out... Oh, no, it couldn’t have been that. He wouldn’t do that... but he might have blundered somehow. Tell me, Owl, will they get rough with her?”

“Not now they won’t. That will come later.”

“How much later?”

“When they find the other painting,” he said.

“But they mustn’t find it! Don’t let them, Owl! There’s something we can do. There must be something.”

He stared at her with fixed intensity.

“Don’t look at me like that, Owl,” she said impatiently, and then suddenly realized that he hadn’t heard her. He was concentrating so intently for the moment he seemed to have lost all animation, while every bit of his mental energy was centred in a white-hot spot of concentration.

Fascinated, Cynthia watched him.

For the space of some seven or eight seconds he sat there. Then he said slowly, “No, they mustn’t find that other portrait. It would raise the devil.” He crossed over to the sideboard, returned with the whisky bottles.

“Now that,” she observed, “is a swell idea!”

Terry poured whisky into her glass. She regarded the amount of amber fluid with speculative eyes.

“Owl, are you trying to get me tight?” she asked.

Pouring ginger ale on top of the whisky, he asked, “Why should I try to get you tight?”

She giggled. “Don’t you ever read the tabloids, Terry Clane? Think of the headlines: GIRL LURED TO MAN’S APARTMENT AND PLIED WITH DRINK, SHE EXPLAINS TO ARRESTING OFFICERS.”

“Officers?” he inquired.

“You know, the ones the neighbors call in when the party gets rough. And the tabloid story runs something like this: ‘Really, I had no idea where we were,’ pretty Miss Smith, nineteen and blonde, said when interviewed by a Whosis reporter to-day. ‘I thought we were going to the library to look at some etchings. He produced a flask of amber liquid and told me it was cold tea. My mother never lets me drink coffee, but tea is all right, she says. So I drank it. I thought it had a peculiar taste, but I drank it all, and the next I remembered was when the officers broke down the door of the apartment.’ ”

She held the glass up to the light and said, “When it’s this color, Owl, it’s plenty potent. But here goes, down the hatch.”

She gulped down the drink, gravely pushed the empty glass across the table to him.

“You know, Terry, I’m inclined to co-operate... Tell me, Owl, why are you trying to load me up?”

She stretched out a shapely leg, looked at the wriggling toes thoughtfully and then surveyed the graceful curves. “Terry, I believe it’s time to call a halt. Every time I wiggle my toes it seems to wiggle something in my mind and make me feel like laughing.”

“Why not?” he asked. “Babies wiggle their toes and laugh.”

“Oooh, Owl, you’re so good to me! I thought perhaps you’d get sore. Honestly, Owl, I really am going to get a teeny-weeny bit tight. I intended to stop after the second drink, but now you’ve started to ply me with liquor I’m going to trail along and see if you are going to take advantage of me... I’m afraid you’re not.”

She slipped from her chair, got to her feet, held out her hands in front of her, extended rigid forefingers, and went through a burlesque of trying to put them together, executing elaborate maneuvers.

He came to her, slid his arm round her waist and said, “Cut the comedy, Cynthia.”

“Why should I? I get pleasure out of it. I’m in a serious-minded world. People are all too damned serious. Man is supposed to suffer with a long face and keep his mind in a lather of worry. Because I won’t do it, people think I’m cuckoo.

“You’ve heard about the fox who had his tail cut off. He wanted all the other foxes to be the same way. Honestly, Owl, that’s the way with the world. Here we have a glorious life to live, and people shut themselves up in stuffy offices and worry about the interest on the national debt or the high price of gasoline, or which political party is going to have the spending of the tax money. Wouldn’t it be funny, Owl, if some day the playboys should get sufficiently in the majority to take over control of the government and the banks and everyone had to be cheerful. They could amend the constitution to provide that everyone would have to drink at least one cocktail before dinner.”

She was still making elaborate efforts to get her finger-tips together.

“Now,” she went on, “I’m going to hold the left one still and the right one is going to sneak up on it like a man hunting a deer. Tell me, Owl, when you were in China, did you...”

His arm tightened about her. The stray tendrils of her unruly hair tickled his cheek and chin. He felt the warmth of her body through the thin dress, sensed the vibrant vitality, the spirit which refused to take life seriously. His other hand grasped her shoulder, swung her round to face him.

As she looked up, he bent his lips to hers.

With a little satisfied exclamation, she snuggled her body close to his. Her right hand slid up the back of his neck, until the fingers entwined themselves in his hair. His arm, suddenly tightening, lifted her shoeless feet from the floor.

Their lips were clinging in a quivering embrace when a latchkey clicked in the door.

Cynthia dropped her arms, placed her hands against Terry’s shoulder and pushed back until she was free, then turned to face the door.

Yat T’oy stood on the threshold.

“Yat T’oy,” she assured him, with mock solemnity, “there are twenty-four hours in the day, seven days in the week, fifty-two weeks in the year, yet, with all that time to choose from, you had to pick this particular time to open that door.”

There were times when Yat T’oy was able to comprehend virtually everything which was said to him in English, and there was no time when he could not comprehend a situation but now he chose to understand neither.

“No savvy,” he said blandly.

“You heap savvy Tom Collins.”

“Heap savvy Tom Collins,” he admitted, and his eyes, watching for an opportunity, moved significantly to Terry.

“It would be well,” Yat T’oy said in Cantonese, “that the master should hear that which the servant would speak.”

“Don’t do that, Yat T’oy,” Cynthia remonstrated. “It’s as bad as whispering. You mustn’t speak Chinese to your master when I’m here. Now if you hadn’t come in just when you did... Oh, skip it!”

Terry moved towards the far end of the room. Cynthia regarded him with thoughtful scrutiny.

Terry stepped over more closely to Yat T’oy.

“The detectives,” Yat T’oy said in Chinese, “inquire much about sleeve guns. They also wished to know the names of those who called upon the master during the past few days.”

“What did you tell them?” Terry inquired.

“I am an old man. My eyesight is dim and my memory is poor. You are the Beneficent One who sees not the infirmities of age, but keeps me employed as a servant when I am fit for nothing save to sit in a chair and wait the moment of joining my ancestors. Of course,” Yat T’oy went on, “I was able to remember the man with the pale eyes because the detectives had followed him here, and I knew of this sister of the painter woman who is here now because they also had been aware of her, but as to other matters, my memory was very dim.

“But that of which you should be warned is that they are seeking to find the Chinese girl with whom you are friendly. The police have wide ears and they listen to the babble of many tongues. Does the Honored One wish that I shall bring more ice?”

“Yes,” Terry said. “And, Yat T’oy, I have something which I must do, and of which this sister of the painter woman must know nothing. It would be well if she should sleep.”

Yat T’oy’s eyes were utterly without expression. “How long should she sleep?”

“Not for long. An hour, perhaps, then awake. Perhaps a little of the herb you used...” Terry let his voice trail into silence, and Yat T’oy said smoothly, “It is as nothing. A very small matter.”

He turned and shuffled from the room. Cynthia called after him, “Don’t forget my Tom Collins, Yat T’oy!”

“Tom Collins,” Yat T’oy assured her, in his broken English, “come right now, plenty soon. Heap quick. Can do!”

Terry returned to his chair. Cynthia stared across at him and said, “Listen, Owl, one more is my limit. You know me. I like to get just a little bit tight, and then I stop.”

He nodded.

“Of all the miserable times for Yat T’oy to come in and interrupt us... Tell me, Owl, what were you going to say — or were you going to say anything? Was it just a biological spasm, or did you... No, don’t. Skip it. Trying to recapture a moment like that is like trying to warm up cold biscuits. It’s better to throw them out and perhaps mix up another batch some time.”

Her eyes stared at him wistfully. “We will mix up another batch some time, won’t we, Owl?” And then, as he started to say something, she pointed a rigid forefinger at him and said, “No, stop right there! Don’t answer that question.”

She regarded her extended forefinger, grinning, and said, “What do you think of that trick, Owl? It’s one I learned from C. Renmore Howland — you know, Renny for short — it’s a swell trick. It pushed the words right back down your throat. I know just how it feels, because Renny pulled it on me this afternoon. You see, Owl, I don’t want you to answer the question because even that is like trying to warm up the biscuits. We’ll just have to...” Her voice choked. She helped herself to a cigarette and smoked in silence. Terry Clane, watching her, said nothing.

Yat T’oy opened the door, bearing glasses on a tray.

She mechanically took the glass nearest to her, as Yat T’oy extended the tray.

“The Chinese,” Terry said, “have a custom with their last drink of making an ‘umbrella’ glass. Not so, Yat T’oy?”

Yat T’oy beamed upon them, the benign smile of a convivial spirit. Never by any chance would one have suspected him of having expertly drugged Cynthia Renton’s drink. “Yes,” he said, “Chinese say ‘gahn bie, gahn bie,’ and then turn bottom

of glass towards ceiling, make wineglass all same like umbrella. You savvy?”

Terry said, “gahn bie, gahn bie,” and drained his glass. Cynthia sighed, said, “Not to be outdone in Chinese etiquette, Owl, ‘gahn bie, gahn bie.’ ” She took a deep breath, drained her glass and returned it to the tray. Yat T’oy gravely bore the empty glasses from the room.

“That’s the last one, Owl,” Cynthia announced. “You know, it’s funny the way people look at things. Alma would say I was just a heedless little windbag; Stubby Nash would say I was making a spectacle of myself; C. Renmore Howland — damn it, why can’t I remember to call him Renny? — would say I was talking too damn much; but you... Well, Owl, you understand. That’s why I can let myself go with you.

“When a girl’s been all bottled up with emotion, she either has to cry, or talk, or throw things, and you’d prefer to have me talk rather than cry or throw things, wouldn’t you, Owl?”

He nodded.

She grinned at him. “Good old Owl,” she said. “You know, I can always count on you for the most precious thing in life: understanding. Owl, I’m frightfully low to-night, and most awfully tired of holding my chin up — no, I mean out. I want a masculine arm around me and a shoulder to snuggle up against... Owl, damn it, I want to try warming over those biscuits.”

She sighed tremulously, smiled at him and then suddenly ceased smiling. Her eyes grew wide. “Owl!” she exclaimed, “you’re drifting away from me. I can’t seem to get my eyes focused. Good Lord, Owl, I’m not tight! I’ve taken twice that much without feeling like this... Owl, don’t go away... I need you. I...”

He crossed to her, picked her up from the chair and held her in his arms as though she had been a child overcome by fatigue.

Her arm twisted around his neck. He felt her lips as a hot circle on his cheek, the warmth of her breath on his neck.

“Oh, Owl,” she whispered, “I’m so warm... and cuddly... and happy...”

Yat Toy opened the door from the bedroom.

“Bed all ready,” he said.

Terry carried Cynthia into the bedroom, covered her with a light blanket, turned to Yat T’oy and said, “Under no circumstances, Yat T’oy, is she to know that I have gone out.”

The Chinese servant nodded gravely.

“Maybeso,” he said in the pidgin English of a servant, “she sleep one hour, no can wake up. After one hour keep on sleep but can wake up. You wake her up you come back. She not know you been gone.”

Terry nodded, stood over the bed, staring tenderly down at the sleeping figure, a figure which suddenly seemed too small and frail to maintain an armor of facetious levity against the sledge-hammer blows of fate.

He heard a slight noise behind him and turned to see Yat T’oy’s expressionless countenance staring inscrutably above the collar of an extended overcoat. “Your coat, your hat,” Yat T’oy said. “Velly foggy, you no get wet.”

Terry slid into his coat, pulled a dark green felt hat low on his forehead. There was something almost savage in his voice as he said to Yat T’oy, “Take care of her, Yat T’oy, until I come back.”

Yat T’oy said, “Plenty heap savvy. Maybeso you like to catchum good luck, maybeso better you go out back way, catchum cab, leave your car stand in front.”