The Thin Man

4

That afternoon I took Asta for a walk, explained to two pea-pie that she was a Schnauzer and not a cross between a Scottie and an Irish terrier, stopped at Jim's for a couple of drinks, ran into Larry Crowley, and brought him back to the Normandie with me. Nora was pouring cocktails for the Quinns, Margot Innes, a man whose name I did not catch, and Dorothy Wynant.

Dorothy said she wanted to talk to me, so we carried our cocktails into the bedroom.

She came to the point right away. “Do you think my father killed her, Nick?”

“No,” I said. “Why should I?”

“Well, the police have— Listen, she was his mistress, wasn't she?”

I nodded. “When I knew them.”

She stared at her glass while saying, “He's my father. I never liked him. I never liked Mamma.” She looked up at me. “I don't like Gilbert.” Gilbert was her brother.

“Don't let that worry you. Lots of people don't like their relatives.”

“Do you like them?”

“My relatives?”

“Mine.” She scowled at me. “And stop talking to me as if I was still twelve.”

“It's not that,” I explained. “I'm getting tight.”

“Well, do you?”

I shook my head. “You were all right, just a spoiled kid. I could get along without the rest of them.”

“What's the matter with us?” she asked, not argumentatively, but as if she really wanted to know.

“Different things. Your—”

Harrison Quinn opened the door and said: “Come on over and play some ping-pang, Nick.”

“In a little while.”

“Bring beautiful along.” He leered at Dorothy and went away.

She said: “I don't suppose you know Jorgensen.”

“I know a Nels Jorgensen.”

“Some people have all the luck. This one's named Christian. He's a honey. That's Mamma—divorces a lunatic and marries a gigolo.” Her eyes became wet. She caught her breath in a sob and asked: “What am I going to do, Nick?” Her voice was a frightened child's.

I put an arm around her and made what I hoped were comforting sounds. She cried on my lapel. The telephone beside the bed began to ring. In the next room Rise and Shine was coming through the radio. My glass was empty. I said: “Walk out on them.”

She sobbed again. “You can't walk out on yourself.”

“Maybe I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Please don't tease me,” she said humbly.

Nora, coming in to answer the telephone, looked questioningly at me. I made a face at her over the girl's head.

When Nora said “Hello” into the telephone, the girl stepped quickly back away from me and blushed. “I—I'm sorry,” she stammered, “I didn't—”

Nora smiled sympathetically at her. I said: “Don't be a dope.” The girl found her handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes with it.

Nora spoke into the telephone: “Yes . . . I'll see if he's in. Who's calling, please?” She put a hand over the mouthpiece and addressed me: “It's a man named Norman, Do you want to talk to him?”

I said I didn't know and took the telephone. “Hello.”

A somewhat harsh voice said: “Mr. Charles? . . . Mr. Charles, I understand that you were formerly connected with the Trans-American Detective Agency.”

“Who is this?” I asked.

“My name is Albert Norman, Mr. Charles, which probably means nothing to you, but I would like to lay a proposition before you. I am sure you will—”

“What kind of a proposition?”

“I can't discuss it over the phone, Mr. Charles, but if you will give me half an hour of your time, I can promise—”

“Sorry,” I said. “I'm pretty busy and—”

“But, Mr. Charles, this is—” Then there was a loud noise: it could have been a shot or something falling or anything else that would make a loud noise. I said, “Hello,” a couple of times, got no answer, and hung up.

Nora had Dorothy over in front of a looking-glass soothing her with powder and rouge. I said, “A guy selling insurance,” and went into the living-room for a drink.

Some more people had come in. I spoke to them. Harrison Quinn left the sofa where he had been sitting with Margot Innes and said: “Now ping-pong.” Asta jumped up and punched me in the belly with her front feet. I shut off the radio and poured myself a cocktail. The man whose name I had not caught was saying: “Comes the revolution and we'll all be lined up against the wall—first thing.” He seemed to think it was a good idea.

Quinn came over to refill his glass. He looked towards the bedroom door. “Where'd you find the little blonde?”

“Used to bounce it on my knee.”

“Which knee?” he asked. “Could I touch it?”

Nora and Dorothy came out of the bedroom. I saw an afternoon paper an the radio and picked it up. Headlines said:

JULIA WOLF ONCE RACKETEER'S GIRL;

ARTHUR NUNHEIM IDENTIFIES BODY;

WYNANT STILL MISSING

Nora, at my elbow, spoke in a low voice'. “I asked her to have dinner with us. Be nice to the child”—Nora was twenty-six—“she's all upset.”

“Whatever you say.” I turned around. Dorothy, across the room, was laughing at something Quinn was telling her. “But if you get mixed up in people's troubles, don't expect me to kiss you where you're hurt.”

“I won't. You're a sweet old fool. Don't read that here now.” She took the newspaper away from me and stuck it out of sight behind the radio.