cop who didn’t play by the rules, but sometimes, perhaps, there were occasions when rules
no longer applied.
Stephanie had removed her jacket when he returned. She was wearing a short-sleeved silk blouse, open at the neck. In the fading
light of the day, she looked fine, just fine.
He gave her the drink, then sat beside her on the couch and took a pull on his own. “Okay, now what’s it all about?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why are you really here?”
“I told you—to protect you,” she protested, earnestly, then smiled a small smile. “I have not done so well though thus far,
have I?”
“I don’t buy your story.”
Her eyes widened and misted with sudden tears. “I—I am sorry.”
“Yes?”
“I am sorry you don’t believe me. I have told you the truth. But of course there is nothing that says you must believe me.
It hurts, your disbelief, but I must accept it.”
“What do you know about the theft of the jewels?”
“Nothing.” The thunderhead-color of her eyes never cleared. “I am only a maid. Was.” She corrected herself.
“You’re too bright for that. Too beautiful. Why were you Muffy Dearborn’s maid?”
Stephanie smiled at him ruefully, the merest hint of a line forming in her flawless facial skin. “The Depression. Many of
us were—are—too bright, too beautiful for many things. But we have had to do them.”
Lockwood shrugged. She won on that one.
“What about the people surrounding Muffy? Could any of them have had anything to do with it?”
“I don’t understand.” Stephanie’s face clouded. “I thought it was already decided that that Toomey man had done it.”
“Could be. Probably so. But my guess is he had inside help. Why else put a bullet through poor Jabber-Jabber’s skull?”
“I see.” Her eyes dropped, and she folded her hands in her lap. “I wish I could help somehow. But I know nothing.”
Her perfume was doing the same job on him that it had in the hospital. “You’re really very beautiful,” he said.
“Thank you,” she answered, a kind of physical silence hanging over her.
“Do you plan to stay here?”
She looked at him, inquiringly.
“In this apartment with me?”
“I have told you I would,” she said simply.
“You’re asking a lot of me.”
“I can pay my way.”
“I don’t mean that,” he laughed, surprised. Then, “You’re a woman—a very attractive woman. And I’m—” he shrugged, “human.”
Her face was serious. “I understand. After all, in my country we feel differently about these things.”
“More sophisticated, you mean?”
“However you wish to put it.”
“Come here.” He extended an arm toward her.
She looked at him for a moment, seemed to hang back, and then slowly moved to him, allowing him to hold her.
They sat like that for a while, relaxing against each other. Then, “I think you may be out to kill me,” Lockwood said flatly.
She stiffened, but his arm brought her back to him. “How can you say this?”
“Because that’s what I think. What I feel. But not,” he took a deep whiff of her perfume, “what I smell.”
“You frighten me,” she said.
“Me? Why?”
“I—I don’t know. Because—because, I think, there is something relentless about you. Indomitable.”
“At the moment I feel very domitable.” He ran his hand over her arm. It was warm and smooth, and she shivered as he did it.
He turned her toward him and looked down at her lips. They were slightly parted, lush and full, and rich with promise. “You’re
frightened by me, and I in turn wonder just when you’ll do me in. We’re quite a pair.”
Her lids half-closed as she looked up at him. The storm clouds that were her eyes were darker than ever, and he could feel
her breath deepen as he bent down to kiss her.
Her lips were all they had seemed, as he placed his own lightly on them, and then more firmly. He felt her body tense, and
then relax, as she gave herself up. He pulled his head
no longer applied.
Stephanie had removed her jacket when he returned. She was wearing a short-sleeved silk blouse, open at the neck. In the fading
light of the day, she looked fine, just fine.
He gave her the drink, then sat beside her on the couch and took a pull on his own. “Okay, now what’s it all about?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why are you really here?”
“I told you—to protect you,” she protested, earnestly, then smiled a small smile. “I have not done so well though thus far,
have I?”
“I don’t buy your story.”
Her eyes widened and misted with sudden tears. “I—I am sorry.”
“Yes?”
“I am sorry you don’t believe me. I have told you the truth. But of course there is nothing that says you must believe me.
It hurts, your disbelief, but I must accept it.”
“What do you know about the theft of the jewels?”
“Nothing.” The thunderhead-color of her eyes never cleared. “I am only a maid. Was.” She corrected herself.
“You’re too bright for that. Too beautiful. Why were you Muffy Dearborn’s maid?”
Stephanie smiled at him ruefully, the merest hint of a line forming in her flawless facial skin. “The Depression. Many of
us were—are—too bright, too beautiful for many things. But we have had to do them.”
Lockwood shrugged. She won on that one.
“What about the people surrounding Muffy? Could any of them have had anything to do with it?”
“I don’t understand.” Stephanie’s face clouded. “I thought it was already decided that that Toomey man had done it.”
“Could be. Probably so. But my guess is he had inside help. Why else put a bullet through poor Jabber-Jabber’s skull?”
“I see.” Her eyes dropped, and she folded her hands in her lap. “I wish I could help somehow. But I know nothing.”
Her perfume was doing the same job on him that it had in the hospital. “You’re really very beautiful,” he said.
“Thank you,” she answered, a kind of physical silence hanging over her.
“Do you plan to stay here?”
She looked at him, inquiringly.
“In this apartment with me?”
“I have told you I would,” she said simply.
“You’re asking a lot of me.”
“I can pay my way.”
“I don’t mean that,” he laughed, surprised. Then, “You’re a woman—a very attractive woman. And I’m—” he shrugged, “human.”
Her face was serious. “I understand. After all, in my country we feel differently about these things.”
“More sophisticated, you mean?”
“However you wish to put it.”
“Come here.” He extended an arm toward her.
She looked at him for a moment, seemed to hang back, and then slowly moved to him, allowing him to hold her.
They sat like that for a while, relaxing against each other. Then, “I think you may be out to kill me,” Lockwood said flatly.
She stiffened, but his arm brought her back to him. “How can you say this?”
“Because that’s what I think. What I feel. But not,” he took a deep whiff of her perfume, “what I smell.”
“You frighten me,” she said.
“Me? Why?”
“I—I don’t know. Because—because, I think, there is something relentless about you. Indomitable.”
“At the moment I feel very domitable.” He ran his hand over her arm. It was warm and smooth, and she shivered as he did it.
He turned her toward him and looked down at her lips. They were slightly parted, lush and full, and rich with promise. “You’re
frightened by me, and I in turn wonder just when you’ll do me in. We’re quite a pair.”
Her lids half-closed as she looked up at him. The storm clouds that were her eyes were darker than ever, and he could feel
her breath deepen as he bent down to kiss her.
Her lips were all they had seemed, as he placed his own lightly on them, and then more firmly. He felt her body tense, and
then relax, as she gave herself up. He pulled his head
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