Read Online Murder for the Bride by John D. MacDonald - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: John D. MacDonald
Ads: Link
ability to learn in a regular upward curve. The chart resembles stairs. At intervals there will be a sudden upward jump in the ability to learn. And I wondered if maturity for an adult comes the same way. Possibly I imagined it. There seemed to be a new maturity in my face, a lessening of the look of recklessness. Already, the man who had struck Harrigan, who had come flying back to stare down at the face of his dead wife, seemed to be a stranger.
Plans for the day—none. I was a stalking horse. Make like a target and let the Jones boys stalk the stalkers.
I went to the bureau and distributed my belongings in my pockets. The cash situation was still healthy. I would have to get hold of a lawyer and make arrangements about Laura’s money. There was plenty of time for that. I picked up the key chain and looked at the small rabbit, remembering the way Laura had said, “You always give a husband a present.”
I had told her it was a pretty symbolic present for a bride to give, and we had laughed. A small golden rabbit about three quarters of an inch high, sitting on his haunches, with little red stones for eyes, one ear lopped over, the ring for the key chain fastened to the tip of the upright ear. It was a fatuous-looking little rabbit—fatuous and at the same time debauched, hung over. It was the sagging ear that seemed to give that impression.
I was halfway down the stairs when I heard my phone ring. I went back up three stairs at a time, fumbled the key into the lock, and got to the phone before it stopped ringing.
“Hello, Dil? This is Betty.”
The voice was vaguely familiar. “Betty?” I said.
“Don’t be so
dull
, darling,” she said. There was annoyance in her voice and something else. Anxiety, maybe. The voice was oddly familiar.
“Oh, Betty! Sorry to have sounded stupid. How are you?”
There was relief in her tone. “I’m anxious to see you, Dil. It’s been so long, hasn’t it?”
“It certainly has,” I said with feeling. I knew the voice. It was the knife-wielding gal from the Rickrack. She must be afraid, I decided, of a tap on the line. “I’m anxious to see you, too,” I said, giving it a certain emphasis.
“Look, darling. I’m going to be terribly busy for a while. When do you think you can be free?” That was clear enough. Free meant without escort.
“That’s hard to say. The last time I saw you, I think we both decided, Betty, that I wasn’t good for you. How do you know that won’t be true again?”
“That’s something I’ll just have to risk, isn’t it?”
“Of course, there’s a certain amount of risk on my part too,” I said, and forced a laugh.
“Well, I guess you’re just too uncooperative, Dil. You seem to forget that a girl has some pride. I saw Monroe Wiedman at three o’clock yesterday afternoon and he told me you were in town. I’m sorry I listened.” There was a loud clack and the line was dead.
I hung up slowly. She had been trying to tell me something. I’d never heard of anyone named Monroe Wiedman. I looked up the name in the phone book. It wasn’t listed. Yet I knew that it was the clue as to where to meet her at three o’clock. I went down to the heated tunnel of the street and found a place to have brunch. Coffee made my mind work better. I bought a city map at a newsstand, slipping it inside a magazine, and wentback to the apartment. In Algiers, across the river, I found the intersection of Monroe Street and Wiedman Street. It was a quarter after one. That gave me an hour and forty-five minutes to shake off my friends and get over there. That is, if I wanted to shake off my friends. It made good sense to try to get in touch with them and tell them, or merely go on over and let them trail along.
But behind the girl’s gay and casual voice I had detected fear. I wanted to think it a genuine fear. And if she wanted to lead me into ambush, this seemed a pretty awkward way to go about it. I decided on a compromise. I would shake off my
Plans for the day—none. I was a stalking horse. Make like a target and let the Jones boys stalk the stalkers.
I went to the bureau and distributed my belongings in my pockets. The cash situation was still healthy. I would have to get hold of a lawyer and make arrangements about Laura’s money. There was plenty of time for that. I picked up the key chain and looked at the small rabbit, remembering the way Laura had said, “You always give a husband a present.”
I had told her it was a pretty symbolic present for a bride to give, and we had laughed. A small golden rabbit about three quarters of an inch high, sitting on his haunches, with little red stones for eyes, one ear lopped over, the ring for the key chain fastened to the tip of the upright ear. It was a fatuous-looking little rabbit—fatuous and at the same time debauched, hung over. It was the sagging ear that seemed to give that impression.
I was halfway down the stairs when I heard my phone ring. I went back up three stairs at a time, fumbled the key into the lock, and got to the phone before it stopped ringing.
“Hello, Dil? This is Betty.”
The voice was vaguely familiar. “Betty?” I said.
“Don’t be so
dull
, darling,” she said. There was annoyance in her voice and something else. Anxiety, maybe. The voice was oddly familiar.
“Oh, Betty! Sorry to have sounded stupid. How are you?”
There was relief in her tone. “I’m anxious to see you, Dil. It’s been so long, hasn’t it?”
“It certainly has,” I said with feeling. I knew the voice. It was the knife-wielding gal from the Rickrack. She must be afraid, I decided, of a tap on the line. “I’m anxious to see you, too,” I said, giving it a certain emphasis.
“Look, darling. I’m going to be terribly busy for a while. When do you think you can be free?” That was clear enough. Free meant without escort.
“That’s hard to say. The last time I saw you, I think we both decided, Betty, that I wasn’t good for you. How do you know that won’t be true again?”
“That’s something I’ll just have to risk, isn’t it?”
“Of course, there’s a certain amount of risk on my part too,” I said, and forced a laugh.
“Well, I guess you’re just too uncooperative, Dil. You seem to forget that a girl has some pride. I saw Monroe Wiedman at three o’clock yesterday afternoon and he told me you were in town. I’m sorry I listened.” There was a loud clack and the line was dead.
I hung up slowly. She had been trying to tell me something. I’d never heard of anyone named Monroe Wiedman. I looked up the name in the phone book. It wasn’t listed. Yet I knew that it was the clue as to where to meet her at three o’clock. I went down to the heated tunnel of the street and found a place to have brunch. Coffee made my mind work better. I bought a city map at a newsstand, slipping it inside a magazine, and wentback to the apartment. In Algiers, across the river, I found the intersection of Monroe Street and Wiedman Street. It was a quarter after one. That gave me an hour and forty-five minutes to shake off my friends and get over there. That is, if I wanted to shake off my friends. It made good sense to try to get in touch with them and tell them, or merely go on over and let them trail along.
But behind the girl’s gay and casual voice I had detected fear. I wanted to think it a genuine fear. And if she wanted to lead me into ambush, this seemed a pretty awkward way to go about it. I decided on a compromise. I would shake off my
Similar Books
