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Authors: Max Gilbert
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to someone. He had to talk to her .
They'd come here anyway. And she had to help him.
He went into the bedroom again. The bars of lead bullion had become bars of silver bullion now. Before long they would become gold, but not yet.
Then, before he got to the bed, he saw that she was awake after all. Must have awakened just now.
"Florence--" he said breathlessly. "Florence--"
"There is something you want to tell me?" The intonation of a question mark was so faint it was almost nonexistent. It wasn't a question, it was a declarative statement, but he had no time for nuances of speech.
"I do, I do. Listen carefully."
He sat down beside her on the bed. He got up again. He moved around to its other side. He sat down there. That was the side her heart was on.
"Are you awake enough to understand?"
"Quite enough." There was something clipped about it.
"That woman--" He stopped again, and wondered how to go on. "There was a woman here tonight. I don't know if you noticed her or not--"
She smiled with the faintest shadow of irony. "Let me see. A Hattie Carnegie dress, white, in the hundredand-fifty dollar bracket. But I think it was bought at a discount, after the season was over, and then charged at full price--to someone. Perugia originals on her feet. Probably 5-A's. No more than that. Everything in very good taste, excellent taste, but--" She shook her head and crinkled her nose, "the foundation is cheap, she can't do anything about that, it shows through. Thirty-five in actuality, but could pass for twenty-eight."
"She is twenty-eight," he wanted to blurt out protestingly, but checked himself. Maybe she had been thirtyfive at that, without his knowing it.
"Her perfume would be something like Styx, sticky and syrupy."
His eyes were round and he was speechless.
"Yes, Hugh. Yes, I believe I know whom you mean."
She lit a cigarette, as if giving him time to recover. She even offered him one. He refused.
"I--er, I don't know how to say this, Florence. There was an involvement that you never knew of--"
Again the ironical smile. "Shall I help you out there too, Hugh?"
She flicked first-ash from her cigarette into the little cloisonné platter on the stand, savored the smoke, rolled her eyes thoughtfully ceilingward, as if marshalling her facts in order to be of the greatest possible assistance to him.
"Her name is Esther Holliday. She lives at Sixteen-o-four Farragut Drive, Apartment D-seven. She pays a hundred and five a month for it. Telephone, Warfield seven one seven six. She's been in your life--or shall I say in your hair--oh, roughly, about four years now, a little bit over. I'm not a clairvoyant, Hugh. I can't give you the exact day you met her, nor the exact month. These things come on slowly. I can give you the exact season and year, spring, 1943. 'In the spring an older man's fancy--' I shouldn't have gotten so involved in my war work." She said this quite parenthetically, with a charming and not very fierce admonishing upthrust of her index finger. "You loved her for three years. For the past year and a half, you've no longer loved her, but you've been too lacking in backbone to do anything about it."
He seemed ready to come apart, as if he was strung on loose wires; like a puppet with the puppetmaster's fingers off the strings. "You know. You know about it."
"I've known for years," she said offhandedly. She decided she'd had enough of her cigarette, put it out; it had only been used as an aid to the conversation, anyway. For his sake.
"And now, what is it? What brings you to--unburden yourself at this particular time? Not that I don't appreciate it. Small favors, you know, are better than none at all."
"Florence, I went there to--to--"
This time she let him flounder his own way out.
"To kill her."
"I know you did."
"Oh, Florence," he said at last, and slumped back, as if wearied of trying to tell her anything she didn't know already. She left him no virtue in his confession.
"It was so obvious,"
They'd come here anyway. And she had to help him.
He went into the bedroom again. The bars of lead bullion had become bars of silver bullion now. Before long they would become gold, but not yet.
Then, before he got to the bed, he saw that she was awake after all. Must have awakened just now.
"Florence--" he said breathlessly. "Florence--"
"There is something you want to tell me?" The intonation of a question mark was so faint it was almost nonexistent. It wasn't a question, it was a declarative statement, but he had no time for nuances of speech.
"I do, I do. Listen carefully."
He sat down beside her on the bed. He got up again. He moved around to its other side. He sat down there. That was the side her heart was on.
"Are you awake enough to understand?"
"Quite enough." There was something clipped about it.
"That woman--" He stopped again, and wondered how to go on. "There was a woman here tonight. I don't know if you noticed her or not--"
She smiled with the faintest shadow of irony. "Let me see. A Hattie Carnegie dress, white, in the hundredand-fifty dollar bracket. But I think it was bought at a discount, after the season was over, and then charged at full price--to someone. Perugia originals on her feet. Probably 5-A's. No more than that. Everything in very good taste, excellent taste, but--" She shook her head and crinkled her nose, "the foundation is cheap, she can't do anything about that, it shows through. Thirty-five in actuality, but could pass for twenty-eight."
"She is twenty-eight," he wanted to blurt out protestingly, but checked himself. Maybe she had been thirtyfive at that, without his knowing it.
"Her perfume would be something like Styx, sticky and syrupy."
His eyes were round and he was speechless.
"Yes, Hugh. Yes, I believe I know whom you mean."
She lit a cigarette, as if giving him time to recover. She even offered him one. He refused.
"I--er, I don't know how to say this, Florence. There was an involvement that you never knew of--"
Again the ironical smile. "Shall I help you out there too, Hugh?"
She flicked first-ash from her cigarette into the little cloisonné platter on the stand, savored the smoke, rolled her eyes thoughtfully ceilingward, as if marshalling her facts in order to be of the greatest possible assistance to him.
"Her name is Esther Holliday. She lives at Sixteen-o-four Farragut Drive, Apartment D-seven. She pays a hundred and five a month for it. Telephone, Warfield seven one seven six. She's been in your life--or shall I say in your hair--oh, roughly, about four years now, a little bit over. I'm not a clairvoyant, Hugh. I can't give you the exact day you met her, nor the exact month. These things come on slowly. I can give you the exact season and year, spring, 1943. 'In the spring an older man's fancy--' I shouldn't have gotten so involved in my war work." She said this quite parenthetically, with a charming and not very fierce admonishing upthrust of her index finger. "You loved her for three years. For the past year and a half, you've no longer loved her, but you've been too lacking in backbone to do anything about it."
He seemed ready to come apart, as if he was strung on loose wires; like a puppet with the puppetmaster's fingers off the strings. "You know. You know about it."
"I've known for years," she said offhandedly. She decided she'd had enough of her cigarette, put it out; it had only been used as an aid to the conversation, anyway. For his sake.
"And now, what is it? What brings you to--unburden yourself at this particular time? Not that I don't appreciate it. Small favors, you know, are better than none at all."
"Florence, I went there to--to--"
This time she let him flounder his own way out.
"To kill her."
"I know you did."
"Oh, Florence," he said at last, and slumped back, as if wearied of trying to tell her anything she didn't know already. She left him no virtue in his confession.
"It was so obvious,"
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