"Please. Let me help you up on the sofa."
On the horsehair Miss Martin lay quietly shivering. Smith emptying the bullets. Rolling them one by one out the air shaft window. Two of them firing at the bottom. Windows opening. They'll look up. Stick my head out and look upwards too.
Smith sticking legs into trousers. Wiping feet bottoms on Miss Martin's coat on the floor. Pulling on socks and shoes. Collecting up the edged and pointed instruments. All letter openers and nail files hereafter locked in the drawer.
Crossing to Miss Martin. Head down close to hers. Buy her a bottle of inexpensive perfume. Kiss her on the cheek. Incredible but I want more than anything to take off her clothes. Fill her up with love. Just ease it in. Like the deed already done. We could have walked cold and hungry into a little automat somewhere, bought coffee buns and goodies.
Smith gently closing his door. Picking up Miss Martin's telephone. Finger in the dial. A wail from the back room. Door opening. Miss Martin full of distress and cascading tears.
"Please Mr. Smith don't call the police. O dear God I swear I'll do anything if you don't call them. Don't have me arrested."
Smith phone in hand. Miss Martin, her hunched quivering shoulders in the doorway. High on the wall behind her a shattered glass and hole in Smith's prep school diploma. Standing in her stockinged feet. Looking down on her wet twisted handkerchief stretched between her hands.
"I'm sorry, Miss Martin."
"O no no. Let me go. Please let me go. I'll have my baby. I won't bother you. I swear."
"I'm sorry. Miss Martin."
"O Mr. Smith, please forget everything I said. I'll be a good girl. I'll die in prison. My baby. I'm just a working girl. Please. Please. I'll put on my shoes now. Where are they. There. And I'll go out the door and you'll never see me again."
She has nice little feet. All parts of her put together won't flash in beauty. But each is shaped with grace. So sweet cruelty. Love every one of her sad crying words. Fighting for the baby I gave her. Hello spider.
"All right, Miss Martin. Go back to the couch. I still must make a phone call but it's not to the police. Shut the door."
Soon one is driven to take the blood blot test. It reads a red hand ready to grab at the coat collar. Remember some whispers from Her Majesty. Why don't you get out while you're ahead. But suddenly I'm not ahead. She said Cedric Clementine had invited her to the airport. Where he treated her like a queen. Rushing back and forth in his dark suit, keeping Mr. Mystery in a little tent with water, gruel and a sign do not disturb. Ah, a voice, clear and heartless.
"Excelsior, may I help you."
"Yes. Suite eighteen B. Please."
"Thank you sir."
"Hello."
"Your Majesty, did I leave the bag of toadstools at your digs last night."
"This is not Her Majesty."
"Is this suite eighteen B."
"Her Majesty's secretary speaking. Who is this please."
"Get Her Majesty."
"Who may I say is speaking."
"You may say I am speaking."
"What name shall I give."
"I just don't feel like saying my name this morning. Please, do you mind. Her Majesty. Please."
"I'm sorry, but I must have a name."
"Are you trying to make life unbelievably painful. What's your name."
"I don't see how that matters."
"Is it Hilda."
"No."
"Olga."
"I'm afraid I shall have to hang up on you."
"I'll kill you."
"I beg your pardon."
"I'm sorry. I have a terrible hangover. But I just cannot bear to have to say my name this morning. I've just been through a rather distressing fifteen minutes here. Not that this could possibly matter to you, however there's something rather important that I must ask Her Majesty."
"About a bag of toadstools."
"Yes. Collector's items. Botanical rarities."
"I see."
"I may have left them there. You do have a kindly voice. Now if you would just ask Her Majesty about these foolish fungi for me."
"Very well."
"Wait. I know it's rather reversing the situation somewhat but I would like to know your name."
"Lettia."
"Strange. I knew it ended in a."
"Ha ha."
"Ha ha. Lettia."
If only I hadn't made such an entrance that night. I might use Her Majesty's as a retreat to hide. Vague memories. In suite eighteen B. Vouchsafe decorum devoid. Was a Bonniface motto. I feel close to life again. After nearly being out of it. And in the round darkness of last night. I remember getting up to wee wee. A decanter of brandy gripped in the fist. Walking out through an open door to a roof garden. Wisteria. A little wooden door, balcony with vines shrubberies and trees. Must have disgraced myself. A sundial and paved red brick chevrons. Remember sitting on a cold stone bench staring at them, thinking I once had a suit, put together just like the floor. Please. I did not pee off the balcony eighteen floors down into the street. Laughing as the wind turned it to spray. Feeling I was doing a favour for window boxes everywhere.
"George Smith."
"Your Majesty."
"I have several rather unfortunate things to convey to you, my dear boy. Which cannot be said on a telephone."
"Your Majesty, I was terribly drunk last night."
"Obviously."
"Still am. But is my bag of toadstools there."
"Don't you remember."
"Remember what."
"Dear boy. What a pickle."
"O God."
"Just take a peek in the papers. Even now die police are trying to control the traffic and crowds."
"This is a nightmare. I thought I dreamt it."
"No dream dear boy. I would say one thing, however, at your age you ought to have more sense. If it's your idea of fun, I find it in extremely bad taste to say the least. I will of course see you. Provided, one, you're sober and two, you ask to be shown to the water closet in future. Goodbye."
George Smith stood over Miss Martin. Touched her on the hair. And lifting up some old newspapers, covered her. She sleeps. There may not be rain today but one feels the need of an umbrella. And lip mask.
The hall empty outside 604. A shadow moving across the glass of The Institution Of Higher Graduation. Must be a candidate. First sign of life I've ever seen in that establishment. Ironic when my neighbors on this floor begin to prosper I languish.
Opening the umbrella down the hall. Passing the mop closet. Miss Martin will make a good mother. In that pail behind that door began our first feeble indelicacy. Hounded by gazeteers. Shut Her Majesty out of my heart all together if that's the way she wants it to be. Very best people use basins, parapets, balconies and alas, Bonnif ace says, when there is no bone china, there is only the open honest window left. Ask to be shown to the water closet, what crass presumption.
On the first floor landing a messenger running blindly up and nearly into George Smith gave a squeal of fear at this somnambulant slowly stepping down. Few little accessories and one easily spreads the fear of God. Presently possessed in abundance. After all the solid months I sat entrenched in Golf Street. Each morning prancing purposely out of Merry Mansions. Man of decision. Delegating authority. Striding in all weathers along the river. Nearly running when Miss Tomson worked for me. The sweaters she wore. Blue vision of blondness. The pearls. If Miss Tomson has a little one too. Be a whole bunch of babies born together. Later in some side street by the river, could all play in a garden. Start their own band.
At the kiosk Smith buying an afternoon newspaper. Tucking it under the arm. Umbrella miraculously parting the crowd ahead. Walking east, threading through the noon day rush. Further north to disappear in an entrance marked, Suppliers Of Ecclesiastical Pyrotechnic Fireworks. And emerging, a large box under his arm, umbrella blossoming black in the mid day sun. Ambling south along the river past the Watch Museum, where so often one means to visit but never finds time. And a chauffeured car flashing by nearly running Smith down, containing a face one knew but could not place. Life is spooky.