“And you knew what you were taking on?”
“One becomes bored and feels a bit… unnecessary from time to time. Then it is an affirmative act to make oneself needed. I would not have gone on and on with it, certainly. I had planned to have someone take her back to Florida to her home when she was well enough.”
“When did Miss Bowie leave your home?”
“She was becoming more alert and responsive. On Saturday in the early afternoon, a young man came asking to see her. I told my gate man that he could see Bix. Then Bix came to me and asked me if she could go for a ride with the young man. She said he was a friend. I thought it would be constructive to give her a test of her will and her desire to be cured. So she left with him. When she did not return Saturday night I was annoyed and disappointed, and quite alarmed. She had become a likable personality. But I had no reason to report it. One cannot keep a houseguest locked up. Then she did not return Sunday night either. My cook went to market Monday morning and came back and told, me of an unidentified girl killed on the mountain road. I had her identification and her belongings at the house. I do not care to be involved in such things. I summoned my attorney, Alfredo Gaona, and explained the situation, and sent him to make arrangements with the police so that it could be done as quickly and quietly as possible. The body was sickeningly damaged, of course, but I knew at once from the chain she wore on her ankle and the red shoe that it was Beatrice Bowie. The police came to my home and claimed her belongings. And I did not care to stay there in the house longer. It was very depressing. So I came here the same evening. I have maintained this suite since the hotel opened.”
“She was over her addiction?”
“She had been addicted intentionally to several compounds, each less powerful. It is a common method of treatment. Perhaps she could have been cured entirely. I do not know. There seemed to be in her a great need to escape herself, to blot out her known world.”
Neat blanks, neatly filled.
“What day did Mr. McLeen come to you, asking about his daughter?”
“Let me think. Was Bix there? No, because he wished to question her about where Minda might have gone. I believe that it was quite late on Saturday afternoon.”
“Then you must have told him to come back, because at that time you thought Bix would be back from her ride.”
“Then I am mistaken, and it was late on Sunday afternoon, because I did not ask him to come back. He is a very tiresome and talkative man.”
I was running out of blanks. So there was left only what I expected would be the doorslammer.
“Mrs. Vitrier, did Minda McLeen try to prevent your having an affair with Miss Bowie?”
She stared at me, so motionless I could believe she had stopped breathing. Then she gave a husky, earthy, single bark of derisive laughter.
“Do you wonder that I close the world out, Mr. McGee? There is always some kind of obscene poison, isn’t there? Can you look at me and believe that?”
“Well, it isn’t easy.”
“I have buried four husbands, Mr. McGee. They were all elderly and extremely well off. I respond to older men. Perhaps that is a weakness. I do not know. I loved them. There was poison then, too. Each time. Snickerings about how I had seen to it that they would die in bed. The world is nasty and cruel. Fortunately they left me with all the money I shall ever need, and nasty gossip cannot touch me.”
“Maybe the gossip started because you’ve brought so many big, healthy, pretty maids down there with you, one at a time of course.”
“Oh? Yes, I see. That could do it, couldn’t it? But how grotesque! It is a kind of work I do for an institution in Brussels, Mr. McGee. The rehabilitation and training of disadvantaged young girls. I give them a year of training, and when each one leaves my service, she is competent and disciplined and polite. I must confess that I select ones who are attractive to look at. I select paintings and lamps which are attractive to look at. And I try to see that they are sturdy enough to do a hard day’s work. Do you understand? One cannot protect oneself against idle malice. I am a mystery. They seek answers. They will not accept the idea that there is no mystery at all. But I believe you will. You are, I think, an understanding and complex man. You look like the sort of man who is paid to strike a ball with a stick, or to fly to another star. But you have an easiness, an awareness of pleasure, no? And a life style which contents you, I think. You disconcert me. And you intrigue me.”
“Which makes us even, Mrs. Vitrier.”
“More blanks?”
“If I think of any I’d like to come back and stand out here in the hall and have a nice little chat.”
“Sorry. This is the only chance you will have.”
“And… I’ve run out of blanks.”
She smiled, and without another word she closed the door. I stared at it and wondered if she was looking out the little peephole at me. I walked back down the corridor. Nice going, McGee. Handled it real swell. And besides, you’ve got a life style which contents you. But not very much right now. You are pure hellfire with an insurance secretary from Guadalajara, but to the pretty French lady you are as impressive as a bag boy at the A R.
Something about her was so vivid and so directed and so strong, it was difficult to think clearly in her presence.
So I adjourned the meeting to a metal table on the wide deck outside Azulejos. One was a quorum. All right. Meeting come to order. What was wrong? Standing out in the hall. She’s alone, she likes privacy, too many people could be on the make for some of that money from those four old dead boys. So she is alone, eh? Where are all the servants? All right, this is one of the great hotels of the world, and they can give you service until you drown in it, particularly if you maintain a suite like that permanently, and if you demand service, which I imagine she would. And it could be the maid’s night out.
When I came to the doorslammer, why didn’t she slam it instead of explain herself? What would she have to lose? Maybe she has so much pride in being 110 percent woman, she doesn’t want anybody to believe she likes girls.
So why hadn’t I tried to break up that act by bringing in Bruce Bundy? Because I knew she was lying anyway. And how did you know that, McGee, you subtle, clever, complex fellow? Nothing but pure instinct. Don’t knock it. Meyer says it is made up of things you saw without knowing you saw them.
So what did I see that I didn’t know I saw? Close the eyes. Focus on the room behind her. Whoal Scan back. Change focus. Something there. Corner of coffee table. Fancy box. Candy box. How do you know it’s candy? Because, dammit, there were those things on the floor there. What things? Well, candy litter. Wadded up pieces of that kind of red tinfoil and yellow and blue they wrap up good candy in. And some of those little pieces of brown paper.
So she has a sweet tooth.
And throws the debris on the floor under the coffee table?
Maybe she isn’t neat.
But wasn’t the rest of the room, what you could see of it, so neat as to be practically sterile?
She was sitting on the couch eating chocolates. Why not?
But I’d been aware of two scents coming from that woman. One was perfume, faint and astringent, and the other was gin. Gin and candy? Ech!
So the servant eats candy.
And throws the wrappers on the floor?
Well, it was a big hotel and they would take very good care of the monied guests, and they would make a practice of not handing out information for the hell of it. But a big hotel has to have a big staff, and there are always new people who haven’t learned how to keep the mouth entirely closed. And guests have room service, maid service, laundry service, dry cleaning, television repair, dog-walking service. All in Spanish, no doubt.
If you skulk you attract attention and suspicion. If you have to sneak, be loud and brash and confident about it.