«What’s your first name?» I asked.
«Lola.»
«Go on talking, Lola.» I got another dry cigarette out of my pocket and fumbled it between my fingers just to give them something to do.
«They had a simple silver clasp in the shape of a two-bladed propeller. There was one small diamond where the boss would be. I told Frank they were store pearls I had bought myself. He didn’t know the difference. It’s not so easy to tell, I dare say. You see — Frank is pretty jealous.»
In the darkness she came closer to me and her side touched my side. But I didn’t move this time. The wind howled and the trees shook. I kept on rolling the cigarette around in my fingers.
«I suppose you’ve read that story,» she said. «About the wife and the real pearls and her telling her husband they were false?»
«I’ve read it,» I said, «Maugham.»
«I hired Joseph. My husband was in Argentina at the time. I was pretty lonely.»
«You should be lonely,» I said.
«Joseph and I went driving a good deal. Sometimes we had a drink or two together. But that’s all. I don’t go around —»
«You told him about the pearls,» I said. «And when your two hundred pounds of beef came back from Argentina and kicked him out — he took the pearls, because he knew they were real. And then offered them back to you for five grand.»
«Yes,» she said simply. «Of course I didn’t want to go to the police. And of course in the circumstance Joseph wasn’t afraid of my knowing where he lived.»
«Poor Waldo,» I said. «I feel kind of sorry for him. It was a hell of a time to run into an old friend that had a down on you.»
I struck a match on my shoe sole and lit the cigarette. The tobacco was so dry from the hot wind that it burned like grass. The girl sat quietly beside me, her hands on the wheel again.
«Hell with women — these fliers,» I said. «And you’re still in love with him, or think you are. Where did you keep the pearls?»
«In a Russian malachite jewelry box on my dressing table. With some other costume jewelry. I had to, if I ever wanted to wear them.»
«And they were worth fifteen grand. And you think Joseph might have hidden them in his apartment. Thirty-one, wasn’t it?»
«Yes,» she said. «I guess it’s a lot to ask.»
I opened the door and got out of the car. «I’ve been paid,» I said. «I’ll go look. The doors in my apartment are not very obstinate. The cops will find out where Waldo lived when they publish his photo, but not tonight, I guess.»
«It’s awfully sweet of you,» she said. «Shall I wait here?»
I stood with a foot on the running board, leaning in, looking at her. I didn’t answer her question. I just stood there looking in at the shine of her eyes. Then I shut the car door and walked up the street towards Franklin.
Even with the wind shriveling my face I could still smell the sandalwood in her hair. And feel her lips.
I unlocked the Berglund door, walked through the silent lobby to the elevator, and rode up to Three. Then I soft-footed along the silent corridor and peered down at the sill of Apartment 31. No light. I rapped — the old light, confidential tattoo of the bootlegger with the big smile and the extra-deep hip pockets. No answer. I took the piece of thick hard celluloid that pretended to be a window over the driver’s license in my wallet, and eased it between the lock and the jamb, leaning hard on the knob, pushing it toward the hinges. The edge of the celluloid caught the slope of the spring lock and snapped it back with a small brittle sound, like an icicle breaking. The door yielded and I went into near darkness. Street light filtered in and touched a high spot here and there.
I shut the door and snapped the light on and just stood. There was a queer smell in the air. I made it in a moment — the smell of dark-cured tobacco. I prowled over to a smoking stand by the window and looked down at four brown butts — Mexican or South American cigarettes.
Upstairs, on my floor, feet hit the carpet and somebody went into a bathroom. I heard the toilet flush. I went into the bathroom of Apartment 31. A little rubbish, nothing, no place to hide anything. The kitchenette was a longer job, but I only half searched. I knew there were no pearls in that apartment. I knew Waldo had been on his way out and that he was in a hurry and that something was riding him when he turned and took two bullets from an old friend.
I went back to the living room and swung the wall bed and looked past its mirror side into the dressing room for signs of still current occupancy. Swinging the bed farther I was no longer looking for pearls. I was looking at a man.
He was small, middle-aged, iron-gray at the temples, with a very dark skin, dressed in a fawn-colored suit with a winecolored tie. His neat little brown hands hung limply by his sides. His small feet, in pointed polished shoes, pointed almost at the floor.
He was hanging by a belt around his neck from the metal top of the bed. His tongue stuck out farther than I thought it possible for a tongue to stick out.
He swung a little and I didn’t like that, so I pulled the bed shut and he nestled quietly between the two clamped pillows. I didn’t touch him yet. I didn’t have to touch him to know that he would be cold as ice.
I went around him into the dressing room and used my handkerchief on drawer knobs. The place was stripped clean except for the light litter of a man living alone.
I came out of there and began on the man. No wallet. Waldo would have taken that and ditched it. A flat box of cigarettes, half full, stamped in gold: «Louis Tapia y Cia, Calle de Paysandü, 19, Montevideo.» Matches from the Spezia Club. An under-arm holster of dark-grained leather and in it a 9-millimeter Mauser.
The Mauser made him a professional, so I didn’t feel so badly. But not a very good professional, or bare hands would not have finished him, with the Mauser — a gun you can blast through a wall with — undrawn in his shoulder holster.
I made a little sense of it, not much. Four of the brown cigarettes had been smoked, so there had been either waiting or discussion. Somewhere along the line Waldo had got the little man by the throat and held him in just the right way to make him pass out in a matter of seconds. The Mauser had been less useful to him than a toothpick. Then Waldo had hung him up by the strap, probably dead already. That would account for haste, cleaning out the apartment, for Waldo’s anxiety about the girl. It would account for the car left unlocked outside the cocktail bar.
That is, it would account for these things if Waldo had killed him, if this was really Waldo’s apartment — if I wasn’t just being kidded.
I examined some more pockets. In the left trouser one I found a gold penknife, some silver. In the left hip pocket a handkerchief, folded, scented. On the right hip another, unfolded but clean. In the right leg pocket four or five tissue handkerchiefs. A clean little guy. He didn’t like to blow his nose on his handkerchief. Under these there was a small new keytainer holding four new keys — car keys. Stamped in gold on the keytainer was: Compliments of R. K. Vogelsang, Inc. «The Packard House.»
I put everything as I had found it, swung the bed back, used my handkerchief on knobs and other projections, and flat surfaces, killed the light and poked my nose out the door. The hall was empty. I went down to the street and around the corner to Kingsley Drive. The Cadillac hadn’t moved.