"Have you seen her? Do you know where she is?" Edward's broad face was boyish, anxious.
"Miss Moore? Not for a little while. Have you lost her?"
"Damn. She just vanished."
"She's probably in the bathroom."
"For twenty-five minutes?" Edward rubbed his forehead.
"Don't worry about her, Edward."
"I'm not worried, I just want to find her." He stood on tiptoe and began to look over the heads of the dancers, still grinding his fist into his forehead. "You don't suppose she went off with one of those awful kids?"
"Couldn't say." Edward slapped his shoulder and went rapidly out into the room.
Christina Barnes and Ned Rowles appeared in the vacuum Edward left at the edge of the carpet, and Ricky went around them to look for Stella. After a moment he saw her with Jim Hardie, obviously declining an invitation to learn the Bump. She looked over at him with some relief, and separated from the boy.
The music was so loud they had to speak directly into one another's ears. "That's the most forward boy I've ever met."
"What did he say?"
"He said I looked like Anne Bancroft."
The music abruptly stopped, and Ricky's reply carried over the entire party. "No one under thirty should be allowed to enter a movie theater."
Everyone but Edward Wanderley, who was quizzing a hostile Peter Barnes, turned to look at Ricky and Stella. Then the ever-hopeful Freddy Robinson took the hand of Jim Hardie's girlfriend, another record fell onto the turntable, and people went back to the business of being at a party. Edward had been speaking softly, insistently, but Peter Barnes's aggrieved voice floated out a moment before the music began: "Jesus, man, maybe she went upstairs."
"Can we go?" he asked Stella. "Sears left a while ago."
"Oh, let's stay a while. We haven't done anything like this in ages. I'm having fun, Ricky." When she saw his crestfallen face, she said, "Dance with me, Ricky. Just this once."
"I don't dance," he said, making himself heard over the din of the music. "Enjoy yourself. But let's go in about half an hour, all right?"
She winked at him, turned away, and was immediately captured by gangsterish Lou Price, to whom this time she succumbed.
Edward, seeing nothing, rushed by.
Ricky walked around the edges of the party for a time, refusing drinks from the barman. He spoke to Milly Sheehan, who was sitting exhausted on the couch. "I didn't know it would turn out like this," Milly said. "It'll take hours to clean up."
"Make John help you."
"He always helps," Milly said, radiance touching her plain round face. "He's wonderful that way."
Ricky wandered on, at last arriving at the top of the stairs. Silence from upstairs and down. Was Edward's actress up there with one of the boys? He smiled, and went downstairs for the quiet.
The doctor's offices were deserted. Lights burned, cigarettes had been stamped out on the floor, half-filled cups stood on every surface. The rooms smelled of sweat, beer, smoke. The little portable record player in the front room spun on, the needle clicking in the empty grooves. Ricky lifted the tone arm, put it on its support and turned the machine off. Milly would have a lot of work down here the next morning. He looked at his watch. Twelve-thirty. Through the ceiling came the thumping of a bass, a tinny echo of music.
Ricky sat in one of the stiff waiting-room chairs, lit a cigarette, sighed and relaxed. He wondered if he might help Milly by beginning to straighten up these downstairs rooms, then realized that he'd need a broom. He was too tired to go scouting for a broom.
A few minutes later footsteps woke him out of a light doze. He straightened up in his chair, listening to someone opening a door at the bottom of the stairs. "Hello?" he called out, not wanting to embarrass an illicit couple.
"Who's that? Ricky?" John Jaffrey came into the front waiting room. "What are you doing here? Have you seen Edward?"
"I came down for the quiet. Edward was rushing around trying to find Miss Moore. Maybe he went upstairs."
"I'm worried about him," Jaffrey said. "He looked so-so taut. Ann-Veronica's dancing with Ned Rowles. Couldn't he see her?"
"She vanished a while back. That's why he was anxious."
"Oh, poor Edward. He doesn't have to worry about that girl. She's good as gold. You should see her. She's absolutely lovely. She looks better than she has all night."
"Well." He pushed himself out of the stiff chair. "Do you want help finding Edward?"
"No, no, no. You just carry on. I'll find him. I'll try the bedrooms. Though what he'd be doing there-"
"Still looking, I expect."
John wheeled around, muttering that he couldn't help but worry, and went back through the consulting rooms. Ricky slowly followed.
Harold Sims was dancing with Stella, holding her tightly and keeping up a steady stream of talk into her ear. The music was so loud that Ricky wanted to scream. Nobody but Sears had left, and the young people, many of them now drunk, whirled about, hair and arms flying. The little actress cavorted with the editor, Lewis was talking to Christina Barnes on the couch. Both were oblivious to the presence of sleeping Milly Sheehan, not eight inches away. Ricky wished profoundly that he were in his bed. The noise gave him a headache. His old friends, Sears excepted, seemed to have lost their minds. Lewis had his hand on Christina Barnes's knee, and his eyes were unfocused. Was he really trying to seduce his banker's wife? In the presence of her husband and son?
Upstairs, something heavy fell over, and only Ricky heard it. He went back out onto the landing and saw John Jaffrey standing at the top of the stairs.
"Ricky."
"What's wrong, John?"
"Edward. It's Edward."
"Did he knock something over?"
"Come up here, Ricky."
Ricky went up, growing a little more worried with each step. John Jaffrey seemed very shaken.
"Did he knock something over? Did he hurt himself?"
Jaffrey's mouth opened. Finally sounds emerged. "I knocked a chair over. I don't know what to do."
Ricky reached the landing and looked into Jaffrey's ruined face. "Where is he?"
"The second bedroom."
Since Jaffrey did not move, Ricky went across the hall to the second door. He looked back; Jaffrey nodded, swallowed and finally came toward him. "In there."
Ricky's mouth was dry. Wishing that he were anywhere else, doing anything but what he was doing, he put a hand on the doorknob and turned it. The door swung open.
The bedroom was cold, and almost bare. Two coats, Edward's and the girl's, were lain across an exposed mattress. But Ricky saw only Edward Wanderley. Edward was on the floor, both hands clutched to his chest and his knees drawn up. His face was terrible.
Ricky stepped back and nearly fell over the chair that John Jaffrey had overturned. There was no question that Edward was still alive-he did not know how he knew it, but he knew-yet he asked, "Did you try to feel his pulse?"
"He doesn't have a pulse. He's gone."
John was trembling just inside the door. Music, voices came up the stairwell.
Ricky forced himself to kneel by Edward's side. He touched one of the hands gripping Edward's green shirt He worked his fingers around to the underside of the wrist. He felt nothing, but he was no doctor. "What do you think happened?" He still could not look again at Edward's distorted face.
John came further into the room. "Heart attack?"
"Do you think that's what it was?"
"I don't know. Yes, probably. Too much excitement But-"
Ricky stared up at Jaffrey and took his hand from Edward's still warm hand. "But what?"
"I don't know. I can't say. But, Ricky, look at his face."
He looked: rigid muscles, mouth drawn open as if to yell, empty eyes. It was the face of a man being tortured, flayed alive. "Ricky," John said, "it's not a very medical thing to say, but he looks as if he was scared to death."