“You don’t have to be refined with mc,” I assured her. “I’m just an easygoing guy who goes even better on a double Scotch and water.”
“Well, that’s nice.” Her eyes asked a question, and mine gave her the answer. She giggled suddenly. “If you have nothing better to do…”
“As an old pal of mine says, ‘What is there better to do?’”
The plucked eyebrow lifted.
“I think I could tell him if he really wanted to know.”
“You tell me instead.”
“I might, one of these days. If you would really like a drink, come on in. I know where the Scotch is hidden.”
I followed her into a large room which led off the hall. She rolled a little with each step, and had weight and control in her hips. They moved under the prim-looking white dress the way a baseball flighted with finger-spin moves. I could have walked behind her all day watching that action.
“Sit down,” she said, waving to an eight-foot settee. “I’ll fix you a drink.”
“Fine,” I said, lowering myself down on the cushion-covered springs. “But on one condition. I never drink alone. I’m very particular about that.”
“So am I,” she said.
I watched her locate a bottle of Johnny Walker, two pint tumblers and a bottle of Whiterock from the recess in a Jacobean Court cupboard.
“We could have ice, but it’ll mean asking Benskin, and I guess we can do without Benskin right now, don’t you?” she said, looking at me from under eyelashes that were like a row of spiked railings.
“Never mind the ice,” I said, “and be careful of the Whiterock. That stuff can ruin good whisky.”
She poured three inches of Scotch into both glasses and added a teaspoonful of Whiterock to each.
“That look about right to you?”
“That looks fine,” I said, reaching out a willing hand. “Maybe I’d better introduce myself.
I’m Vic Malloy. Just plain Vic to my friends, and all good-looking blondes are my friends.”
She sat down, not bothering to adjust her skirts. She had nice knees.
“You’re the first caller we have had in five months,” she said. “I was beginning to think there was a jinx on this place.”
“From the look of it, there is. Straighten me out on this, will you? The last time I was here it was an estate, not a blueprint for a wilderness. Doesn’t anyone do any work around here any more?”
She lifted her shapely shoulders.
“You know how it is. Nobody cares.”
“Just how bad is Maureen?”
She pouted.
“Look, can’t we talk about something else? I’m so very tired of Maureen.”
“She’s not my ball of fire either,” I said, tasting the whisky. It was strong enough to raise blisters on the hide of a buffalo. “But I knew her in the old days, and I’m curious. What exactly’s the matter with her?”
She leaned back her blonde head and lowered most of the Scotch down her creamy-white, rather beautiful throat. The way she swallowed that raw whisky told me she had a talent for drinking.
“I shouldn’t tell you,” she said, and smiled. “But if you promise not to say a word…”
“Not a word.”
“She’s being tapered off a drug jag. That’s strictly confidential.”
“Bad?”
She shrugged.
“Bad enough.”
“And in the meantime when the cat’s in bed the mice’ll play, huh?”
“That’s about right. No one ever comes near the place. She’s likely to be some time before she gets around again. While she’s climbing walls and screaming her head off, the staff relaxes. That’s fair enough, isn’t it?”
“Certainly is, and they certainly can relax.”
She finished her drink.
“Now, let’s get away from Maureen. I have enough of her nights without you talking about her.”
“You on night duty? That’s a shame.”
“Why?” The green-blue eyes alerted.
“I thought it might be fun to take you out one night and show you things.”
“What things?”
“For a start I have a lovely set of etchings.”
She giggled.
“If there’s one thing I like better than one etching it’s a set of etchings.” She got up and moved over to the whisky bottle. The way her hips rolled kept me pointing like a gun-dog.
“Let me freshen that,” she went on. “You’re not drinking.”
“It’s fresh enough. I’m beginning to get the idea there are things better to do besides drinking.”
“Are you? I thought perhaps you might.” She shot more liquor into her glass. She didn’t bother with the Whiterock this time.
“Who looks after Maureen during the day?” I asked as she made her way back to the settee.
“Nurse Fleming. You wouldn’t like her. She’s a man-hater.”
“She is?” She sat beside me, hip against hip. “Can she hear us?”
“It wouldn’t matter if she did, but she can’t. She’s in the left wing, overlooking the garages. They put Maureen there when she started to yell.”
That was exactly what I wanted to know.
“To hell with all man-haters,” I said, sliding my arm along the back of the settee behind her head. She leaned towards me. “Are you a man-hater?”
“It depends on the man.” Her face was close to mine so I let my lips rest against her temple.
She seemed to like that.
“How’s this man for a start?”
“Pretty nice.”
I took the glass of whisky out of her hand and put it on the floor.
“That’ll be in my way.”
“It’s a pity to waste it.”
“You’ll need it before long.”
“Will I?”
She came against me, her mouth on mine. We stayed like that for some time. Then suddenly she pushed away from me and stood up. For a moment I thought she was just a kiss-and-good-bye girl, but I was wrong. She crossed the room to the door and turned the key.
Then she came back and sat down again.
III
I parked the Buick outside the County Buildings at the corner of Feldman and Centre Avenue, and went up the steps and into a world of printed forms, silent passages and old-young clerks waiting hopefully for deadmen’s shoes.
The Births and Deaths Registry was on the first floor. I filled in a form and pushed it through the bars to the redheaded clerk who stamped it, took my money and waved an airy hand towards the rows of files.
“Help yourself, Mr. Malloy,” he said. “Sixth file from the right.”
I thanked him.
“How’s business?” he asked, and leaned on the counter, ready to waste his time and mine.
“Haven’t seen you around in months.”
“Nor you have,” I said. “Business is fine. How’s yours? Are they still dying?”
“And being born. One cancels out the other.”
“So it does.”
I hadn’t anything else for him. I was tired. My little session with Nurse Gurney had exhausted me. I went over to the files. C file felt like a ton weight, and it was all I could do to heave it on to the flat-topped desk. That was Nurse Gurney’s fault, too. I pawed over the pages, and, after a while, came upon Janet Crosby’s death certificate. I took out an old envelope and a pencil. She had died of malignant endocarditis, whatever that meant, on 15th of May 1948.
She was described as a spinster, aged twenty-five years. The certificate had been signed by a Doctor John Bewley. I made a note of the doctor’s name, and then turned back a dozen or so pages until I found Macdonald Crosby’s certificate. He had died of brain injuries from gunshot wounds. The doctor had been J. Salzer; the corner, Franklin Lessways. I made more notes, and then, leaving the file where it was, tramped over to the clerk who was watching me with lazy curiosity.