“I... I don’t know.”
Hiram’s was two blocks away. Not worth taxi fare. They took a booth in the back and she wanted her steak medium well. She ate without taking her eyes from Max’s face and he began to think that this Jerry was one lucky character.
Finally he had a play figured out. He grinned at her, his lips a bit stiff, and said, “Honey, we’ll pretend we just met, hey?”
“That would be nice.”
“Glad to meet you, miss. My name’s Jerry Glockenspiel.”
“Silly! Your name’s Jerry Norma. I’m Marylen Banner.” She gravely shook his hand.
Max frowned. He said absently, “Hi, Marylen.” The name Jerry Norma had rung a tiny bell way back in his mind. Jerry Norma had, at one time or another, been news. Not big news. Something about the size of a page three quarter column.
In a low voice that shook with emotion, she said, “Why did you do it, Jerry? Why did you run out on me like that?”
Max sighed inwardly. Boy ditches girl. Girl goes off the beam. Tired old story. Better get along with her, turn her over for observation.
“I shouldn’t have done it.”
“You were just pretending, weren’t you?”
“Sure. Just pretending.”
She said softly, her head tilted on one side, “The lights, the way they came on so quickly. And that concrete floor. The black drops. You walked away and the lights came on and then all that noise like thunder. You doubled over and fell so slowly, Jerry. And then — when I ran to you—”
She stopped and put the back of her hand to her forehead, her shadowed eyes closed. With the smudges washed off, she was delicately beautiful.
Max shut his jaw hard. He ground out his cigarette and, keeping his voice level and calm, he said, “You thought I was shot, eh?”
Her eyes snapped open. “Shot? I... I... can’t remember.”
“I walked away from you and the lights came on.”
“I think you left me sitting in the car, Jerry. Yes, in the car.”
“Then the car was inside. A garage, wasn’t it?”
“Now it’s fading away, Jerry. I can’t remember. I can’t.”
Suddenly she looked around, at the tabletop, at the floor under the bench. “My purse! I’ve lost my purse!”
“You didn’t have it when you found me in that bar, Marylen. Can you remember where you were before that?”
“I don’t know, Jerry. I was looking for you for a long time.”
He realized that she spoke well, that her clothes were smart, though not extremely expensive or shining new.
“I’ll take you home, Marylen. Where do you live?”
“Please stop teasing me, Jerry. Please. I’m too tired to take very much.”
Max stared at her. “Look, I just plain forgot where you were staying here.”
“Don’t you remember, Jerry? You met me at the train. We were going to find a hotel for me and then you said that when we were married I could move into your place. But my purse! All my money was in the purse. Everything.”
“Now I remember. You came on the train from Chicago.”
“Jerry, are you losing your mind? From New Orleans! When you wrote me I gave up my job and found another girl to take over my share of the apartment on Burgundy Street. And I came to you as fast as I could, darling.”
Max ran a finger around the inside edge of his collar. “Sure, kid. Sure.”
“What will we do?” she asked. “We checked all my things at the station and my baggage checks were in my purse.”
“Maybe we could get in touch with your folks.”
“You say such queer things, Jerry Norma. I told you what happened to my folks. It was so long ago that I hardly remember them. I told you about my guardian and how there was just enough money for school, and then nothing.”
“What am I going to do with you?” Max asked helplessly.
“You have plenty of money, Jerry, darling. Find me a room and tomorrow we’ll shop together for what I need — to be married in.”
Suddenly she winced, leaned low over the table and said, “Jerry, I’m sick. I’m so sick...”
When he had the cab waiting outside, he went back to the table and got her. She leaned heavily against him, walked with her head down, eyes half closed. People stared at them with wry amusement, thinking that she was drunk.
He said to the driver, “Memorial Hospital, and snap it up.”
But three blocks further on, he leaned forward and said, “Changed my mind. Take us to Bleecker Street.”
He paid off the cab, walked her up the three steps, held her in his left arm while he got the key in the door. She collapsed completely inside the door, and he picked her up in his arms, carrying her like a child. Gruber, the superintendent-janitor, came out into the hall, stared at him, then grinned.
Max snapped, “Pick up her hat and hand it to me. Then get hold of my friend Doc Morrison across the street.”
He stepped with her into the elevator as Gruber went out the front door. He had to put her on the floor while he got his door key and opened his front door. The tiny living room of his apartment was rancid with stale smoke, thick with dust. Through the open bedroom doorway he could see the unmade bed. He turned sideways to get her through the narrow door, her head hanging loosely, her arm swinging.
He grunted as he lowered her onto the bed. Then he went to the window, stood smoking a cigarette, his back to her, until he heard the knock on the door.
Morrison was young, dark, quick. He put his bag on the floor, went over to her, took her pulse. “What’s wrong with her?”
“You’re the doctor. She’s not loaded, if that’s what you mean.”
“Then get out and shut the door.”
Max sat in the armchair. He picked up a newspaper, found that he wasn’t getting any sense out of the words. He flipped it aside.
In fifteen minutes Morrison came out, leaving the bedroom door open. Max looked in, saw the girl was snoring softly.
Morrison looked angrily at Max and said, “Somebody gave that girl a hell of a beating.”
“Beating?”
“Come here.” Morrison led him into the bedroom, pulled her arm out from under the covers. There were two large purpled bruises between her elbow and shoulder. He said, “She’s got a round dozen bruises like that. And look here.” He rolled her head to one side, pulled the fine blond hair away from her ear. Behind her ear was a large, angry-looking lump. “That looks like she’s been sapped. But I wouldn’t know. She’s suffering from the beating, from shock, maybe from a minor concussion. I gave her a shot of sedative. She’ll sleep hard for twelve hours. There don’t seem to be any broken bones. I’d like to get my hands on whoever treated that girl that way.”
“That’s a pleasure I would enjoy too, Doc,” Max said gently.
“Twenty dollars, please. I’ll stop in tomorrow and see how she is and see if we should take her down for X rays.”
Morrison took the twenty and walked out, still angry, slamming the door behind him. Max walked back in and stood by the bed and looked down at her. In sleep her face was composed, childlike. Her blond hair was softly spread on the pillow.
He turned to the lightweight suit she had been wearing, went carefully through the two pockets. He found a balled-up handkerchief smelling faintly of perfume. Nothing else. Then he went over the labels. The shoes and suit had come from New Orleans, definitely. The other items could have.
He opened the window a bit further, looked down at her again, and said, “Honey, you’re gradually becoming a burden.”
Closing the door gently, he left the bedroom. He locked the apartment. The streetlights had just come on. The air was growing a bit more chill. At the corner, he swung onto a bus and took it down to within a half block of the Examiner office.
Townsend, on the desk, said, “Sorry, Raffidy, but we haven’t—”