He slammed a row of airmail stamps on the envelope and went out. The street was dark and deserted. A few cars sat lumpishly along the curbs. The manuscript thumped down into the mailbox — safe in the bosom of the Postal Service. Now, even if he, the plane, and the other copies perished…
Mitch laughed at himself and turned the corner, feeling suddenly let down, depressed, and forlorn.
The Parakeet Bar and Grill, he noted gratefully, was still open. He walked the one block and went in. The Bar ran all the way along one wall and the Grill, consisting of eight booths, ran all the way along the other. The narrow room was dim and felt empty.
Mitch groped for a stool.
“Hi, Toby. Business slow?”
“Hi, Mr. Brown.” The bartender seemed glad to see him. He was a small man with a crest of dark hair, a blue chin, and a blue tinge to the whites of his eyes. “This late on a weeknight, I’m never crowded.”
“The kitchen’s gone home, eh?” Mitch said. The kitchen was not the heart of this establishment.
“That’s right, Mr. Brown. You want any food, you better go else-where.”
“A drink will do me,” said Mitch with a sigh. “I can go home and scramble yet another egg.”
Toby turned to his bottles. When he turned back with Mitch’s usual, he said in an anxious whine, “Fact is, I got to close up pretty soon and I don’t know what to do.”
“What do you mean, what to do?”
“Look at her.” Toby’s gaze passed over Mitch’s left shoulder.
Mitch glanced behind him and was startled to see there was a woman sitting in one of the booths. Or perhaps one could say lying, since her fair hatless head was down on the red-checked tablecloth.
Mitch turned again and wagged inquiring eyebrows.
“Out like a light,” said Toby in a hoarse whisper. “Listen, I don’t want to call the cops. Thing like that, not so good for the place. But I got a kid sick and my wife is all wore out and I wanted to get home.”
“You try black coffee?”
“Sure, I tried.” Toby’s shoulders despaired.
“How’d she get this way?”
“Not here,” said Toby quickly. “Don’t see how. So help me, a coupla drinks hit her like that. Trouble is, she’s not a bum. You can see that. So what should I do?”
“Put her in a taxi,” said Mitch blithely. “Just ship her where she belongs. Why not? She’ll have something on her for identity.”
“I don’t want to mess around with her pocketbook,” Toby said fearfully.
“Hm. Well, let’s see…” Mitch got off the stool. His drink had gone down and bounced lightly and he was feeling cheerful and friendly toward all the world. Furthermore, he felt very intelligent and he understood that he had been born to understand everybody.
Toby came too, and they lifted the woman’s torso.
Her face was slack in drunken sleep; but even so it was not an ugly face. It was not young; neither was it old. Her clothing was expensive. No, she wasn’t a tramp.
Then she opened her eyes and said in a refined voice, “I beg your pardon.”
She was not exactly conscious; still this was encouraging. The two men got her to her feet. With their support she could stand. In fact, she could walk. Mitch ran his left arm through the handle of her expensive-looking handbag. The two of them walked her to the door.
“The air maybe?” said the bartender hopefully.
“Right,” said Mitch. “Listen, there’s a cab stand next to the movie theater. By the time we walk her over there…”
Toby said shrilly. “I got to lock up. I got to take care of the place.”
“Go ahead,” said Mitch, standing in the sweet night air with the strange woman heavy in his arms, “I’ve got her.”
He heard the lock click behind him as he set off on the sidewalk, the woman putting one foot ahead of the other willingly enough.
Musing on the peculiar and surprising qualities of “reality,” Mitch had guided her halfway along the block before he recognized the fact that the bartender had taken him literally and was not coming along at all.
Oh, well. Mitch was not annoyed. On the contrary, he felt filled with compassion for all human beings. This woman was human and, therefore, frail. He was glad to try to help her to some place of her own.
The neighborhood business section was deserted. They were moving in an empty world. When Mitch had struggled all the way to the next corner, he could see ahead that there were no cabs near the theater. At this time of night the theater was dead and dark, as he should have known. He guessed he hadn’t quite been meshed with the gears of ordinary time.
Anyhow, he couldn’t turn her over to a handy cab driver. Nor to the police, since there were no policemen around either. There was nothing but pavement, those few lumps of metal left at the curb for the night, and no traffic.
Mitch wouldn’t have hailed a motorist anyway. Most motorists were suspicious and afraid. So he did the only thing he could — he kept walking.
He guided her automatic steps around the corner and down the street, for surely, he thought, if he kept her walking she would begin to be conscious and he could then ask her what she wanted him to do about her. This he felt was the right thing. Perhaps he could get out his own car…
But the air was not having the desired effect. She began to stumble.
Her weight slumped against him. Mitch found he was almost carrying her. Then he discovered that he was standing, holding her upright with both arms, directly in front of his own building. Obviously, the only thing to do was take her inside, where he could investigate her identity and telephone for a taxi.
The apartment had not tidied itself up during his absence. He let her weight go and she sagged down on his sofa. He guided her blond head to a pillow. There she lay, out like a light, a perfect stranger.
To straighten the body and make it look more comfortable, he lifted the lower part of the legs. One of her shoes — beautiful shoes in a fine green leather, with a high spike heel and a small brass buckle — one of them came off.
Mitch took hold of the other shoe and also removed it. Full of cosmic thoughts about females and heels, he put her shoes on his desk and slipped her handbag off his arm. It was the same fine green leather.
It did feel sneaky to be rifling the property of a strange woman.
Still, it had to be done.
Her name, on the driver’s license, was Natalie Maxwell. Her address was in Santa Barbara. Mitch whistled. That knocked over his scheme of sending her home in a cab, since her home was a hundred miles away. Then he found a letter addressed to Mrs. Julius Maxwell and Mitch whistled again. So she was married!
Furthermore, she was married to somebody whose name was familiar. Julius Maxwell. All that came to Mitch’s musing memory was an aroma of money. She probably wasn’t broke, then. He peered into her wallet and saw a few bills. Not many. So he riffled her checkbook and whistled for the third time. Well! No penniless waif, this one.
Mitch ran his hand through his hair and considered his predica-ment. Here he was, harboring a wealthy matron from Santa Barbara who had passed out from liquor. What was he going to do with her?
There was nothing in the bag to tell him where she was staying locally. The letter was woman’s chatter from someone in San Francisco.
So what to do?
Well, he might phone the police and dump her on them. This he could not quite imagine. Or, he could phone the residence of Julius Maxwell, in Santa Barbara, and if her husband were there, ask for instructions; or, if he were not there, surely Mitch could ask somebody where Mrs. Maxwell was staying in Los Angeles, and dump her there. All this went through his mind and was rejected.