I sat down and waited.
It was fifteen minutes before she came out, and then she was wearing slippers and a fluffy negligee, but her hair had been combed, her face made up and there was carefully shaped lipstick on her mouth.
She said, “You certainly do come at the most inopportune times.”
I looked her over and said, “You’re gilding the lily.”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t need the war paint. You could just tumble out of bed and win a beauty prize.”
“A lot you know about it. How about some coffee?”
“Suits me.”
She opened a door, disclosing a kitchenette that had been built into a closet, just a small gas plate, some shelves, dishes and a pocket-size electric refrigerator. “I can’t give you much else. I don’t eat much for breakfast”
“It’s okay, I’ve had breakfast. I’m just being sociable.”
“What brings you out here so early?”
I said, “That cheque you gave us.”
“The two hundred dollars?”
“Yes.”
“What about it?”
“It bounced.”
She had been pouring coffee into a percolator. Now she whirled round, still holding the coffee can in her hand. “What are you talking about?”
“It bounced.”
“Why, that cheque was as good as gold!”
“There seems to be a slight difference of opinion,” I told her. “The bank seems to think otherwise. Apparently you had deposited a cheque and drawn against it with this cheque you gave us. The cheque you deposited was no good.”
“Donald, that’s absurd! That cheque was perfectly good.”
I said, “Ring up your bank, if you doubt what I’m telling you.”
She slowly put down the coffee can as though in a daze, then said, “Good grief, I’d never thought of that!”
After a while I said, “Bertha Cool’s worked up about it.”
“She would be.”
“What can you do about it?” I asked.
She studied me thoughtfully. “Nothing, I guess. Not now.”
“You can’t raise any money?”
“Not a cent.”
“You must have some money in the bank.”
“Well, what if I have?”
“And a few things you could hock.”
“Well, I’m not going to.”
“Your dear auntie doesn’t seem as important to you now as she did Saturday, does she?”
“Shut up. Sit down and wait for the coffee.”
“Who was your cheque from?” I asked. “The one that bounced.”
“What do you want to do?” she demanded. “Stay for coffee or get thrown out?”
“Stay for coffee,” I said.
She put water in the percolator, lit the gas plate, brought out an electric toaster, unwrapped a half loaf of bread, opened the little refrigerator and took out a package of Nucoa.
“Seen the paper?” I asked.
“No.”
I handed her the morning paper and said, “You might as well get caught up on the news while the coffee’s percolating.”
She said, “Oh, I’d rather talk with you. I can read the newspaper any time. You’re — you’re interesting and you’re going to try to pry something out of me, aren’t you?”
“I’ve already pried it.”
She opened the newspaper, glanced at the headlines, looked down through the front page, paused briefly on the account of the murder, then turned to the back page, looked at the pictures of the girl lying on the floor of her bedroom, clad in panties and bra.
“How perfectly terrible!” she said.
“What?”
“For a girl to be strangled that way.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Probably some sex maniac,” she said, and shivered. “I hate to think of things like that.”
I took a cigarette case from my pocket. “Want one?”
“Please.”
She took a cigarette, guided my hand with the tips of her fingers as I held the match. Then I lit up one of my own and walked over, to stand looking out of the window.
Abruptly I turned around.
She had opened the paper to the sporting page and was studying the racing news.
I turned back towards the window.
I heard the paper rustle as she folded it. “Like the scenery?” she asked.
“Uh huh.”
“I’m glad you do,” she said. “Some people prefer the animate scenery.”
I said, “You’re a lot more cordial this morning than you were yesterday.”
“Perhaps I like you better.”
“Perhaps.”
“Perhaps I feel better.”
“Perhaps.”
“Perhaps you just imagine I’m nicer.”
“Perhaps.”
“Good heavens,” she said, “won’t you argue with me?”
“No, I’ll leave that to Bertha.”
“All right, I’ll take care of Bertha.”
I said, “You might sing a different tune if Bertha swears out a complaint for you on the ground of giving a cheque for which there were not sufficient funds.”
“I had sufficient funds when I gave the cheque. It isn’t my fault if something happened.”
“Not the way the bank talks. The bank says they only took that cheque you deposited for collection; that you had no right to draw on it until after it had cleared.”
“They didn’t tell me that when I deposited the cheque. They took it in and credited my account in the pass-book. I can show you.”
“Let’s take a look.”
She hesitated a moment, then got up and went into the bedroom.
A moment later she came gliding back, the fluffy negligée swinging around about her. She handed me a small bank-book opened it, and with a tinted fingernail pointed to the last deposit, a simple credit of five hundred dollars, with the initials of the man who made the entry in the book.
I moved the finger back a bit and looked up the page. There were deposits of two hundred and fifty dollars made with regularity, one each month.
She suddenly realized what I was doing, and jerked the book away.
“Alimony,” I said. “I presume you lose it if you get married again.”
Her eyes were flaming. “You’re the nosiest, most impertinent man I ever met!”
“That alimony of yours,” I went on, “is just about enough for a girl to live on if she’s economical. You might try matrimony once more and get a bigger slice of alimony next time.”
She said, “Someday I’m going to slap your face, Donald Lam.”
“Don’t do it,” I told her. “It brings out the primitive in me. I might sock you.”
“The primitive in you,” she said scornfully. “You haven’t any primitive.”
“Still thinking about that ten-dollar bet? If you could get me to make a pass at you, you’d have ten dollars more to your credit for this month.”
Her face showed a change of expression. “I’d forgotten about that bet,” she said, and then added after a moment, “I’m sorry I made it.”
“So am I.”
“Do you,” she asked throatily, “want to call it off, Donald? Just forget about it?”
“No,” I told her, “I need the ten bucks.”
Her face flamed with anger. “Why, you—” and then she laughed and said, “You have a great line, don’t you?”
“No line at all,” I told her. “I’m working.”
“And you never let pleasure interfere with business, I take it.”
“Exactly.”
“I’m not certain that I like people like that.”
I said, “You can throw me out after I’ve had my coffee.”
“I will, at that.”
The coffee started to percolate, and she fed two slices of bread through the toaster. I refused the toast but had two cups of coffee in the intimacy of the little living-room. Her eyes were studying me as she ate.