Now, all I wanted was to be rid of Wilma and this dirty sand. I stood up. “Shall we wash up with a swim?”
I pulled Wilma to her feet—and she still had this kind of patronizing smile on her face. She held up her face and we kissed with absolutely no feeling. She giggled as we walked slowly into the water and swam around. Then I jogged back to the car for our clothes. I tossed her my T-shirt for a towel, while I tried to dry myself with my shorts.
I tossed the shorts into the grass. Wilma threw the T-shirt into the back of the car. Being dressed again seemed to be an act of sanity. I drove back to New York, her head resting on my shoulder. She happily didn't talk until we crossed the 59th Street bridge when Wilma sat up to ask: “What time is it?”
“Nearly three. Would you care for something to eat?”
“No, I feel fine. Norm, when you get straightened out with your wife, come over and visit. I think we can all be wonderful friends. Joel is very amusing, usually.”
“Sure.”
When I parked in front of her door Wilma held up her face and we kissed lightly. She said, “Don't forget,” waved and walked into the house.
My teeth were chattering. I drove to the first coffee pot and had two cups of hot coffee. I still felt completely confused. The coffee warmed me and I thought, Okay, so now I'm a man, and all that slop. I've had my affair, got it out of my system.
Oddly enough, I did feel very much a man. And I also had the same childish feeling as when Frank and I would dress in old slacks and a sweatshirt some Sunday mornings, drive to the handball courts on the lower Drive. With stupid delight we would play a sloppy one wall game until we were 'suckered' into playing for two bits a man with some of the other players. We'd tighten up, win. Between us we made nearly forty grand a year, yet winning a half a dollar gave us pure delight.
When I reached the apartment I sat in a hot bath for awhile, then fell into bed, wondering if the coffee would keep me up. It didn't; I slept the sleep of the just.
I awoke at nine and felt so good I winked at myself in the mirror while shaving... like a happy jerk.
Prof. Henry Brown
As I was closing the windows of my car in front of Prof. Brown's 'hotel,' I saw my crumpled T-shirt on the back seat. I stared at it for a second, almost with pride. Last night had been lousy but it had done something to my malehood, childish as that may sound, to know that these sexy-looking babes were not very good at it, as I always expected. True, I was basing this pearl of wisdom only on Wilma, but she was a fair sampling, I decided.
The heat and insecticide perfume hit me as I stepped into the lobby. The clerk waved as if I was an old buddy, then slapped his face and ran around the desk, rushed me to the door. I couldn't get his rapid French, but he kept gesturing madly at the back of the little man walking up toward Broadway. When I asked if that was Prof. Brown, the clerk nodded and waved his arm even more violently.
Thanking him, I walked and ran up the street, reaching Broadway in a blaze of sweat. Brown was making for the subway and I sprinted after him. He seemed to be in his late fifties, a slightly built little man, wiry and lean, walking with a neat stride. He was wearing an old tropical suit As I caught up with him his face surprised me. It was a thin face, the skin tight, a sort of owlish expression under a great deal of brushed gray hair. Only owls don't have broken noses and the Professor's nose had been broken sharply, probably a lot of years ago.
I touched his shoulder and he jumped as I said, “Prof. Brown? I'd like to talk to you. I'm—”
“I've nothing to say.” He didn't stop walking.
“But Professor, I only want to ask you...?”
“I told you, I have nothing to say!”
“I'm Norm—” I never finished the sentence for he actually dashed down the subway stairs.
Wiping my sweaty face I felt angry and bewildered. But I hadn't ran a block on a hot day for any brush-off. I raced down the steps and caught him at the change window.
He said, “Will you stop annoying me? I told you I—”
“Professor, I'm Norman Connor from Matt Anthony's publishing house. I only want to ask you some questions about Matt, and I can't understand your rude—”
“I'm sorry,” he said quickly. “I... eh... assumed you were somebody else. I was rude and I apologize.”
“Perhaps it was my fault, grabbing your shoulder. I was up to your hotel yesterday. Didn't the clerk tell you?”
“He merely said a man had been asking for me.” We stood there beside the subway change booth, awkwardly silent for a moment. Then I asked, “Shall we go into a bar for beers and talk?”
“No. We can go back to my room. I have beer there.” We walked up Broadway and over to the hotel without saying a word. The clerk waved merrily at us as we rode a dirty self-service elevator to the 6th floor. The Professor unlocked a door and took off his coat. What they had done with the 'hotel' was to take an old apartment house and make each room into a kind of unit. This one must have been the maid's room in the 'old days.' It was just wide enough to walk by the narrow bed. There was a small window, an improvised closet, a chair, and in one corner water was running slowly on something covered by a rag in the tiny sink.
Brown grinned at me as he said, “I imagine you must be puzzled by my performance on Broadway. I thought you were an FBI man. I've been stopped and harassed by them, and local agents, so often I've found the best policy is not to talk to them at all. In fact, I'd be more at ease this second if you showed me some identification, Mr.—eh—”
“Norm Conner,” I said, pulling out a thick envelope the efficient Miss Park had sent in the morning mail—a number of synopses of fall books. Brown glanced at these, as he motioned for me to take the chair. He sat on the unmade bed. When he handed them back he said, “I apologize, if you feel one is needed, Mr. Connor. Take off your coat. Beastly hot. I'm trying to rent a fan. What can I do for you?”
“I trust I'm not putting you out, Professor—”
“No point in calling me 'professor,' I haven't been one in months. You're not putting me out at alclass="underline" Saturday is not a day for job hunting. Are you Mart's editor?”
“Oh, no. I'm the advertising manager of Longson and—”
“Hmmm. I'm not sure there is any real need for advertising in the world. Sets up false standards. But we won't argue the matter.”
I wiped my face, wishing he'd let me finish a sentence. “Mr. Brown, I'm going around interviewing everybody connected with the case. Longson feels they would like to help Mr. Anthony. We know he needs money and we're considering reissuing one of his old books. This would hinge on advertising. I feel I need a clear picture of what happened to work up the proper ad campaign.”
“Why? And take off your coat.”
“The 'why' is the reputation of the firm,” I said, hanging my jacket on the back of the chair. “I suppose you know the D.A. is asking for murder in the first degree?”
“I've followed the papers.”
“Then you must see our position. We publish a large list, including many textbooks. We can't jeopardize our textbooks by... well... bluntly by being too closely associated with a murderer—if he is one.”
“Young man, do you realize the nonsense you're spouting? Another form of guilt by association. Hell, you're merely trying to sell books. In this case, some of Matt's.”