Mavis emerged from her open-mouthed surprise, advanced and pushed him solidly. She did a double take when nothing happened at the push, but her voice came more strongly. “What the hell's going on here, you big moose?”
Johnny looked at her admiringly-no violet, Mavis. “What's the matter, small fry?” he asked her. “Am I supposed to bank into the side pocket like your boy friends when you lean on 'em?” He swung himself out of the dripping raincoat. “I need a shower.”
“Sh-shower?” The big girl's voice was a strangled squeak as Johnny rapidly skinned himself out of his saturated uniform, tie, shirt and underwear.
“Get me something dry I can get into,” he told her and bent to remove shoes and socks before walking into the bathroom.
She followed him to the door, eyes popping. “You crazy?” she hissed at him. “You one of those damn narcis… narciss-” She gave it up. “You get the hell out! You trying to get me thrown out of here? This is a respectable place!”
“You want me to catch cold?” he asked reasonably, then turned on the shower and ducked inside. Above the rushing sound of the steaming hot water he could hear Mavis fuming, but when he emerged and groped for a towel a pair of tan slacks and a rose-colored sweater lay on the toilet seat. He dried himself roughly and slipped on the slacks; the two top buttons refused to meet over his lean middle. He picked up the sweater, looked at it and shook his head disgustedly. Barefooted he carried it out and waved it at Mavis where she sat in an armchair with a half-consumed cigarette in her hand. She looked up at his entrance, looked away and then back again as though fascinated. He noticed that she had combed her hair. “You dressin' Singer's midgets? I couldn't get one arm in this thing, an' I got about a leg an' a half in these pants. What else 've you got I can get decent in?”
“Nothing else!” she said spiritedly. “You must think this is a department store for elephants. You gone loco completely, bustin' in on me like this?”
“I like you, kid. I don't give my business to just anyone.” He slung the discarded sweater into an empty chair and casually approached the big girl. Before she realized his intention he loomed up over her chair, took her by the arms and lifted her out effortlessly, then carried her over to the bed where he sat down with her in his lap. Instinctively she fought against the pinioning arms, and for a moment he concentrated upon the exact amount of strength necessary to hold her immobile without hurting her. When she stopped struggling he relaxed his hold on her. “I told you, little one. I like you.”
“One of us-is crazy!” she gasped. “You let me… up out of here!”
“I kind of like this arrangement. By the way, you never did get to tell me-that carbons bit your own idea?”
She twisted sharply until she could see his face. “Why do you want to know?”
He shrugged elaborately. “Maybe I could use a bright little girl in my business.”
“You haven't any business,” she said tartly, and then her tone softened. “You know you're the first soul in this world to call me 'little girl' since I was a kid? 'Course compared to you… You're the biggest damn thing I ever-” Her voice trailed off.
“The carbons,” Johnny repeated and pinched her.
She yipped and bucked in his lap. “Cut that out!”
He pinched her again, solidly.
“Oww! That hurt, damn you! I'll-” She flinched at the movement of his arm. “All right, all right, I'll tell you!” she said hastily. He waited, and she continued poutingly. “So it was my own idea. A girl's got to eat.”
“A girl's got to keep her fantail outta the grease, too. You think Russo would front for you if someone caught you like I did?”
“I can handle Ed,” she said confidently.
So she doesn't know about Ed, he thought. And she hasn't been out in the rain. Which about winds up the charade here. He looked at the big girl in his lap. Almost…
She was looking at him curiously. “Why? What's it to you?”
“Ask me tomorrow, kid.” He upended her suddenly and dumped her sprawling across the rumpled bed; in an instant he was full-length beside her. “Funny thing,” he said casually and fingered her pajamas. “These things nylon?” She nodded. “Thought so. I'm allergic to it. Just makes me want to pinch-” She kicked quickly at the advancing hand; he trapped the slim ankle in his left hand and rolled her onto her stomach. The big right hand dropped on the waistband of the pajamas. “'Course it's only nylon makes me feel that way,” he said thoughtfully and unhurriedly disposed of it. “Say now… that's nothing but fine. Real sugar-cured.”
The big girl flipflopped like a grassed fish. “Put out that damn light!” she husked breathlessly.
“You think I'm an owl? Now you take this useful-lookin' appliance… you tested the horsepower lately?”
“Stop-it!”
Beside them he could see on the wall the magnified shadows blend suddenly as he bent over her purposefully. “You remind me, kid. Later.”
CHAPTER 14
HE woke in the late afternoon with a pain in his chest; he opened his eyes to find Sassy ensconced on her favorite spot. He lifted her off, and she swished her tail indignantly. “For somethin' that weighs about seven-eighths of a pound, white stuff, you sure walk like a Mack truck.”
He picked up his wrist watch from the table and looked at it. He shook his head; he had been asleep for only an hour and a half. He had had nearly an all-day session with the police; they had landed in force shortly after his own return to the hotel, and only Jimmy Rogers' presence beside him at the critical moment and Patrolman Gliddens' admission that Johnny had not been specifically told to stay put prevented the occasion from being even stickier. The police were mad.
He lay back on the bed and explored with his hands the two dark spots just below his breastbone, so tender to the touch that the digging of the kitten's paws had awakened him. The twin souvenir of his early-morning encounter with Lorraine Barnes' heels had not only discolored but had swollen slightly. A fraction higher or lower, and she would really have sanded his engine.
Lorraine Barnes-now there was an all-purpose woman for you. Killed a husband of her own, according to Mike Larsen. Definitely not the delicate type in the clinches, yet with a distinct feminine appeal. Insistent upon doing her own snooping around four murders. And that savatte kick-where could she have learned that?
He stirred restlessly, leaned up on an elbow and reached for a cigarette from the pack on the table. He sucked in on the smoke and exhaled noisily as he lay down again. Sooner or later, Killain, he briefed himself, you're going to have to make up your mind about Lorraine Barnes. She may be Vic's Wife, but the more you look at it she's about the only qualified entrant left in this murder derby, and the record says she's capable of it.
A motive? That was a little tougher. If Robert Sanders had been reneging on a romantic attachment she could have wanted him hung out to dry. She had a lot of pride. But the police seemed to have done nothing with that angle, which only went to show their sources of information might not be as good as Mike Larsen's. So-Sanders, possibly. But Ellen, and the Perry girl, and Russo? He felt that Lorraine Barnes was capable of very nearly anything in the white heat of anger, but the cold-blooded elimination of three more people-even though it could hardly have been planned that way originally-had a calculated touch to it that seemed foreign to her.
Still, on opportunity she rated high. By her own admission she had been close to Robert Sanders when he was killed. No one knew where she had been when Ellen Saxon was killed. She had not been at her apartment-or anywhere else that could be accounted for-when Roberta Perry was killed. And there were those clothes, so closely matching the description of the things worn by the killer. She had been out in the rain last night when Ed Russo caught the black pills. Four murders-and she had an alibi for none of them. But did you always have an alibi when you needed one, especially living alone?