Lady Killer

In the right-hand corner of the window, lettered onto the glass in gold gilt, were the words CHRISTINE MAXWELL, PROP.

Hawes walked down the steps and opened the screen door of the shop. A bell over the door tinkled. The shop instantly touched something deep in his memory. He felt he had been here before, had seen the dusty racks and shelves, had sniffed of the musty bookbindings, the intimate smell of stored knowledge. Had he browsed in such a shop on a rainy day in the side streets fringing The Quarter downtown? Was this The Haunted Bookshop come to life, a stationary 'Parnassus on Wheels'? He remembered the Morley books from his youth, and he wished he had time to browse, wished that time were not so important right now. There was a friendliness and warmth to the shop, and he wanted to soak it up, sponge it into his bones, and he wished his visit were not such an urgent one, wished he had come for information that had nothing to do with sudden death.

'Yes?' the voice said.

He broke off his thoughts abruptly. The voice was gentle, a voice that belonged in the shop. He turned.

The girl stood before the shelves of brown-backed books, stood in an almost mistlike radiance, fragile, tender, gentle, against the musty cracked brown. Her hair was blonde, whisperlike tendrils softly cradling the oval of her face. Her eyes were blue and wide, the soft blue of a spring sky, the delicate blue of a lilac. There was a tentative smile on her full mouth, a mouth kissed by the seasons. And because she was a human being, and because it was a hot day in July, there was a thin film of perspiration on her upper lip. And because she was a human being and not a memory and not a dream and not a maiden from some legendary Camelot, Hawes fell in love with her instantly.

'Hello,' he said. There was surprise in his voice, but it was not a wise guy's 'Hel-lo!' It was more an awed whisper, and the girl looked at him and again said, 'Yes?'

'Perhaps you can help me,' Hawes said, reflecting on the fact that he fell in and out of love too easily, musing upon the theory that all true love was love at first sight, in which case he had been truly in love a great many times, but nonetheless studying the girl and thinking, I love her, so the hell with you.

'Were you looking for a book, sir?' the girl asked.

'Are you Miss Maxwell?' he asked.

'Mrs Maxwell,' she corrected.

'Oh,' he said. 'Oh.'

'Was there a book you wanted?'

He looked at her left hand. She was not wearing a wedding band. 'I'm from the police,' he said. 'Detective Hawes, Eighty-seventh Squad.'

'Is something wrong?'

'No. I'm trying to track down a piece of stationery. Eastern Shipping says you're the only store in the precinct that carries the paper.'

'Which paper is that?' Christine asked.

'Cartwright 142-Y.'

'Oh, yes,' she said.

'Do you carry it?'

'Yes?' She made it a question.

'Run this shop with your husband, do you?' Hawes asked.

'My husband is dead,' she said. 'He was a Navy pilot. He was killed in the Battle of the Coral Sea.'

'I'm sorry,' Hawes said genuinely.

'Please don't,' she said. 'It's been a long time. A person can't live in the past, you know.' She smiled gently.

'You don't look that old,' he said, 'I mean, to have been married during World War Two.'

'I got married when I was seventeen,' she said.

'Which makes you?' .

'Thirty-three,' she said.

'You look much younger.'

'Thank you.'

'I'd say you were barely twenty-one.'

'Thank you, but I'm not. Really.'

They looked at each other silently for a moment.

'It seems strange,' Hawes said. 'To find a shop like this. In this neighbourhood, I mean.'

'I know. That's why it's here.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, there's enough deprivation in this neighbourhood. It needn't extend to books.'

'Do you get a lot of people coming in?' Hawes asked.

'More now than in the beginning. Actually, the stationery supplies are what keep the shop going. But it's better now than it was. You'd be surprised how many people want to read good books.'

'Are you afraid of the neighbourhood?'

'Should I be?'she asked.

'Well… a pretty girl like you. I mean, this isn't the best neighbourhood in the world.'

The girl seemed surprised. 'The people here are poor,' she said. 'But poor isn't necessarily synonymous with dangerous.'

'That's true,' he said.

'People are people. The people who live here are no better, no worse, than the people who live in swanky Stewart City.'

'Where do you live, Miss—Mrs Maxwell?'

'In Isola.'

'Where?'

'Why do you want to know?'

'I'd like to see you sometime,' Hawes said.

Christine was silent for a moment. She looked at Hawes penetratingly, as if she were trying to read his mind aid his motives.

Then she said, 'All right. When?'

'Tonight?' he asked.

'All right.'

'Wait a minute,' he said. He thought for a moment. 'Well, it'll be over by eight o'clock either way,' he said. 'Yes, tonight is fine.'

'What'll be over by eight?'

'A case we're working on.'

'How do you know it'll be over by eight? Do you have a crystal ball?'

Hawes smiled. 'I'll tell you about it tonight. May I pick you up at nine? Is that too late for you?'

'Tomorrow's a working day,' she said.

'I know. I thought we'd have a drink and talk a little.'

'All right,' she said.

'Where?' he asked.

'711 Fortieth Boulevard. Do you know where that is?'

'I'll find it. That's lucky. Seven-eleven.'

Christine smiled. 'Shall I dress?'

'We'll find a quiet cocktail lounge,' he said. 'If that's al1 right with you.'

'Yes, that's fine. Air-conditioned, please.'

'What else?' he said, spreading his hands.

'Are you sensitive about the white streak in your hair?'

'Not at all.'

'If you are, I won't ask.'

'You can ask. I got knifed once. It grew back this way. A puzzle for medical science to unravel.'

'Knifed? By a person, do you mean?'

'Sure,' he said.

'Oh.' It was a very tiny 'Oh.'

Hawes looked at her. 'People do… well, people do get knifed, you know.'

'Yes, of course. I imagine a detective…' She stopped. 'What was it you wanted to know about the stationery?'

'Well, how much of it do you stock?'

'All my paper supplies come from Cartwright. The 142-Y comes in reams and also in smaller packages of a hundred sheets.'

'Do you sell a lot of it?'

'Of the smaller packages, yes. The reams move more slowly.'

'How many smaller packs have you sold in the past month?'

'Oh, I couldn't possibly say. A lot.'

'And the reams?'

'The reams are easier to check. I got six reams at the beginning of June. I can count how many are left.'

'Would you, please?' he asked.

'Certainly.'

She walked to the back of the shop. Hawes pulled a book from the shelf and began leafing through it. When Christine returned she said, 'That's one of my favourites. Have you read it?'

'Yes. A long time ago.'

'I read it when I was still a girl.' She smiled briefly, putthe book out of her mind, and said, 'I have two reams left. I'm glad you stopped in. I'll have to reorder.'

'That means you sold four, correct?'

'Yes.'

'Would you remember to whom?'

'I know to whom I sold two of them. The others I couldn't say.'

'Who?' Hawes asked.

'A young man who conies in here regularly for 142-Y. He buys at least a ream a month. He's one of the chief reasons I keep it in stock.'