He sobered somewhat. “Thanks, Paul, but I wouldn’t want to impose—”
“You won’t be imposing; we’ll enjoy having you.” I finished my own drink. “My car’s being worked on, but it’ll be ready shortly. Order us another round while I phone Julie we’re coming.”
Ashton’s look remained sober for another moment; then his smile came back.
“All right,” he agreed, getting out his wallet to pay for the drinks I’d intended buying. “But they tell me wives don’t favor such short notice.”
“Don’t give it another thought,” I assured him. “Julie will understand.”
And she did — so readily, in fact, that I should have had an inkling of the truth before Ashton and I arrived some forty minutes later. As it was, still anticipating my rebuttal of Ashton’s cynicism, I gave no further thought to Julie’s prompt acquiescence until I tooled my car into the drive and recognized the yellow compact model drawn up ahead of me.
The compact belonged to Susan Shepard, a young woman who was the local representative of a national cosmetics concern. The products, both feminine and masculine grooming aids, were good and Julie welcomed Susan’s regular visitations and had become quite friendly with her. Of more import at the moment, however, was the fact that Susan Shepard was a Miss.
Right then, the script became all too familiar. Perhaps Julie had remembered Bill Ashton; perhaps she hadn’t. It didn’t matter. What did matter was that Susan Shepard had chanced to be making one of her periodic calls when I’d phoned, and Julie had casually suggested she stay on for dinner, thereby meeting Ashton who, hopefully, would match Susan’s marital status.
Julie lost no time in ascertaining that vital point. Highlights of excitement dancing in her hazel eyes, she maneuvered me into a whispered aside scant seconds after I’d introduced her guests to each other. “I thought I remembered him. He’s not married?”
What could I say?
“No, he’s not,” I muttered.
“I’m so glad; he seems nice.”
“For Pete’s sake, hon, not again—”
But Julie was beyond listening. A charming hostess in her private element, she graciously plied Ashton and Susan with smiles, small talk and pre-dinner martinis, an effusion of pleasant blandishment to put the pair at ease.
I’d have wagered a month’s pay that even Julie’s promotion would not have influenced wordly Bill Ashton; or, for that matter, self-sufficient Susan Shepard. But you never know. Within the hour, the two were exchanging glances and conversation which intimated more than polite interest. And following dinner, that interest patently grew.
“They like each other! I know it!” Gearing away the dishes, Julie expressed delight to me in the kitchen, her eyes dancing again. “Already, they’re beginning to ignore us!”
That, I felt, was a slight exaggeration. Still, I wasn’t too surprised when, shortly before nine, Ashton checked his watch, shot a sidewise look at Susan, then got to his feet.
“I’d better get started,” he told me. “I don’t want to miss my train.” He smiled at my radiant wife, added, “I really enjoyed the dinner, Julie. Thank you for having me.”
Momentarily, Julie’s face fell at the apparent termination of her plot. “But it’s so early; Paul said you were catching the ten-ten—”
She broke off, and I knew she too was no longer surprised. It was as though we both were bit players in a contrived playlet, feeding lines to the romantic leads. So confident was Julie of the script that she didn’t even glance at Susan as she told Ashton, “It was our pleasure. Paul will drive you to the station.”
Susan was no less deft in picking up her cue. “That won’t be necessary, Paul,” she assured me, “I can drop Mr. Ashton.”
She arose, collected her sample case.
“It was a lovely dinner, Julie,” she said. “I’m so glad you asked me to stay.” She turned to. Ashton.
“Ready?”
Ashton’s return look indicated he still was riding the script hard. His answer was a warm, “Ready.”
So that was that. After they had gone, I slumped on the sofa, drew a deep breath and regarded Julie soberly. “You’ll never stop, will you?”
She grinned impishly, settled beside me. “Why should I? You saw how taken they were with each other. That’s why they left early.”
“I know that.”
“Right now, with over an hour to spare, they’re probably having a drink at some intimate little place, really getting acquainted.”
“I know that too. But, damn it, hon—”
I sighed. “At ten-thirty you’ll probably phone Susan to learn what she really thought of the guy.”
Julie laughed. “I hadn’t considered it, but that’s an idea. Now, quit frowning.”
I don’t know whether or not Julie actually would have called Susan at her home. But at ten-forty-five our own phone rang, and from then on the point was academic.
When I answered, a woman’s voice queried, “Paul Phelan?”
“Speaking.”
“Mr. Phelan, this is Mrs. Strong at Mercy Hospital. I’m calling at the request of William Ashton. We don’t want to alarm you, but Mr. Ashton felt you should know a Miss Susan Shepard and himself have been brought here to Emergency.”
I stiffened, my scalp prickling Julie, catching my expression, de-up. “Paul, what is it?”
I sliced air to quiet her. “What happened, Mrs. Strong?”
“There was a mugging outside a tavern,” the woman said, then went on with a brief summary. “Mr. Ashton wanted us to inform you, particularly about Miss Shepard,” she repeated as she concluded.
I said, “Thank you very much, Mrs. Strong. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
Julie clutched my arm as I hung up. “Paul, what is it?”
“Some hood mugged Ashton as he and Susan got into her car outside a tavern,” I told her, suddenly aware the action could have been triggered by Ashton flashing the contents of his wallet inside the place, as he had earlier in my presence. “The hood had a gun; Ashton tried to resist and the man shot him in the stomach, then struck down Susan and escaped in her car.”
Julie’s knuckles bruised her lips. “Oh, no!”
“That was a woman from Mercy Hospital, probably the night supervisor,” I finished. “Susan’s unconscious with a concussion, but Ashton was able to talk, give them our name before they took him into emergency surgery.” I swung toward the coat closet. “I’m going over there.”
Julie said nothing, but was right on my heels. I checked her. “There’s no need for you to come.” I said simply. “You’re all upset now—”
“I’m going, Paul. Please, can’t we hurry?”
I’d anticipated as much, for all my attempted dissuasion, and said no more as I helped her into her coat. At that hour, traffic was light; we reached the hospital in ten minutes.
The nurse on duty at the lobby desk directed us to the proper wing, and we’d just come off the elevator, were seeking the floor supervisor, when we were spotted and quickly approached by a stocky man in civilian dress: Detective Lieutenant Ed Talbot, Julie’s brother.
“Hello, Sis; Paul.” Talbot’s greeting was somber. “Good of you to come.”
Julie’s query was strained, anxious. “Are they going to be all right, Ed?”
Talbot nodded tightly. He was some five years older than Julie, a well-built, well-groomed man with a keen mind. Ordinarily, I knew, he would have assigned an underling to follow through on the hospital’s report, but knowledge of Julie’s and my indirect involvement had brought him personally into the affair.
“We hope so,” he said. “The girl’s still unconscious. They’re taking pictures, holding her for tests. And Ashton’s wound is serious, but I understand the prognosis is favorable.” He shifted his gaze to me. “They both were your dinner guests?”