Of course, she had been seeing Bill Grant. Love? Love affair? Don’t be silly. The poor guy was sick, impotent, on the verge of a nervous breakdown — there could be no love affair with Bill Grant. She had been as a mother to him, as a sister, as a nurse; the man was in the throes of a psychopathological melancholy; she had even stayed over with him on occasion, actually to prevent a suicide.
She would have to think it all out, think clearly, and she was far too upset and confused to think clearly now. She parked the car and ran up the stairs. She needed a drink. She needed a few drinks, badly. Then she would run a warm bath and rest and soak and try to relax and try to think. She opened the door, closed it behind her, switched on the lights, but she did not lock the door.
Instead, she stood silent, gaping, body rigid, mouth working, and the key slipped from limp fingers without a sound to the carpet.
Senor was there. He was seated, fat knees spread, in an armchair. The kinky hair was dishevelled. There were deep lines in the flushed face. Perspiration gleamed in globules in the sockets of the eyes. The mouth was tight. The nostrils were dilated, gleet on the upper lip. The protruding eyes were red and raging. The hands were encased in black silk gloves.
He rose, and he moved toward her, and she moved away, and he circled, moving toward her, and she backed away, all assurance drained from her. She knew now she could not handle him. He was beyond handling. His eyes were insane. His breathing was rapid and raucous. He moved toward her, black hands outstretched.
“No. Don’t,” she said. “No, please, Senor, don’t.”
He stopped, black hands outstretched. Thickly he said, “Yes, do, Senor. Do. Do.”
She had moved away from him step by step, until the back of her legs touched the liquor table. Her hands were behind her. Her right hand felt a bottle, crept stealthily to its neck, and grasped it.
“No!” she said. “No, Senor! I beg you! No!”
“Laugh, you little tramp! Laugh at Senor! Laugh, now! Laugh, till my hands come to you, and I choke out the laughter!”
“You’re drunk.”
“So what?”
“You’re making a mistake.”
“No mistake.”
“They’ll get you.”
“Who? Bill Grant?”
“Cops.”
“Never. I got no connection with you.”
“You have. They’ll get you.”
“Never. Nobody seen me come. Nobody’ll see me go. I choke until you’re dead. I leave you here and it’s finished. Another cheap broad gets knocked off. There’s a million of them. I got no connection. Now, laugh, tramp. Die laughing.”
“You’re drunk.” He moved. “No Wait!”
He moved forward. He was drunk. He stumbled.
She lashed out with all her strength. She was young, and strong. The bottle, weapon-held, came from behind in a high, swift, terrifying arc, descending full upon the left side of the head. The bottle burst, inundating the head and face with running, seeping, caustic-smelling whiskey, quickly mixed with blood; the kinky hair opened, mangled, to a fracture of the skull, blood bubbling from a deep fissure of splintered bone in a high geyser, splashing the face; the eyes were blinded with blood and whiskey; but still he did not fall.
From deep in his chest came a babble of gasping, retching profanity, and he moved, forward, slowly, blindly, black hands extended. And now she waited, crouched, sobbing, taut, right hand gripped to the broken, jagged, lethal bottle-neck, and as the hands touched her, she thrust it into his throat and tore sideways, and the red-purple jugular blood spurted streaming, staining her. And still he stood; and then the black hands dropped; and he sighed; and he fell; and she went down to her knees, almost upon him, fighting for consciousness.
So they remained, for minutes, in tableau, and then she straightened to her feet, dropped the bottle-neck, and stood looking down upon him, without pity, licking her lips, swallowing, thinking.
Abruptly she lifted her skirt and kneeled beside him. She removed the black silk gloves, folded them, and stuffed them into a pocket of his jacket. She drew a long deep breath, lowered her head, placed her mouth against the dead sunken mouth, and firmly rubbed her lips to his. She stood up, gaping, sucking air, crunching back nausea. Recovered, she looked down at the bloody face. Lipstick was a shapeless imprint on the mouth.
She went to a mirror and looked upon herself. She was drawn, livid, her lipstick smeared, the pupils of her eyes contracted to tiny points. Watching her reflection, she put her hands to her hair and pulled until it hung straggly, disarranged, and tousled. Watching her reflection, she tore at the jacket of her suit until it ripped and came apart; tore at the blouse until it rent; tore at her brassier until a strap burst and it hung awry at her middle.
As a slattern, clothing torn, hair hanging, full bosom exposed, she turned from the mirror, kicked over a chair, rumpled the covers of the bed, and went again to the dead Senor, and knelt beside him. She clasped the back of his right hand in hers, made a claw of his hand, and ripped his fingernails down one naked shoulder and breast, ripped until blood oozed from long welts, and the skin of her flesh was beneath his blunt nails.
She dropped the hand, stood up, and returned to the mirror. She looked upon the ragged bleeding scratches in the soft flesh, saw her reflection blur as the tears came to her eyes, and she smiled, frightfully, in hysteria. Her mouth opened, her lips contorted, and she screamed, frantically.
She screamed... Screamed. Screamed.
V
On the third day of March, at five minutes before midnight of a hot humid moonless night, Oscar Blinney lay spread in bed in Room 202 raptly reading a paperback mystery novel. He lay, uncovered, nude except for boxer shorts, legs apart, heels dug to mattress, pillows piled beneath his head.
When the first scream penetrated, he swung up, sitting bolt-upright, scowling, blinking, uncertain as to whether or not he had imagined it.
The screams came, fierce, piercing, hideous. He flung away the book, leaped from the bed. The screams were from 203. He ran to the closet, dragged down a bathrobe; running, he pulled it on, burst out of his room, pounded on the door of 203, tried the knob, opened the door, slammed it shut behind him, quickly took in the scene in the brightly lighted room. It was as if she did not recognize him, even though she had met him in the tea room. It was as if he were a complete stranger to her, a man without a clear-cut identity.
She saw him, looked at him, looked through him — screaming, screaming — mascara making dirty blue-black lines of the tears on the wet face. He crossed, grasped her shoulders, shook her. She slobbered, laughed violently, gasped, choked.
He slapped her, hard, across the cheek, and she fell to the bed, face down, whimpering. He went to the phone, lifted the receiver, said, “Quick! Send a doctor to room two hundred three! And call the police! Quick!”
The man in charge was Andrew Borrelli, lieutenant of detectives, young, deeply-tanned, quiet, competent, and sympathetic. He waited, while the doctor examined Pedro Orgaz and pronounced him dead. He waited, while the doctor attended to the scratches on the body of Evangeline Adams. He waited, while the doctor injected a sedative into the body of Evangeline Adams.
“Not too much, Doc,” he said. “I’ve got to talk with her.”