But why should Alma have put finishing touches to Cynthia’s portrait? An artist of Cynthia’s individuality would hardly care to have some other painter interfering. Then there was the physical disposition of the portrait to be considered.
Alma had arranged with Levering to have that portrait taken to her apartment. In some say, it had been diverted to Juanita Mandra’s apartment. Had Levering delivered the portrait to Juanita? Or had the police taken it from Alma’s apartment and subsequently surrendered it to the widow? One explanation would mean a connexion between Levering and the widow of the murdered man: the other that Juanita and Malloy were working hand-in-glove. Or...
Clane’s mind suddenly realized a disquieting solution. He stared in frowning perplexity, then abruptly reached for the ignition switch of his car.
He realized now, only too clearly, the necessity of finding out just who had killed Mandra. Cynthia’s story might give her a brief respite but would eventually leave her hopelessly entangled. Clane drove his car through traffic with a certain savage insistence that made others instinctively yield the right of way at the crossings. He parked his car at the curb in front of his apartment house, and recognized Cynthia’s convertible coupe some hundred feet ahead. As Terry stepped to the curb the horn was tapped into brief noise.
Terry nodded his head, to indicate that he had heard the signal, but did not go at once to the car. He strolled to the lobby entrance of his apartment house, then as though he had forgotten something, turned on his heel, walked quickly to his own car and then down to where Cynthia was waiting. He pulled open the door of the car, and encountered Cynthia’s upturned nose, smiling lips, and flashing eyes.
“Well, Owl,” she said, “let’s shout.”
“Why?” he asked.
“Because,” she told him, gaily, “it’s all over except the shouting.”
He looked carefully up and down the sidewalk. “Were you followed here?” he asked.
She shook her head and said, “Not a chance. They’ve dropped me like a hot potato.”
He regarded her with thoughtful scrutiny for a few seconds, then said, “All right, Cynthia, come on in, I want to talk with you.”
“Don’t be so frightfully serious, Owl,” she said. “I want to make whoopee.”
She pivoted about on the leather seat, pointed her feet towards him, braced her right hand against the back of the seat, the left hand on the steering wheel, and said, “Here I come, Owl.”
She slid towards him, a flashing bundle of flying legs and kicking feet.
He avoided the feet, caught her round the waist, lifted her to the sidewalk.
“Listen, Owl,” she said, “I’ve got some great news...”
“Save it,” he told her. “Not a word until you’re in my apartment. And remember, they may have someone planted in the lobby. As we walk through to the elevator, don’t seem to be elated. Can you look downcast and worried?”
“Hell, no!” she told him. “Not now. I’m sitting on top of the world.”
“Do the best you can, then,” he told her, “because someone may jerk the world out from under you. Come on, let’s go.”
He escorted her to the apartment house. They crossed the lobby to the elevator. The face of a strange girl at the telephone switchboard regarded them in disinterested appraisal. The Filipino elevator boy nodded to Terry, and shot the car smoothly to his floor.
Cynthia, holding her face in a grim mask of tragic gloom, suddenly quivered her lips into a smile. The smile became a giggle as the operator opened the sliding door, she flung an arm round Terry’s waist and pulled him out into the corridor. The grinning elevator boy slid the door shut, and the cage dropped smoothly to the lobby.
“I told you I couldn’t do it, Owl,” she said. “Come on and buy me a drink. Where’s Yat T’oy?”
“Out.”
“Don’t tell me the old boy’s playing about,” she said, as Terry fitted a key to the apartment door.
“No, I think he had a business engagement somewhere,” he told her.
She tripped lightly through the door, flung off her coat, hat, and said, “I’m sorry he’s out, because I wanted to see if he savvied ginger ale highballs the same as he did a Tom Collins. My God, Owl, I’m famished for a drink and for a chance to be informal. I’ve been so mealy-mouthed and polite I’m worn out mentally.”
“Are you supposed to go back again?” he asked.
“Don’t be silly, Owl. Why should they want me back? I’m out — exonerated. Stubby Nash got me a lawyer, but I didn’t need him. They put my alibi to the acid test and it stood up. But I had to be such a nice little girl that I feel like a damned hypocrite. I want to do something unconventional. How’s your self-control, Terry?”
“Swell,” he told her, grinning.
She eyed him appraisingly. “Yes,” she admitted, “it’s your strong point. Two highballs may thaw you out. I’m going to start in, Owl. It’s time I busted through your reserve to see whether you’ve got me listed as one of the untouchables. You’re altogether too self-contained, too self-sufficient. Women don’t like it, although it attracts women to you. But their designs are sinister, Owl. That’s feminine nature. We want men to get all steamed up over us. When they do, we’re very coy, proper, and demure. But when they don’t, we start teasing the animals.”
“So what am I supposed to do?” he asked.
“Mix the highballs, stupid.”
He brought ice cubes, ginger ale, Bourbon, Scotch, and soda, mixed two drinks. She gulped hers down, tilted the empty glass towards him and said, “Rotten manners, Owl, but I’ve got to break loose.”
He said, “Not yet, Cynthia. Wait until you’re out of the wood.”
“But I am out of the wood,” she told him, and, at the shake of his head, went on, “Oh, don’t be such a damn killjoy, Owl Snap out of it. Here, catch!”
She kicked her right foot at him. Her shoe spun through the air and missed his head by inches.
She giggled delightedly, squirmed around in the overstuffed chair until her weight was on her other hip, and kicked the other shoe. This went straight up in the air, struck the ceiling and thudded back to the floor.
She swung her legs up over the cushioned arm, wriggled her toes.
“I warned you, Owl,” she said. “I’m going to bust loose. Give me that second drink so I won’t feel so deliberate. It’s smart to be just a tiny bit tight, but unladylike to be forward.”
He smiled at her as he sipped his Scotch and soda. “Do I understand you’re planning to be forward?” he asked.
“Well, Owl,” she told him, twisting her toes, “I’m not going to be exactly backward. I’ve sat for hours, being a very demure little lady, and I’m quite certain there’s going to be a reaction. In just a minute I’m going to think of a limerick which’ll jar you loose from your dignity. Right now I can’t think of one that’s good enough, but it’ll come.”
“You mean bad enough, don’t you?” he asked.
“Don’t be silly, Owl. I mean good enough. After all, you know, I wouldn’t want to frighten you to death with the first one and that’s the way with limericks. Try to think of a clever one that’ll leave ’em guessing, and the only ones which pop into your mind are...”
“Tell me about the questions,” he interrupted, “and about the answers you gave, and about the lawyer.”
She sighed.
“They wanted to know all about me and all about the handkerchief and...”