The curtains parted and she came to him, her eyes shining. She wore a long-sleeved black nightgown. The front hung open. Her breasts dangled — long, skinny pencils. The rest of her body matched her breasts, skinny, almost emaciated. Her voice was distant. “Sorry I took so long, sugar. Let’s get down to business.”
She climbed on the bed and pulled his head to her breasts. “There, baby, there you go.” For a few minutes she ran her hands over him, then she said, “Now I’ll take real good care of you.” She moved to the base of the bed and buried her head in his crotch. Minutes later she coaxed his body into a response. She got up and went to the bathroom. She returned holding a jar of Vaseline. “Oh, baby, you were real good, real good, sugar.” She lay down on the bed to apply the lubricant to herself. “There, sugar, all ready for you. All ready for you whenever you want.”
For a long time they lay there. Malcolm finally looked at her. Her body moved slowly, carefully, almost laboriously. She was asleep. He went to the bathroom. On the back of the stained toilet he found the spoon, rubber hose, matches, and homemade syringe. The small plastic bag was still three-quarters full of the white powder. Now he knew why the nightgown had long sleeves.
Malcolm searched the apartment. He found four changes of underwear, three blouses, two skirts, two dresses, a pair of jeans, and a red sweater to match the purple one laying on the floor. A torn raincoat hung in the closet. In a shoe box in the kitchen he found six of the possession return receipts issued upon release from a Washington jail. He also found a two-year-old high-school identification card. Mary Ruth Rosen. Her synagogue address was neatly typed on the back. There was nothing to eat except five Hersheys, some coconut, and a little grapefruit juice. He ate everything. Under the bed he found an empty Mogen David 20/20 wine bottle. He propped it against the door. If his theory worked, it would crash loudly should the door open. He picked up her inert form. She barely stirred. He put her on the torn armchair and threw a blanket over the limp bundle. It wouldn’t make any difference if her body wasn’t comfortable in the night. Malcolm took out his lenses and lay down on the bed. He was asleep in five minutes.
Chapter 9
“In almost every game of chess there comes a crisis that must be recognized. In one way or another a player risks something — if he knows what he’s doing, we call it a ‘calculated risk.’
“If you understand the nature of this crisis; if you perceive how you’ve committed yourself to a certain line of play; if you can foresee you’ve committed yourself to a certain line of play; if you can foresee the nature of your coming task and its accompanying difficulties, all’s well. But if this awareness is absent, then the game will be lost for you, and fighting back will do no good.”
Malcolm woke shortly after seven. He lay quietly until just before eight, his mind going over all the possibilities. In the end he still decided to carry it through. He glanced at the chair. The girl had slid onto the floor during the night. The blanket was wrapped over her head and she was breathing hard.
Malcolm got up. With a good deal of clumsy effort he put her on the bed. She didn’t stir through the whole process.
The bathroom had a leaky hose and nozzle hooked up to the tub, so Malcolm took a tepid shower. He successfully shaved with the slightly used safety razor. He desperately wanted to brush his teeth, but he couldn’t bring himself to use the girl’s toothbrush.
Malcolm looked at the sleeping form before he left the apartment. Their agreement had been for a hundred dollars, and he had only paid her fifty. He knew where that money went. Reluctantly, he laid the other fifty dollars on the dresser. It wasn’t his money anyway.
Three blocks away he found a Hot Shoppe where he breakfasted in the boisterous company of neighbors on their way to work. After he left the restaurant he went to a drugstore. In the privacy of a Gulf station rest room he brushed his teeth. It was 9:38.
He found a phone booth. With change from the Gulf station he made his calls. The first one was to Information and the second one connected him with a small office in Baltimore.
“Bureau of Motor Vehicle Registration. May I help you?”
“Yes,” Malcolm replied. “My name is Winthrop Estes, of Alexandria. I was wondering if you could help me pay back a favor.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“You see, yesterday as I was driving home from work, my battery tipped over right in the middle of the street. I got it hooked up again, but there wasn’t enough charge to fire the engine. Just as I was about to give up and try to push the thing out of the way, this man in a Mercedes Benz pulled up behind me. At great risk to his own car, he gave me the push necessary to get mine started. Before I had a chance to even thank him, he drove away. All I got was his license number. Now, I would at least like to send him a thank-you note or buy him a drink or something. Neighborly things like that don’t happen very often in D.C.”
The man on the other end of the line was touched. “They certainly don’t. With his Mercedes! Phew, that’s some nice guy! Let me guess. He had Maryland plates and you want me to check and see who he is, right?”
“Right. Can you do it?”
“Well… Technically no, but for something like this, what’s a little technicality? Do you have the number?”
“Maryland 6E–49387.”
“6E–49387. Right. Hold on just one second and I’ll have it.” Malcolm heard the receiver clunk on a hard surface. In the background, footsteps faded into a low office murmur of typewriters and obscure voices, then grew stronger. “Mr. Estes? We’ve got it. Black Mercedes sedan, registered to a Robert T. Atwood, 42 Elwood — that’s E-l-w-o-o-d — Lane, Chevy Chase. Those people must really be loaded. That’s the country-squire suburb. He could probably afford a scratch or two on his car. Funny, those people usually don’t give a damn, if you know what I mean.”
“I know what you mean. Listen, thanks a lot.”
“Hey, don’t thank me. For something like this, glad to do it. Only don’t let it get around, know what I mean? Might tell Atwood the same thing, OK?”
“OK.”
“You sure you got it? Robert Atwood, 42 Elwood Lane, Chevy Chase?”
“I’ve got it. Thanks again.” Malcolm hung up and stuffed the piece of paper with the address on it into his pocket. He wouldn’t need it to remember Mr. Atwood. For no real reason, he strolled back to the Hot Shoppe for coffee. As far as his watchful eyes could tell, no one noticed him.
The morning Post lay on the counter. On impulse he began to thumb through it. It was on page 12. They hadn’t taken any chances. The three-inch ad was set in bold type and read, “Condor call home.”
Malcolm smiled, hardly glancing at the coded sweepstakes ad. If he called in, they would tell him to come home or at least lie low. That wasn’t what he intended. There was nothing they could say in the coded message that could make any difference to him. Not now. Their instructions had lost all value yesterday on Capitol Hill.
Malcolm frowned. If his plan went wrong, the whole thing might end unsatisfactorily. Undoubtedly that end would also mean Malcolm’s death, but that didn’t bother him too much. What bothered him was the horrible waste factor that failure would mean. He had to tell someone, somehow, just in case. But he couldn’t let anyone know, not until he had tried. That meant delay. He had to find a way of delayed communication.