After that was taken care of Sonia acted like a little kid on Saturday morning. I gave the Massachusetts research one last reluctant thought, and took her out to dinner. We devoured huge steaks at my favorite chop house, listened to a colored trio of piano, guitar and bass for about an hour, and then went to her apartment to play records and drink some scotch that she had saved. We found a thousand interests in common.
Her apartment was small, but it had lots of windows. We sat and talked and listened to records. The scotch was mellow. We talked until nearly three. I felt that if I made a pass at her it would spoil it all. I don’t know why I felt that way. She acted a little funny as though she had expected me to at first, but when I didn’t she got normal again. I liked the decorations. Soft greys and blues, with a few touches of wine red. All very modern and yet comfortable. A place in which to listen to records and drink scotch.
We were both working, so at three I made the usual excuses and collected my hat. We stood at the door in that strange period of confusion that occurs with every departure. It may have been the scotch, or it may have been the records. At any rate. I grabbed her clumsily and tried to kiss her. She held herself rigid and turned her head. As I was wondering how I could back out of the situation without losing too much dignity, she turned her face back and threw her arms around my neck briefly. Then she slid away quickly and motioned to me to leave, her back half turned. I walked out and shut the door behind me. The world seemed to be a big happy place. I stood stupidly in the hall, holding my hat. Then I remembered where the stairs were and left.
For the next four days I spent a lot less time at the office. But such are the wonders of compensation that I got just as much work done, maybe more. A guilty conscience about seeing so much of Sonia spurred me on to use every minute of office time to the best advantage. It was odd how quickly she became a part of my existence, an essential part. She was my last thought at night, and each morning I would wake up with a sense of pleasure at the new day, and then remember that it was her presence in the world that made it all so wonderful.
It was four-thirty on the fifth day that she phoned me. We had planned to meet at five at the Rumbana for cocktails. I recognized her voice immediately, and she sounded tremendously upset. “Billy — come to my place immediately. Something horrible has happened. I just got here.” I tried to ask her what it was but she had already hung up.
I broke all records getting to her apartment. The elevator was in use, so I pounded up the four flights of stairs, making such good time that I had to use my hands to fend off the walls on the corners.
I knocked and she opened the door immediately. I was astonished at the change in her. There were blue half-circles under her eyes, and her shoulders were sagging, as though she were completely bushed. She looked at me as though I were a complete stranger and tried to shut the door in my face, but I forced my way in and grabbed her by the shoulders. Her face looked so dead that I felt like shaking her to life. She turned out of my hands and walked heavily toward the small kitchen. I followed her out.
In the middle of the kitchen was a small table with a white porcelain top.
A bulky man with thin blonde hair sat in the chair, his arms hanging toward the floor, his face on the table. A wide crimson pool had spread out over the table. It was caked black on the edges and redder in the middle. The raised edge of the table had prevented it from dripping off onto the floor. In the back of the man’s head was a round black hole. The hair around it was singed and blackened. The region around the nose was a gory mass where the bullet had come out. Wedged in the plaster wall opposite where the man had been sitting was a twisted chunk of lead. On the clean portion of the table glistened a large black forty-five automatic, a Colt. I bent over it and read on the side, “Property of the U.S. Army.”
I stood up and looked at Sonia’s worn face and my lips formed the question “Who?”
“Anton,” she answered. “I came home to change my things and found him like this. The door to the apartment was locked. I could smell something acrid, like burning cloth when I walked out here. The blood was fresh.” Her eyes turned upward and she swayed. I caught her as she fell and rubbed her wrists.
In a few moments her eyelids fluttered and she stirred and moaned. I said, “Sonia! Sonia! Come out of it! Listen to me! Did you touch anything? The gun?”
“No. I touched nothing. I couldn’t bear to.” At her words I turned on the bright light overhead and looked closely at the gun without touching it. The trigger had been wiped clean. I couldn’t see any trace of prints on the rough grip.
Then I saw it.
Out near the muzzle, on the side of the weapon was a clear print. The murderer had forgotten to wipe it completely clean. I walked on air to her bedroom. She had gone in and was sitting on the edge of the bed. She looked puzzled at my smile. I held her in my arms and said, “It’s all okay, darling. There’s a print on the gun. That print will clear you.” She turned her lips up to me and we exchanged a kiss as chaste and spiritual as a Baptist picnic.
I called the police. We sat in the front room of the apartment trying to make casual conversation while we waited. I wondered idly why the shot hadn’t been heard, and realized that the other apartments were probably empty at that hour on a working day. I lit a cigarette for her and she smiled at me wanly. Soon we heard the muted sigh of sirens, and in a few moments there was a knock at the door. I opened it and a tall pale man asked quietly, “Mr. Quinn? You phoned?”
I nodded and he walked in. Three nondescript men, one in uniform, followed him in carrying some black cases. I waved toward the kitchen and they thronged out. They weren’t quiet. They shouted instructions to each other and thumped around. We sat and heard the first of many popping flash bulbs go off when the tall man came back in. He sank into a chair with a sigh and looked at each of us in turn with small eyes set close to the bridge of his hooked nose.
“I’m Mercer,” he said. “Pretty unpleasant business. Who was he?”
“My brother, rather, my half-brother,” Sonia said. At that moment another man arrived. He was old and battered looking. Mercer let him in and pointed out the doorway to the kitchen. The old man carried a battered bag. He walked quickly toward the kitchen. Mercer sat down again.
“Who killed him?” Mercer asked bluntly, but his quiet voice took the sting out of the question.
“We don’t know,” I answered. “Miss Zathrem returned to her apartment and phoned me to come right over. He was in the kitchen when she arrived, just like he is now.”
That is where I got the first shock. Sonia turned sad eves toward me and said, “Wouldn’t it be better if we told Mr. Mercer the truth?” She turned toward Mercer and said, “Mr. Quinn arrived here before I did. We were to meet here for cocktails. I was late. Mr. Quinn met me in the lobby all excited. He said there was a dead man in the apartment. Mr. Quinn has a key to the apartment. I hurried up and found — my brother in the kitchen dead. I could smell in the air that odor a shot makes. Everything was just as it is right now.”
Mercer gave us a troubled smile and said, “Now look here, you two. Get together with your stories. One of them must be a lie. You’re giving me a lot of opening, you know,” I stammered and looked over at Sonia, expecting to see a gleam of malice or trickery in her eyes, but she just looked at me with soft, sad eyes as though she pitied me. The tinsel dream of the last four days quivered and slid into a sodden heap at my feet. But I knew I wasn’t licked. The print on the gun would clear me in spite of her damning lie.