She heard the brown man swooping about overhead, heard the metallic click of a window-latch, the thin screech of a window being opened... She’d forgotten to put away the nail-polish. Venetia would scold her with all the good fury of her good black soul. She’d spilled a drop on the hooked rug...
Then he was bounding down the narrow staircase towards her, shoving her out of his way, leaving the door open. He looked around at the bedroom again, his chest rising and falling lightly.
“I don’t understand,” said Eva. “What are you doing?”
“Giving you an out.” He did not look at her. “What will I get for it — hey, gorgeous?”
She shrank against the jamb. So that was why—
“I’ll tell you,” he said bitterly. “A kick in the pants. Teach me to mind my own damned business.”
He lunged for the Japanese screen and set it carefully against the wall, out of the way.
“What are you doing?” asked Eva again.
“Giving the cops something to think about. The door was bolted from inside here, so I’ve opened it. They’ll figure the killer got in and out that way. They’ll figure he climbed from the garden to the ell-roof back there, up into the attic” He chuckled. “Two windows up there, both locked — from the inside, of course. Nobody could have got in. But I opened one of ’em. I ought to be in King’s Park.”
“I don’t understand it,” whispered Eva. “It’s not possible. It can’t be.”
“They’ll figure he got in through the attic window, came down here, pulled the job, and made his getaway the same way. Powder your nose.”
“But—”
“Powder your nose! Do I have to do that for you, too?”
Eva ran back to the sitting-room for her bag; it was on the funny couch where she had been reading that book... how long ago? There was a faint odor of fire and—
He was looking around the bedroom again, making sure, making sure.
Downstairs — they both heard it — the doorbell rang.
Eva opened her bag somehow. But it was torn from her fingers, snapped shut, flung on the couch. She found herself lifted off the floor and deposited with a thump beside it.
“No time,” whispered the brown man. “Better anyway — you look as if you’d been crying. What were your hands on in there?”
“What?”
“What did you touch? For the love of Mike!”
“The desk,” whispered Eva. “The floor under the windows. Oh!”
“For God’s sake!”
“I forgot! Something else. The bird with all those shiny stones on it!”
She thought he was going to slap her again, his eyes were so hot and furious. “Bird. Stones. What the hell! Listen. Keep your trap shut. Follow my leads. Cry, if you feel like it. Faint. Do any damned thing you please, only don’t talk too much.”
He didn’t understand. The bird, the half-bird. “But—”
“When you have to talk, tell ’em what you first told me.” He was racing back to the bedroom again. “Only don’t say anything about the attic door being bolted. Understand? The way it is now is the way you found it.”
He was gone.
He was gone, and the only thing Eva was conscious of was the clamor of her heart. The police! She could hear voices — the new maid’s, Kinumé’s, a man’s heavy and vibrant... on the stairs at the end of the hall. The two maids seemed to be protesting and the man to be jeering at them.
He didn’t understand, thought Eva, sitting tight on the couch and clutching the edge of its seat with spread hands. That little half-scissors she had found on the desk, with its bright semi-precious stones, its bird shape, the blade the beak, the shank the body, the bow the legs... He had thought she was crazy. But she handled it!
She jumped from the couch, opened her mouth to call him.
A fist smacked against the sitting-room door from the hall.
Eva fell back on the couch. She started to say: “Come in,” but she was surprised to find that nothing came out of her mouth but a rush of breath.
From the bedroom the brown man’s voice was saying urgently: “Come on, come on, sister. Give me Police Headquarters. Where are you? Come on, there!”
He kept repeating the words “Police Headquarters” rather, loudly. The rapping on the door stopped and the knob spun and the door was smashed open.
Eva saw a small emaciated gray man with a brand-new felt hat on his head and an old blue serge suit standing alertly in the doorway, his right hand in his hip pocket.
“What’s this about Police Headquarters?” demanded the newcomer, not moving and looking around. The white maid and Kinumé were peering in fright over his shoulder.
“I think—” began Eva, then remembered what the brown man had told her and stopped.
The man in the doorway was puzzled. “You Miss Leith?” he asked courteously, still looking around without moving
“Police Headquarters!” yelled the brown man from the bedroom. “What the hell’s the matter with this line? Hey! Operator!” They heard the violent jiggling of the hook.
The little gray man moved then, swiftly; but the brown man moved even more swiftly, for they met outside the bedroom and the brown man’s shoulders filled the doorway.
Eva, sitting on the couch, felt like a spectator at an exciting melodrama. She could only sit and watch, and feel her heart hammering at the base of her throat. Only this was real. It was real melodrama... real.
“That’s service,” drawled the brown man. “They send a fly-cop up before you can even tell ’em there’s been a crime. Hello, Guilfoyle. How’s the missus?”
The grey-haired man scowled. “So it’s you again, huh? What the hell is this merry-go-round?” He turned to Eva. “I said you Miss Leith — Karen Leith? I was sent up here—”
Kinumé, from the doorway, burst into a cascade of sibilant Japanese. The brown man glanced her way, and she stopped. Both maids, thought Eva suddenly, seemed to know him. Then he caught Guilfoyle’s arm and spun him about.
“That’s not Karen Leith, you dumb cluck. That’s Miss Eva MacClure. Take your hat off to a lady.”
“Listen, Terry,” said Guilfoyle plaintively. “Don’t start, now. What is this, anyway? I was sent—”
“I said take your hat off,” laughed the brown man, and he twitched the new felt hat off Guilfoyle’s head. He pointed his thumb over his shoulder. “You’ll find Miss Leith in there.”
Guilfoyle stooped for his hat, petulantly. “Take your hands off me, you. What is this? I get an order from the boss to come down here and all of a sudden I walk into Terry Ring.” His pale features sharpened with suspicion. “Say! Crime? Did you say a crime?”
So that was his name, thought Eva. Terry Ring. Probably Terence. He did look Irish. And he was so different now with this man, Guilfoyle, this detective. Good-humored; yes, quite good-humored, his gray eyes crinkling like crêpe at the corners, his hard lips smiling. Only his eyes remained as they had been when he had walked in on her. Watchful. He had watched her. Now he was watching Guilfoyle.
Terry Ring stepped aside with a mock bow and the detective ran by him into the bedroom.
“Didn’t I tell you to take your hat off?” said Terry Ring. “Now will you take your hat off?”
He looked after Guilfoyle, still smiling; but his left hand made a slight soothing gesture in Eva’s direction that was so friendly she doubled up on the couch and began to weep normally and luxuriously into the haven of her hands.