It was a quarter to ten when he finally stole to a stop at the curb around the corner from the Yerba Buena Garden Apartments.
Mervyn got out of the car just as an elderly man in a Hawaiian shirt came heel-and-toeing along the walk pulling a leash, at the other end of which a little white dog jerked and jumped. Mervyn froze. Would the mutt start acting peculiarly when it passed the car? Dogs were supposed to be able to smell death...
The man and the dog passed.
Mervyn felt like praying.
He walked swiftly to the corner and down Perdue Street to the stucco urns that marked the entrance to the Yerba Buena Garden Apartments.
Stealing into the court, he paused. Lights showed here and there. His own apartment was dark, as were the three second-story apartments to his right — Numbers 12, 11 and 10, occupied respectively by Susie Hazelwood, Mrs. Kelly (now in the hospital) and Harriet Brill. Apartment 1, John Boce’s, was brightly lit and through the windows came talk and shrill feminine laughter. Mervyn recognized the cackle of Harriet Brill, and John Boce’s easy rumble, then a harsh staccato tenor, vaguely familiar... He went on. Boce’s parties were the least of his concerns.
As he passed, the drapes at one of Boce’s open windows flickered. A moment later, the door opened and John Boce lurched out. “Mervyn!” he bawled. “Hey, Mervyn!”
Mervyn drew a deep breath; he halted and turned. Boce was reeking of bourbon. “Mervyn, old boy, you’re home at last. Where the hell have you been?”
“Here and there.”
Boce seized his arm. “Come on in for a drink. Or two or three. Everything top quality. That’s old Bocey’s style, eh, what?”
Mervyn tried to detach his arm. “I’ll drop in later, John.”
“Mervyn, I insist. Susie insists. Harriet insists. Everybody insists.”
“Fine, John. Later. Let go.”
“Mervyn, can this be the real you? Standing first on one leg, then the other? Come onnnnn...” He tugged; Mervyn tugged back.
Susie peered out. “Why, if it isn’t Mervyn, back from his tomcatting.” Her hair hung loose and fluffy, as if it were freshly washed; her voice was light. She kept looking at him.
Boce complained, “He’s trying to give me the freeze, Susie. Say, look. Mervyn. You don’t know Blake Callahan, do you?”
“No.”
“Or his wife? Estelle?”
“No.”
“Aha, just as I thought! Then you better come on in and meet ’em.” Mervyn’s arm was growing numb; he winced, and Susie smiled sweetly and went back into the apartment. In his enthusiasm Boce sprayed him with bourbon. “Aw, come on, buddy-boy. I offer you beautiful women and whiskey flowing like water. You know me, pal. I never do things halfway. You name it, we got it, or we know where to get it. Which reminds me. I had to borrow a fifth of your bourbon. I’ll replace it, natch.”
“How did you get into my apartment?” asked Mervyn furiously.
“The usual way. Through the front door.”
“Meaning that you picked the lock, or removed the hinges?”
“Hell, no. I just turned the knob, and the door opened.”
Mervyn blew out his breath and permitted Boce to drag him into Apartment 1.
John Viviano, pacing back and forth across the room, proved to be the source of the harsh voice. He stopped dramatically in midstride as Mervyn entered, nodded a regal quarter of an inch, and continued. Harriet Brill leaned languidly against a wall, wearing a yellow-green-and-red Benares print skirt, a long-sleeved black jersey blouse and brass hoop earrings four inches in diameter.
The couch was occupied by a couple wearing the uneasy expressions of people who find themselves trapped in the grizzly pit at the zoo; the man was a physicist answering to the name of Mike, and the woman, Charlotte, was his wife. Mervyn vaguely gathered that they were connected with the university. The preadvertised Blake Callahan turned out to be a little man wearing big black-rimmed glasses, his wife, Estelle, a huge woman in a tight brown-satin dress; they sat in two of Boce’s orange canvas sling chairs. Just who they were Mervyn did not learn; his host forgot to follow through.
Susie, in slacks and sweater — both her favorite gray — sat on the couch beside Mike the physicist. She was being vivacious tonight, an aspect of her personality Mervyn had not suspected. Susie was a continual surprise. The slacks exhibited her slight, supple figure to its optimum; the softness of her hair gave her a softer, more feminine look than usual. Mervyn sat down beside her; she gave him a cryptic side glance, started to say something, then changed her mind.
Mervyn slumped back on the couch, relieved not to have to make small talk. John Viviano, in any event, left him little choice. The fashion photographer held forth with majestic vehemence, marching back and forth, his hands flying about.
“It is not in the nature of the human animal,” declared Viviano. “It is unnatural. We live in an unnatural age. Consider Felis leo. Who wears the mane? The lion, not the lioness. Consider the Siamese fish. Who carries the magnificent fins? Again the male. And the male iguana with his ruff. Spectacular! Today everything is upside down.”
He gestured toward his black slacks and tan hound’s-tooth jacket. “Observe me. I am the unobtrusive one.” He pointed a long, tense forefinger at Harriet. “And she, she is the lion, the Siamese fish, the male iguana! Is it a wonder the mental hospitals are full? Sad to relate, I contribute to the madness. It is I who bedizen these women, these cannibals, when I should better give them a bucket and mop and say, ‘Here, woman, wash the floor.’ But such is the case.”
Harriet Brill, who had been making a series of fretful gestures, at last was able to interrupt. “I certainly don’t think you’re making a fair case.”
Viviano whirled like a dancer. “I am now unfair?”
“You are, Viviano. People dress to express their personalities. Just because you’re repressed—”
“I am now repressed, Brill?”
“You are!”
The little man named Blake Callahan said in a voice surprisingly deep, “I have an idea that should satisfy everyone. As I see it, John Viviano resents the neutrality of his clothing, while Harriet correctly attacks his pose of masculine martyrdom. The controversy can easily be resolved. Why don’t you two simply exchange clothes? Viviano will then be clad in garments colorful enough, God knows, for any strutting male, while Harriet, in his sober costume — sharing his virtu, so to speak — will be assured that his antifeminism is merely a polemic device.”
Harriet and Viviano both spoke at once, in voices equally passionate. Mervyn turned to Susie. “Who is Blake Callahan?”
“Something to do with the university press.”
Charlotte leaned across her physicist-husband, Mike. “I didn’t see Mary at the gym today, Susie. We’re keeping the class going, you know, during summer session and intersession both.”
Mervyn remembered now that Mary had been studying fencing; Charlotte must be the instructor. John Boce lumbered over with a highball for Mervyn. “Haven’t you heard? Mary’s eloped, or has been abducted. By John Viviano.”
“That is not the case,” said Viviano quickly. “It was an opportunity not extended to me.”
Harriet Brill made a contemptuous noise. “You men are all so glandular. You assume that Mary went off on some cheap adventure—”