She was quick to answer: “Did he say we were divorced?”
“No.” Druse turned to her slowly, smiled slowly.
“Then what makes you think we are?”
“I don’t. I just wanted to be sure.”
“We are not.” She was very emphatic.
He waited, without speaking.
She glanced at him sidewise and saw that he expected her to go on. She laughed softly. “He wants a divorce. He asked me to divorce him several months ago.” She sighed, moved her hands nervously on her lap. “That’s another of the things I’m not very proud of — I wouldn’t do it. I don’t quite know why — we were never in love — we haven’t been married, really, for a long time — but I’ve waited, hoping we might be able to make something out of it...”
Druse said quietly: “I think I understand — I’m sorry I had to ask you about that.”
She did not answer.
In a little while the cab stopped; they got out and Druse paid the driver and they cut diagonally across the street, entered an office building halfway down the block. Druse spoke familiarly to the Negro elevator boy; they got off at the forty-fifth floor and went up two flights of narrow stairs, through a heavy steel fire door to a narrow bridge and across it to a rambling two-story penthouse that covered all one side of the roof. Druse rang the bell and a thin-faced Filipino boy let them in.
Druse led the way into a very big, high-ceilinged room that ran the length and almost the width of the house. It was beautifully and brightly furnished, opened on one side onto a wide terrace. They went through to the terrace; there were steamer chairs there and canvas swings and low round tables, a great many potted plants and small trees. The tiled floor was partially covered with strips of coco-matting. There was a very wide, vividly striped awning stretched across all one side. At the far side, where the light from the living room faded into darkness, the floor came to an abrupt end — there was no railing or parapet — the nearest building of the same height was several blocks away.
Mrs Hanan sat down and stared at the twinkling distant lights of Upper Manhattan. The roar of the city came up to them faintly, like surf very far away. She said: “It is very beautiful.”
“I am glad you find it so.” Druse went to the edge, glanced down. “I have never put a railing here,” he said, “because I am interested in Death. Whenever I’m depressed I look at my jumping-off place, only a few feet away, and am reminded that life is very sweet.” He stared at the edge, stroked the side of his jaw with his fingers. “Nothing to climb over, no windows to raise — just walk.”
She smiled wryly. “A moralist — and morbid. Did you bring me here to suggest a suicide pact?”
“I brought you here to sit still and be decorative.”
“And you?”
“I’m going hunting.” Druse went over and stood frowning down at her. “I’ll try not to be long. The boy will bring you anything you want — even good whiskey, if you can’t get along without it. The view will grow on you — you’ll find one of the finest collections of books on Satanism, demonology, witchcraft, in the world inside.” He gestured with his head and eyes. “Don’t telephone anyone — and, above all, stay here, even if I’m late.”
She nodded vaguely.
He went to the wide doors that led into the living room, turned, said: “One thing more — who are Mister Hanan’s attorneys?”
She looked at him curiously. “Mahlon and Stiles.”
He raised one hand in salute. “So long.”
She smiled, said: “So long — good hunting.”
He went into the living room and talked to the Filipino boy a minute, went out.
In the drugstore across the street from the entrance to the building, he went into a telephone booth, called the number Hanan had given him. When Hanan answered, he said: “I have very bad news. We were too late. When I reached Mrs Hanan’s apartment, she did not answer the phone — I bribed my way in and found her — found her dead... I’m terribly sorry, old man — you’ve got to take it standing up... Yes — strangled.”
Druse smiled grimly to himself. “No, I haven’t informed the police — I want things left as they are for the present — I’m going to see Crandall and I have a way of working it so he won’t have a single out. I’m going to pin it on him so that it will stay pinned — and I’m going to get the rubies back, too... I know they don’t mean much to you now, but the least I can do is get them back — and see that Crandall is stuck so he can’t wriggle out of it.” He said the last very emphatically, was silent a little while, except for an occasionally interjected “Yes” or “No.”
Finally he asked: “Can you be in around three-thirty or four?... I’ll want to get in touch with you then... Right, I know how you must feel — I’m terribly sorry... Right. Goodbye.” He hung up and went out into Fortieth Street.
Jeffrey Crandall was a medium-sized man with a close-cropped mustache, wide-set greenish gray eyes. He was conservatively dressed, looked very much like a prosperous real estate man, or broker.
He said: “Long time no see.”
Druse nodded abstractedly. He was sitting in a deep red leather chair in Crandall’s very modern office, adjoining the large room in a midtown apartment building that was Crandall’s “Place” for the moment. He raised his head and looked attentively at the pictures on the walls, one after the other.
“Anything special?” Crandall lighted a short stub of green cigar.
Druse said: “Very special,” over his shoulder. He came to the last picture, a very ordinary Degas pastel, shook his head slightly, disapprovingly, and turned back to Crandall. He took a short-barrelled derringer out of his inside coat-pocket, held it on the arm of his chair, the muzzle focused steadily on Crandall’s chest.
Crandall’s eyes widened slowly; his mouth hung a little open. He put one hand up very slowly and took the stub of a cigar out of his mouth.
Druse repeated: “Very special.” His full lips were curved to a thin, cold smile.
Crandall stared at the gun. He spoke as if making a tremendous effort to frame his words casually, calmly: “What’s it all about?”
“It’s all about Mrs Hanan.” Druse tipped his hat to the back of his head. “It’s all about you gypping her out of her rubies — and her threatening to take it to the police — and you having her murdered at about a quarter after ten tonight, because you were afraid she’d go through with it.”
Crandall’s tense face relaxed slowly; he tried very hard to smile. He said: “You’re crazy,” and there was fear in his eyes, fear in the harsh, hollow sound of his voice.
Druse did not speak. He waited, his cold eyes boring into Crandall’s.
Crandall cleared his throat, moved a little forward in his chair and put his elbows on the wide desk.
“Don’t ring.” Druse glanced at the little row of ivory push buttons on the desk, shook his head.
Crandall laughed soundlessly as if the thought of ringing had never entered his mind. “In the first place,” he said, “I gave her back the stones that were stolen. In the second place, I never believed her gag about telling about it.” He leaned back slowly, spoke very slowly and distinctly as confidence came back to him. “In the third place, I couldn’t be chump enough to bump her off with that kind of a case against me.” Druse said: “Your third place is the one that interests me.
The switched rubies, her threat to tell the story — it all makes a pip of a case against you, doesn’t it?”
Crandall nodded slowly.
“That’s the reason,” Druse went on, “that if I shoot you through the heart right now, I’ll get a vote of thanks for avenging the lady you made a sucker of, and finally murdered because you thought she was going to squawk.”