The two things I should have done from the start I had stupidly neglected. I certainly should have advertised in the German papers while I had the money to do it. Relations—if Lee had any—would take her off my hands. But more important, if I had played it smart, I would have searched the house—while she was out—till I found the note.
There wasn't anything I could do about hunting for her relations now, but I did make a sketch of the house, listed all the possible places where she might hide the note. I kept thinking of the layout of the rooms so hard, seeing them in my mind, that my head hurt. But before I went to sleep, I had a list of 22 likely places where Lee might have hidden the note. I'd have to be fast and careful; if Lee ever found me hunting for the note she'd certainly kill me. The very thought of her finding me made me shake. I considered the possibility of borrowing one of Jake Webster's guns, but ruled that out. He wouldn't lend it to me without a long explanation, and suppose I had to use the gun? Killing or wounding her would only mean bringing everything out in the open, give more credence to her story that I killed Hank. If I wanted to chance all that I could tell her to go to hell now.
But I had to get that receipt.
During my lunch hour the next day I went up to the house, walked in on Henderson, The old man was fixing lunch—some lettuce, cream cheese, and black bread swimming in a bowl of light coffee. He asked me to join him, and although I was actually hungry, I couldn't go that mess. I took a cup of coffee, asked, “Francis, does she go out of the house every day? I mean, shopping? I want to get some things, and not have to argue with her.
“She goes out every third day. Always at one, stays out about a half hour, maybe a little less,” he said. “You were in the house yesterday.”
“I had to get some personal belongings—that's when I remembered she has to leave the house. About a half hour?”
Henderson nodded. For a while he ate his mess quietly, then asked, “George, what's going on downstairs?”
“Why? I mean, is there something going on?”
“Nothing I can put my finger on, but the house gives me an uneasy... a... well, downright queasy feeling. And you, there's something different about you, and I don't mean only this junior detective role you're playing. It's—don't know exactly what it is but... look, your suit isn't freshly pressed, you're wearing the same shirt for the second day. George, you're not the old George anymore. What's going on between you two? And where's Slob. Haven't seen him for weeks.”
“Didn't I tell you, a hair ball almost strangled him, the vet had to put him out of the way.”
“Too bad, an intelligent animal,” Henderson said. “One of the contradictions of our society, we can perform a mercy death on an animal, but humans must go on suffering. And how about you—you swallow a hair ball, too?”
“Nothing is the matter,” I lied casually. “Hell, might as well tell you, we're having a spat and I'm having a little trouble getting rid of her. You know how those things run.” I stood up, ran my hand over the copper statue of Man O' War. “Francis, I'm learning a great bit of wisdom I should have known years ago—never bring your women to your own house.”
“That's all it is, sacking your woman?” he asked, not believing me.
“That's all. Take me a little time to straighten out.”
“All right,” the old man said, “only tell her to keep a cleaner house. Been seeing roaches lately.”
“I'll try to do what I can. How're the horses coming?” I asked, changing the subject.
We talked for a while, banal talk mostly, then I took the bus back to the office. Lee had shopped yesterday, that meant I had to wait one more day before she went out again. Tomorrow I'd go up and start searching. The whole idea left me jumpy, I was so damn scared of her. The idea of a gun came back when I passed a drugstore next to Radio City Music Hall. They had children's cap pistols in the window that looked like real .45s, or at least what I thought a .45 looked like. I only had three dollars for food to last the rest of the week, but I spent a dollar for one of those guns. The only thing that made it look phony was the silver finish of the handle. I purchased a small tin of black enamel and went to my room to have supper on a bottle of beer and two bits worth of cheese and crackers, which was filling if not nourishing. I carefully painted the pistol black and hung it up to dry. I was as intent as a kid with a new toy, and by midnight it had dried and the damn thing actually looked like a gun. Just handling it gave me an air of assurance, even though I knew it was all downright silly.
The following day I was hanging around the corner of 74th and Park at fifteen to one. I was sure Lee would turn toward Lexington to shop. Promptly at one I saw her leave the house, a heavy short sweater over an ankle-length evening dress she had. When she was out of sight, like the villain in a bad movie I held the “gun” in my pocket, walked down the block, let myself in.
The house wasn't as bad as I thought it would be, she had cleaned the day before. I quickly started on my list of possible hiding places. The panel was empty, but behind a row of books I found nearly three hundred bucks carefully wrapped in a dirty handkerchief. I didn't touch that, but kept looking—one eye on my wrist watch. Under a carpet I found another wad of money, and in one of the closets a shoe box heavy with pennies, dimes, and a few quarters. It was a terrific temptation not to take some of the money, but I left it alone—I wasn't after money this time, couldn't risk spoiling my chances of getting the note.
By one-fifteen I'd covered everything except the kitchen, bathroom, and my dance studio downstairs. I looked the place over carefully, to be sure I hadn't left any drawers open, or any evidence of my search, then left. I walked back to the corner and waited. A few minutes later Lee turned the corner at Lexington, went into the house, munching on something from the bag in her arm.
Three days later, on a Sunday, I was back on my corner, thinking that Sundays couldn't alter her schedule—she had to eat. The street was fairly crowded, people going to the church across from the house. I wondered where she would shop, although some of the delicatessens on Lexington were probably open. At one, Lee came out, dressed rather smartly in a heavy cloth coat I'd bought for her and a simple tarn. It was a raw afternoon but I was sweating and hot—with fright.
Slipping my “gun” into my outside overcoat pocket, I walked quickly to the house, unlocked the door. If most of the stores were closed on Sundays, that meant Lee might have to take more time shopping—or less time. The apartment smelled of stale air and old food. I went down to the dance floor, started searching. I had a stroke of luck—on the spur of the moment I went through the various record albums. She had hidden it cleverly, no money or anything, merely the little piece of paper that was the note tucked in with a record. I jammed it in my pocket ran up the steps and into the living room. I still had ten minutes to spare and I went to the two piles of money I'd discovered the other day, took a few tens from each pile. I locked the door, and stood on the sidewalk for a moment, sweating furiously but feeling wonderful. I saw Lee turn the corner, a small paper bag in her hand. There was no doubt about it being her, she was so big. I could go up and see Henderson, but if he didn't answer the door at once, Lee would find me. I dashed across the street, joined the people going to church. I was pretty sure Lee hadn't seen me.