“No.”
“I thought you were hoping he’d take you over, Dolly.”
“I wonder what gave you that idea?” Dolores said.
She looked down the long flight of steps that linked one terrace with another. Coming up the steps was a small figure in a black suit and black hat. It was Ferrari. He walked slowly and softly. His hands in his pockets, his face raised, his eyes fixed on the casement windows, he appeared completely unaware of the guards who stood motionless, watching him coming.
He passed one guard, then another. Neither of the men moved. They just stared at him. He came slowly, a tiny menacing figure, moving like a ghost.
“Then I’m wrong?” Maurer said. “Was it Seigel you had your eyes on?”
“No.” She came away from the window and walked slowly across the room to the door. “You won’t want me to come with you, Jack?”
He looked at her, smiling.
“You won’t be going anywhere, Dolly — nowhere at all.”
She looked at him thoughtfully, and he was a little surprised to see there was no fear in her exciting eyes.
“I see,” she said, opened the door and went into the hall.
There were no guards in the hall.
As she walked slowly up the stairs to her room, she wondered when Big Joe had taken over the organization. He must have moved fast. She wondered, too, what her life would be like with Ferrari.
She went into her bedroom and sat down. Because she had lived with Maurer for four long years, sharing his bed with him, taking his gifts as well as his insults, she felt sick and cold.
She closed her eyes and waited for the sound that would tell her that she was
Ferrari’s chattel and Maurer’s widow.
The sudden crash of gunfire from downstairs struck her like a physical blow. She leaned forward, her hands covering her face, and for the first time for many years she wept.
She wasn’t weeping for Maurer. She was weeping for herself.